Constable
& Robinson
Independent thinking since 1795
www.constablerobinson.com
Trisha Telep was
the romance and fantasy book buyer at Murder One, the UK’s premier
crime and romance bookstore. She has recently re-launched this
classic bookshop online at www.murderone.co.uk. Originally
from Vancouver, Canada, she completed the Master of Publishing program at Simon
Fraser University
before moving to London. She lives in Hackney with her boyfriend, filmmaker
Christopher Joseph.
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Acknowledgments
Introduction
ONCE
BURNED Penny McCall
CANE
RIVER Rinda Elliott
SURRENDER
AT DAWN Laura Griffin
INTO
THE NIGHT SKY Charlotte Mede
A
KEPT MAN Shannon K. Butcher
RUSSIAN
ROULETTE Rachel Caine
VERISEAL
Marliss Melton
SHOOT
TO THRILL Charlene Teglia
THE
ANGELS OF PUNISHMENT Michele Albert
DARK
FORCE
Contents
Cheyenne McCray
LIPSTICK
SPY SCHOOL Gina Robinson
DONTWALKAWAY
Shiloh Walker
HEAT
OF THE NIGHT Jordan Summers
OVERKILL
E. C. Sheedy
THE
GREY MAN Caitlyn Nicholas
GOOD
GUYS Liz Muir
CODEWORD:
STORM Sydney Croft
TAG
TEAM Nicola Marsh
THE
GAME Gennita Low
THE
TRAITOR DebraWebb
Author
Biographies
Acknowledgments
"Once
Burned” ©
by Penny McCall. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
"Cane
River" © by Rinda Elliott. First
publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"Surrender
at Dawn" © by Laura Griffin. First
publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"Into
the Night Sky" ©
by Charlotte Mede. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"A
Kept Man" ©
by Shannon K. Butcher. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed
by permission of the author.
"Russian
Roulette” ©
by Rachel Caine. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
"VeriSEAL"
© by Marliss Melton. First
publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"Shoot
to Thrill" ©
by Charlene Teglia. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
"The
Angels of Punishment" ©
by Michele Albert. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"Dark
Force" © by Cheyenne McCray.
First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"Lipstick
Spy School" © by
Gina Robinson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
''Don't
Walk Away" ©
by Shiloh Walker. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
"Heat
of the Night" ©
by Jordan Summers. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"Overkill"
© by E. C. Sheedy. First
publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"The
Grey Man" ©
by Caitlyn Nicholas. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
"Good
Guys" © by Liz Muir. First
publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"Code
Word: Storm" ©
by Sydney Croft. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
"TAG
Team" © by Nicola Marsh. First
publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
"The Game" © by Gennita Low. First publication, original to this anthology.
Printed by permission of the author.
"The
Traitor” ©
by Debra Webb. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
Introduction
Everybody needs a hero. I
know Tina Turner flatly stated that "we don't need another” one but I say
Tina is wrong! So, if you like your military suspenseful, you've come to the
right place. This book is packed as tight as a sexy six-pack with
tough yet tender men who have the skills to get the job done. They win their
loves -or take them by force, if necessary - but still wake up
day after day to right the wrongs of the world, whether they be in
the jungles of Indonesia, the waters of the US eastern seaboard or deep in the
lawless South American wilds. Navy Seals, Delta Force, Green
Beret and special ops commandos from different countries around the world are
joined by FBI and CIA operatives, mercenaries and double agents in stories to
make you swoon. These stories run the gamut from cosy, curl-up-with-a-warm-cup-of-cocoa-and-a-sweet-hard-boiled-Navy-Seal-on-a-mission
to flat out adrenaline-fuelled action and a chance to let these trained
warriors show you exactly what they're built for. Danger and intrigue are their
business but passionate, soul-crushing sex and unbridled desire are
high on their list of targets as well.
The lives of these
highly-trained warriors can seem a bit of a mystery to the rest of us -
unknowable and slightly off to the side of everyday life.
Their missions are never really seen directly but you read about them in
newspapers when a kidnapping is foiled or an ambassador is saved. They slip in
and out of the shadows rarely seen, and their praises often go
unsung. But what about when you do catch a glimpse of one? I mean, they have to go grocery
shopping sometime, don't they? And where do they channel all that energy when they are not saving people from burning
buildings, masterminding great escapes or taking a bullet for their best buddy? These are men of passion and intensity
- their very lives depend on it - and that same intensity is found in the bedroom. Truly, these guys (and girls) seem to
have two main settings: hard and harder.
And what kind of book
would this be without a nod to the more fantastic side of Special Ops: superheroes and other
teams of covert paranormal operatives. Not everyone uses AK-47S and Uzis as standard operating equipment, you know. Some use
electric fingertips, ghost summoning, salt and holy water instead of guns and
knives. Who said Special Forces can't have otherworldly powers? Aren't these guys
pretty much superhuman anyway?
So stay in with
stories of hot-blooded, highly trained former lovers reunited on missions,
skilled soldiers in (and out of) uniform, and hapless civilians spellbound by the
allure of unstoppable, sexy saviours who inspire
more than just their gratitude. Heart-stopping danger means heart-stopping
passion. From traditional military suspense and intelligence capers of
sexy operatives with a paranormal lack, you'll find all lands of stories to
sate your physical desires and leave you gasping. These are men on a mission
... for your heart.
Trisha Telep
Once Burned
Penny McCall
One
Kate Morris snapped awake,
snatched from the depths of REM sleep by the slight buzz of her home-made alarm system going off.
Not a muscle so much as twitched, not even her eyelids. There was no way her bedroom had been breached so quickly, but Kate
wasn't a woman who took chances. Not any more.
The house had gone
silent again, but silent didn't mean empty. This silence was like a held
breath, the ticking seconds between one chess move and another, the
moment after a gauntlet was thrown down. "Game on," this
silence said, and the intruder wasn't your garden-variety sneak thief looking
for trinkets. It wasn't a pervert either, and it sure as hell
wasn't the Avon lady. It was a pro - a pro who knew he'd been made.
Who it was, what he wanted, Kate had no clue. What he'd get, she thought with a
grim smile, was a fight.
She rolled out of bed, a gun already in
her hand by the time her bare feet hit the floor. She cat-footed it into the en-suite bathroom, barely pausing there
to strap a knife - one of the weapons she had stashed around her house - at her calf.
She eased open the
door to the hallway and slipped out, headed away from the stairs to the foyer.
Her house was one of the old Victorians in Washington, DC - three rambling,
half-restored floors, complete with servants' quarters in the attic and a back
staircase. She eased down the stairs, skipping the third and seventh risers with their
purposely unrepaired squeaks, assessing the situation as she went.
The guy downstairs
was good, good enough to get through the best security systems in the world. He
wasn't good enough to avoid her traps though, or get out of them easily. The
back stairs let out on to the kitchen. She slipped through that room, taking a
few seconds to assess the situation. The front door was half open. The intruder,
a darker shape against the slight illumination from the street lights, was
crouched down in her foyer with his back to
her, still trying to disentangle himself from the snarls of fishing line wrapped
around his ankles.
Kate ran on the
balls of her feet, fast and quiet, ending up with the gun barrel pressed to the
nape of his neck. "Stand up. Slowly.”
He did, and she
nearly fumbled the gun, covering her sudden case of nerves by jamming the
barrel into the small of his back. She was tall, but he had enough
height on her to make it dangerous to keep her gun at his neck. Having her arm
in the air put her off balance - physically. Emotionally she was already
reeling. She hid that too.
"One
shot and you'll never walk again,” she said. "If you're still
alive."
"It's
me," he said, which covered a hell of lot of territory- none of which she
was eager to revisit.
"I
know." She didn't lower the gun.
"Is
this how you welcome an old friend into your house?"
"Friends
wait to be invited."
"We're
not friends anymore? I'm crushed."
"We
were never friends."
"No,
'friends' is way too mild a word for what we were."
His words hit her
like fists. Kate wanted a moment, just a few seconds really, to catch her
breath. But he was too good at reading her. Or at least he had been, once upon a
time. "When I came down here I wasn't planning
to pull the trigger," she said, as if seeing him again meant nothing to
her. "Dead bodies are so inconvenient:
all the questions from the police, and the mess. I just refinished this
floor."
"So
you're not over me."
"Keep
talking, Swiss Cheese."
He
turned, slowly, moving the gun aside with an index finger, then bent to take a
closer look at it, flipping on a penlight. "Hair
trigger?"
"And
armour-piercing rounds."
“I’mflattered."
"Right, like I
was expecting you to show up. My house is probably at the bottom of your list
of favourite destinations, right after hell."
Reese Kyle shook his head, his slight
smile lending no humour to a face that could have been chiselled out of granite. There was nothing soft about the
rest of him either, and she didn't just mean the tall body with its rock-hard muscles. The man inside that
shell, and the heart that beat in his chest, were just as cold and hard.
He pulled a wicked-looking dive knife from the sheath at his waist, sliced away
the fishing line around his ankles, and
closed her front door.
"Thanks,
but you're supposed to be on the other side."
"Nope.
I'm here for a reason." His eyes dropped to her bare legs, moving up
slowly to settle on her skimpy tank top.
Her
nipples hardened. "That better not be the reason,” she said.
He
lifted his eyes to her face. "I'm on an op."
That
staggered her, almost more than seeing him. "Mike would never send you to
work an op that involves me," she said, referring to Mike Kovaleski, the FBI
handler who'd once run her professional life. "Not
after the last time."
"Mike
does whatever it takes to get the job done."
"The
two of us don't exactly have a stellar track record as a team when it comes to getting
the job done." Or anything else for that matter.
"Nobody
asked you to quit.”
She
snorted. "Shit flows downhill, and I was at the bottom of the slope. Not
to mention the one with the blown cover. It was just a matter of
time before I was sent packing.”
"You
didn't have to cut me out of your life.”
"You
weren't exactly burning up the phone lines.”
"I
was trying to let the dust settle.”
"Five
years is a lot of dust.”
"You
could have picked up the phone."
"Yeah,
I could have.” She jerked the door open. "Try to stay gone this
time."
"Of
all the pig-headed, stubborn—”
Reese stomped over to the door, but Kate's hand must have been fisted around the knob because when he
slammed it she jerked forwards, crashing into him.
Reese wrapped his arms
around her’ it was either that or they would both have gone down in a heap on the floor. She felt so damn good, like no time
had passed - for either of them, if he was any judge of body language. She
might be holding a hard line verbally, but her body told another story. She
still wanted him. Bad. Probably why
she was so pissed off. Too pissed off to step back, and he'd be damned if he
flinched first.
"You want to
dance?” she asked, a challenge in her words, in her eyes, in the way
she held her body against his, deliberately relaxed. She said
it as if being pressed up against him meant nothing.
"No,"
he said, and kissed her. If she wanted to play games, they'd play, he thought.
The taste of her burst through him. She was fire in his arms, fire
that became an inferno when she kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his -
just for a second - before he felt the barrel of her gun poking him in the
stomach. His world
turned to ice, between one racing heartbeat and the next. And that was before he
heard her cock the hammer.
"Give
me one good reason why I shouldn't pull the trigger."
Two
"If
you shoot me you'll never know why I'm here."
"I
could live with that."
"Can
your clients?"
She didn't move, her
eyes just shifted up until their gazes met. Time passed, a second, a minute,
and then she uncocked the gun Reese had forgotten about and stepped back. He
missed her, death threat and all.
"I'm
listening," she said.
He
snorted. "There ought to be a calendar around here so I can write that
down for posterity."
She
eased back a couple more steps, slipped the gun into her thigh holster, and
flipped on a small nightlight that gave off barely enough
illumination for them to see each other. "Did you just drop in to do a stand-up routine, or is
there some other reason you darkened my door?”
Stand-up routine? Hell, it was comic
relief. Hearing her voice was hard enough without seeing her in a skin-tight tank and shorts, slim, curvy, hotter
than any Hollywood gym body. And then there were the weapons. The Glock 27- a back-up-size handgun
with all the power of the full-size model- strapped to her thigh, a Smith and Wesson combat knife on her
opposite calf, not to mention the look in her cool blue eyes. Kate Morris knew
her weapons and she wasn't afraid to use them. It was sexy as hell.
"Reese."
He looked up, and
Kate knew she was in trouble. More trouble than a little light could solve. But
she couldn't be in the dark with him. Not after he'd kissed
her. And she'd responded. She rolled her eyes when she remembered that.
Responded? Hell, the anger that had lain dormant for the last five years had
flashed to heat so fast she'd have jumped
him right then and there if not for the fact that her muscles had gone weak. There'd been too many nights she and Reese
had spent filled with each other, too many memories she couldn't help but
relive, the feel of him moving over her, inner, the scent and heat of his skin
...
Her eyes lifted to
his. She could see he was taking that trip down memory lane too, and that he
knew she was right there with him. But he moved away, positioning himself in
the entrance to the hallway.
Kate pulled back,
shoving the past out of her mind so she could focus. She didn't waste any time wondering
why he was bracing for a fight. Reese Kyle never borrowed trouble. He inflicted
it.
She
eased over a few more steps, stopping so she had a clear view down the hall and
into the living room and dining room. Reese had nowhere to go
that she couldn't get to him. Fast.
He
smiled slightly, one eyebrow inching up.
"If
we're going to play cat and mouse," she said, "I get to be the
cat."
"Most
women would object to that characterization."
"Most
women wouldn't do more than make a cutting remark."
His
eyes dropped to the gun. Not so sure she wouldn't use it on him, she thought,
grimly amused.
'You
were telling me why the stuffed suits at the bureau sent one of their puppets
to annoy me."
That
hit the mark. The muscles in his jaw bunched before he got hold of himself.
"We got a tip about Amir Kashani."
"Tip?"
"Kashani
and his family are being held hostage, as of about an hour ago."
Kate
snatched a cell phone from the top drawer of the apothecary's chest in the
foyer.
Reese
closed his hand around her wrist.
"I
have two men in that house,” she said, switching the phone to her
other hand and flipping it open.
"I don't know
what shape they're in, but they're definitely out of commission. You try to
call them in the middle of the night for no reason, the kidnappers will know
you're onto them, no matter how slick you are at hiding it."
Her thumb hovered over the speed dial. She
snapped the phone closed instead, paced a couple of steps away, thinking about the bodyguards who were on
duty with Kashani's family. She knew them well, knew their wives and kids. Amir Kashani trusted her
with his life and the lives of his family’ that made them hers. And she had to
stop thinking of their safety if she was going to rescue them.
"Kashaniis
a member of the Balyks, the monarchist ruling party in Balykistan, but he has a
reputation as a man who embraces democracy," she said, putting
herself back in the op, which was the only place she could be any good to the
people who needed her. "He's here to negotiate a peace treaty between his
party and the Reformists. His people trust him to make the best agreement
possible, and the other side believes his
word will be honoured."
"Not
everyone wants peace," Reese said. "The men who are holding Kashani
and his family are part of a militant faction of the Reformist Party. They
won't settle for less than supremacy, and that means they have to
win the war, not end it amicably."
"The peace treaty
negotiations are supposed to start first thing tomorrow morning. But Kashani
will do whatever he's told as long as his
family is in danger." And it was up to her to save them. She wanted to
move now, but without more intelligence she could blunder in and
make a mess, costing innocent lives. It was a mistake
she refused to make again. But she couldn't let past tragedy freeze her in
place, either. "Tell me the rest
of what you know."
"The
Bureau is replacing you with an agent—"
"No."
"Use
your brain instead of your heart."
"I
learned that lesson five years ago. From you."
This
time he met her eyes, and his were hot.
Direct hit, she
thought. Too bad it didn't make her feel any better. His being right wasn't
helping. "Those are my . . ." people, she'd
almost said. Not the way to convince him. "Those are my employees and my
clients.
My reputation. It's taken me five years to get this business up and running.”
'Your
incorporation papers were filed four years ago."
"And you think I
spent a year mooning over you." She huffed out a slight laugh. "I
didn't lose you, Reese, I left you behind. What I lost was a career
I spent half my life working for."
You
walked away."
"Yeah."
She'd walked away before the Bureau could give her directions. And before Reese
could add injury to insult by putting words to the silence he'd
left between them after their last op went bad. "This time
I'm sticking."
"I
can't walk," Reese said.
"Still
the good little soldier?"
"Is
that why you really think I'm here?"
Kate
backed off from that, and not just verbally. "There's no way I'm letting
the FBI bully their way into my life and destroy what I've built. This is my
job, and I'm going to do it."
"That's
what we figured you'd say."
"Then
why are you here?"
"I
thought I could reason with you."
Sure,
he wanted to reason with her, that's why he was braced for a fight.
"You thought you could put me out of commission and replace me with an
agent."
At
least he had the grace to look sheepish.
"I
know the layout of Kashani's house, their routine—" she continued.
'You
can run the op with Mike."
"Right."
Mike Kovaleski was a rough, gruff, ex-marine who took no bullshit, accepted no
excuses and wasted no time caring about anything but the missions and
the agents under his direction. And he didn't share authority.
"I run the op, period. Mike agrees, or I run it without you."
Reese
hesitated, weighing his options.
Kate
dropped her hand to rest on the Glock holstered at her thigh.
He pulled a cell
phone out of his belt clip, hit speed dial and handed it to her. She didn't
waste time with greetings or old-times'-sakes, just repeated her ultimatum.
"Figured
you'd say that," Mike said in his distinctive rasp.
'You
could have called me. There was no need to send—" her eyes cut to Reese "—anyone, let alone a
special ops hothead."
"Reese
went to bat for you five years ago."
"And you're telling
me this because ...?"
"If
you have to be saddled with a special ops hothead, it helps to have one who
gives a shit about you. Or I can pull Reese and send in some other agents—"
"Nobody
else," Kate said. "You send in a bunch of trigger-happy Feds and
somebody will die."
"You'd know that
first-hand,” Mike shot back. Then she heard him blow out a breath.
"Shouldn't have said that. You pissed
me off."
"Nice
to know I still have the touch.”
"Been keeping my
eye on you, kid. Wouldn't let you handle this otherwise,” he said,
as close to a compliment as she'd get, but - as usual - he spoiled it.
"Try to send Kyle back in one piece. Lunkhead insisted
on taking this op, even after I reminded him you'd as soon shoot him as look at
him.”
Her
eyes cut to Reese's. "I guess he still doesn't trust me to watch my own
back."
"Maybe
not, but he's trusting you with his."
Kate
disconnected, handed the phone back. "It's my op."
Reese's jawbunched, but
he didn't look away.
"The
family is my only concern. They already know me."
"So
do the kidnappers."
"Then they know
that what I care about is my client and his family, and they know I’ll do
whatever it takes to keep them safe."
"They'll
be expecting you."
"Exactly. If
someone else shows up, they'll know the FBI is onto them. So .. ." She
lifted her chin, stared him down. "It's me or no one."
Three
'You or no one," Reese
repeated, his mind taking an instant detour off the job and into the personal,
his body already a step ahead of him. He was halfway across
the foyer and reaching for her when she said, "I still
have the gun," and even then it didn't really register.
"You'll
have to use it," he said, "because that's the only way you're getting
rid of me this time."
She slipped away,
deciding retreat was the better part of valour. Even as the frustration hit
him, the aching need still clamouring to be satisfied, Reese knew he had to
focus on the job and worry about the personal later. He managed
his part by stopping where he was, then fisting his hands to stop from reaching
for her. If he touched her again, he'd have to have her. Even if the
whole world paid a price.
"The
kidnapping," she reminded him. "It's me or no one."
"Then
it's no one," he said and started for the door.
This
time she stepped in front of him. "Why are you interfering?"
He
didn't answer. He didn't have to’ they'd always understood each other
perfectly.
"We
made this mistake before," she said.
"Yeah."
And she'd paid for it.
Kate
had been an FBI agent when he met her, one who'd risen through the ranks
quickly to become one of the lead agents on a new FBI taskforce specializing in
foreign terrorism on US soil, specifically those incidents involving
hostages. Some of the men she'd outstripped had chalked up her fast rise to the
fact that she
was a woman in an organization trying to modernize their hiring profile. Anyone
who'd run an op with her knew she'd gotten
where she was on skill, courage and complete balls-to-the-wall dedication.
Reese had come out of
the military - army special forces, to be exact - about a year before he'd been
assigned to her taskforce. He still recalled that moment, the first time he'd
laid eyes on Kate Morris, five feet eight inches of strength and
determination, a living weapon no less effective for being easy on the eyes. He
still remembered the way their gazes had met across the room, the impact of it
knocking him back a full step. He hadn't been a man who believed in love at first sight.
Hell, he hadn't been a man who believed in love at all. He still didn't. He'd
seen too much of the horror people inflicted on one another in the name of religion, of loyalty. Of love.
What he'd felt for Kate
had been lust - desire was a prettier word, but there'd been nothing pretty
about the craving running through him, the
need to touch and taste, to throw himself head first into the flames with no regard to what that kind of fire would do
to him. Thank God she'd felt it too, Reese thought. It had been nearly impossible to concentrate on the job,
but she'd been with him every heated step of the way. There'd been a lot of down time between missions,
and they'd been unable to keep their hands off one another. It hadn't been a problem. Until it
spilled over into work.
There'd been a hostage
situation involving a Colombian family being held in New York by a drug lord because the father had turned informant. After two
days they'd reached an impasse in the negotiations. Reese had wanted to take the kidnappers by force.
Kate had been equally convinced she could talk them out, so convinced she'd gone in without waiting
for the green light from him. She'd never gotten the chance to find out if her way would have worked because
the second Reese realized the risk she'd taken, he'd stormed the place.
The bad guys had escaped, Kate had taken a bullet to her left shoulder, and the
witness had been killed. The other casualty
had been her job. She'd quit before she could be fired, and not for pride's sake. Kate Morris was a woman who took
responsibility7 for her actions. She'd screwed up, and she'd owned that.
Reese hadn't spoken
to her since. He'd been pissed, at her, at himself. He'd forgotten the mission,
put civilians
in danger because all he'd been able to see was her. He'd believed distance
would help, but not a day of the last five
years had gone by without Kate being his first thought in the morning and his
last at night. He'd kept tabs on her’
he'd even picked up the phone a time or fifty. Thinking was as far as he'd allowed himself to take it.
Five years should have
cooled his blood. At least that's what he'd told himself when he'd agreed to
take this op. He'd been wrong. The wildness
might have gone out of the fire, but the flame was still there, deep and warm and steady.
And
as long as Kate was pissed off, he didn't have to decide what to do about it.
"It
could have been a lot worse,” she said, reading his mind again - but
not his feelings, thankfully.
"It
will be this time if you don't listen to reason. These people mean business.”
"The
bad guys always mean business. That's why I have a job.”
"You've
got to be rusty.”
"Sure, I was
just sleeping away in complete oblivion when you showed up. Self-preservation
is like sex, Reese, you never forget how to do it, you just find
better equipment.”
Though he stood in the shadows, she knew
the expression on his face: one eyebrow quirked up, mouth tight, half pissed
that she'd gotten the upper hand, half proud.
And,
as always, he put emotion aside and focused on the problem at hand. "That
gun isn't going to do you any good out in the open tomorrow.”
"It's
not doing me a whole lot of good tonight. You're still—"
The sidelight by the
door broke and a bullet thunked into the wall about an inch above her
left shoulder. The next bullet hit where her head would have
been if Reese hadn't tackled her. Her first reaction was gratitude because the
weight of him, the solidness, felt damn good, comforting, protective. She
closed her eyes, just for a second, and thought about what it would be like to
let him run the show so she didn't have to
make the life and death decisions. And live with them. Then reality crashed
back in and she shoved him off.
"Still don't trust me, I see.”
He
climbed off her, staying in a crouch. "Reflex."
"Don't
let it happen again.”
"The
next time I get you horizontal, there won't be any gunfire involved.”
"Don't
be too sure.”
Kate drew her legs
and arms under her, but stayed down, keeping away from the broken glass pane
next to the door and out of sight of the other nearby windows. When Reese
looked over at her, she nodded once and moved, heading in a low run for the back door
as he went out the front. She circled clockwise around the house, gun out and
ready. There wasn't a lot of illumination, but she searched the yard, heading
to the side fence line when she saw that
the grass was flattened off that way. The climbing rose she'd been coaxing up the arbour at her fence line was mangled,
probably dead, she decided, picking up a broken branch as long as her leg. It pissed her off, seeing as
she'd spent hours on the damn thing.
A car started and she
flung the rose branch away, running flat out, despite her bare feet, for the twenty-year-old
Camaro parked in front of her house. It was nothing much to look at, but she
didn't keep it around to buy groceries. It was modified for pursuit or escape,
from the big-ass engine under the hood and the manual tranny, to the
roll bars and bulletproof glass. She hurled herself through the driver's door, snagging
the key she kept in a magnetic holder under the front seat. Reese was already
sliding into the passenger
side when she fired it up, the throaty roar of the V-8 engine revving through her
like a second heartbeat.
She
shot into the street with a slight squeal of rubber, popping the clutch before
she got her nerves under control.
"Break
it down for me," Reese said.
She
glanced over at him, surprised he was going to let her run the op, until she
realized he was giving her a way to steady herself. Then again, she was behind the
wheel, so his life was in her hands. "Guy must've used a silencer,” she said. "1 didn't hear a shot."
"Me neither.”
He braced himself between the door and the dash as she cut into a driveway,
practically on two wheels. She blasted through someone's backyard and into the
alley behind a row of houses, her lights off
the whole time.
"There's a car
on the next street,” she said. "It's 2 a.m., it's a weeknight,
and this is a working class neighbourhood. It has to be the shooter.”
She stayed in the
alley, whipping around garbage cans, parked cars, tyres galumphing over broken
pavement. She kept the lights off, including the interior lights, which were
just a distraction in the pitch black, as she paced the
shooter's car on the street beyond the row of houses to her left.
"He
knows he missed me,” she said. "He knows I'm on his ass. If he
gets away, the hostages are dead.”
"You
think?"
He was being sarcastic, but he'd hit a
nerve, too. "I've handled more of these cases in the last few years than
anyone working at the Bureau. It's my specialty." She'd even negotiated a
successful hostage release. The woman was in
therapy, but at least she was alive. "If word of the kidnapping gets out,
Kashani is instantly useless to
them. They'll kill him, and everyone else who can identify them. If nothing
else it gives them time to figure out their next move while another negotiator
is found,"
"Spending
time finding another negotiator acceptable to both sides is risky. They'd
rather neutralize your agency, a small business with only a handful
of employees—”
"Run
by a woman. They think it'll be easy.”
"Easy
is a term I'd never apply to you," Reese said.
"They
don't know me like you do."
"Lucky
them."
She gave him a look and jammed her foot on
the gas. The Camaro shot ahead of the car it was pacing. They hit the end of
the alley and Kate cut the wheel hard left, the tyres screeching but holding
around the turn so they were heading
straight for the hit man's late-model sedan when she flipped on her brights.
Blinded, the other driver swerved into a parked SUV. Kate whipped the Camaro
around behind his, blocking him in.
Reese
was out and at the driver's door, and, before the shooter could fight his way
clear of the air bag, he was cuffed and being shoved into Kate's trunk. She
took off, lights dark again, before any of the neighbours could
identify her car.
"Under
a minute,” Reese said. "We always were a good team."
Kate
looked over at him. "Except when we weren't."
Four
Kate paced, baggy sweats over her pyjamas, across the kitchen
and back again. Her eyes never left the shooter,
sitting across the room like it was any normal morning and he was waiting for
Mr Coffee to back up the rich aroma on
the air with a hot cup of Colombian roast. Except he was tied to his chair, and
there wasn't any coffee in his
immediate future.
Nothing
to look forward to long term, either, she thought, sending him another sidelong
glare. Not if she had anything to say about it. He'd messed with her and hers. He
didn't deserve a future.
"He's
just a kid."
Kate
shifted her glare to Reese. "A kid who tried to kill me."
"He can make it up
to you by telling us everything we need to know about his friends, so we won't
be going in blind."
"I
will tell you nothing," he shouted in slightly accented English.
Defiance
she'd expected. But his voice wavered, just enough for her to take another
look, this time pushing through her fury so that she saw what Reese saw: a kid,
barely twenty, with a layer of bravado slicked over his fear. No
challenge at all.
She
slipped behind him, giving Reese a wink as she bent to whisper in the kid's
ear. "I want a name."
The
kid jerked a little then went sulky, clamping his mouth shut.
Reese moved to stand
in front of him, arms loose at his side, a bland, reassuring smile on his face.
Good cop all the way. Only Kate knew how much he hated the
role.
"I don't need your name to know who
you are," he said to the kid, cutting Kate out of the conversation because she was just a woman. The subject's
cultural background would respond to that. "You were born in Balykistan, but you've lived here most of your
life. Your parents are Reformists and make frequent trips back to the mother country, but you haven't been
there since you were a teenager. You've established distance from them in other ways, living away at
college, even during the summer. Not so far Daddy cuts off funding, but far enough to make it look like you
don't agree with their politics."
The character assessment
earned Reese a sneer, which was confirmation, but not progress.
"This
is interesting, but let's get to the really important stuff," Kate said,
taking way too much pleasure in the way the kid jolted. But
then, she was the Bad Cop. She circled, got right in his face. 'You have a
problem with
women. Is it skill, or skill and size?"
"Untie
me, woman,” he said struggling enough to make the chair jump around,
"I will show you skill."
"Oh, I see, you
can't perform unless there's violence. I mean, you're the type of coward who
shoots from hiding—”
He spat something in
Balyk, something both disgusting and insulting. "Wait until I am free.
Then I will take you to my friends, and we will make you regret the
day you were whelped by your bitch of a mother."
"I have nothing
better to do than meet the man who sends a child to do his dirty work. Tell me
where he is and we'll go see him together."
"Pull
it back," Reese murmured, "he won't know where the instructions came
from."
"I
realize that. I was having fun."
Taking your temper out on
him isn't going to solve anything."
Kate planted a foot on
the kid's chest and shoved him and his chair over. "I don't know, I feel a
little better now."
The kid muttered threats
under his breath, staring daggers at Kate.
"Bring
it on," she said.
Reese shook his
head, righted the chair, and told the kid to shut up. He did, but not because
he was told to’ it was the expression on Reese's face that did the trick.
"Like
old times," Kate observed.
''He's
a zealot," Reese said, "not a trained operative who thought about
what it might mean to fail."
"Yep,
just a tool, no brain."
"A tool who was
sent to take you out," Reese reminded her. "You and all the other
people who work for you. Otherwise, when your guards don't check
in, someone will know there's a problem and alert the authorities."
"I'm the only
someone there is," Kate said. "I don't have an office. I only take
referrals, and only after I've vetted them myself. All my other guards
are working, and I'm the one who hands out the assignments so they
don't have any idea where their counterparts are."
"If they've done
their homework, and I'm sure they have, they knew they'd only have to take out
you and the guards with the Kashanis."
"Which
we can make them believe they've already done."
They both turned to
look at the kid. He wouldn't know the other conspirators. They'd have kept the participants
in the plot ignorant of one another, so if one of them got caught, the others
could carry on with their operation. The guy in charge would be
waiting for the kid to check in, though, verify that Kate was dead.
Reese plucked up the cell
phone out of the small pile of belongings - no ID, unfortunately - that they'd
stripped out of the kid's pockets. He flipped the phone open and waited for
directions, but the kid snorted and looked away.
Kate whipped out her
Glock and put it to his forehead, right between the eyes. His stare cut to
hers, still looking defiant, so she cocked the gun, making sure what
he saw in her eyes was cold and hard and determined. Her eyes stayed that way
until beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. When his gaze flicked
away from hers, she knew she had him.
"Reese
is going to dial, then put it on speaker." She bent close, whispered,
"And don't do anything stupid,” in a dialect of the
same language he'd used earlier.
A
single drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and the light of
defiance in his eyes went out. "Speed dial six," he said.
The call lasted less than five seconds. He told them Kate was dead, but then he
had no choice.
"There's
nothing to do but wait now," Reese said. "The Reformists won't make
another move until after the treaty is formalized and signed. Then
they'll take out all the witnesses, probably stage it as a traffic accident."
Kate nodded. "We
go in tomorrow - I mean, this morning," she amended after a glance at the
stove clock told her it was after three. "They'll have to send at least
two people with Kashani."
"Likely there
weren't more than five or six kidnappers to begin with," Reese said.
"Good odds. That leaves three, possibly four for us to deal
with."
"Three or four? I
could handle that many by myself." Kate gave him a look. "Problem is,
you won't let me."
Five
Reese secured the kid in
Kate's basement - dirt floor, stone walls and cobwebs. He pulled out his cell phone
as he climbed the creaking wooden steps, then dialled Mike as he wound his way
through the house. He took a seat on the front stairs, watching
Kate tape cardboard over the broken window while he filled Mike
in on the events of the last couple of hours.
"We
go in when they take Kashani out for the negotiations, when their forces are
split," he finished.
"I'll send a
couple of guys into the bargaining room. Soon as you give me the sign and we
know the family is safe, they'll move."
"Sounds like a
plan." Reese disconnected and traded a look with Kate, who turned away and
started pacing. It surprised him that she'd tip her hand that
way, since it was a sure sign of agitation. Then again, he was
pretty torn up himself. Being around Kate again, realizing he wasn't over her.
Over her? Hell, just seeing her had been like taking a blow to the chest, the
kind of blow that knocked the breath out of you, made you ache in
places you didn't know you had and left you just a little dizzy, waiting for
the ground beneath
your feet to stop rocking again.
On
top of all that, while he was still struggling to find his feet and sort out
his emotions, he found himself on a mission with her, knowing neither
of them could forget the way the last one had ended.
But at least that one had
started with trust.
"So,"
she said, clearly on the same wavelength, "why did Mike send you?"
"The Feds don't
know anything about these guys. Hell, they don't even have names. Mike didn't
want to risk alerting them by calling up the task force, so he
asked me to take the op."
"I
thought you were on the task force.”
"I stuck for a
little while after you quit, but..." He shrugged, left the rest to her
imagination.
Her imagination had no trouble coming up
with reasons for him to leave the task force. Like he'd felt guilty over
the way their last mission had played out, or because it wasn't the same
without her ... But those were just wishful thinking, fairy tales with
happy-ever-after endings. Not real life.
"So
why did you take this one?" she asked him.
"I
was already in DC when the tip about Kashani's kidnapping came in. I came here
to look you up."
Kate took a few
seconds to get her breath back, to tell herself it didn't matter. Then she
said, “Well, you found me," in a credibly cool and
firm voice. At least Reese seemed to buy it.
"Not
exactly how I intended our reunion to go," he said.
"Really?
How did you think it would go?"
"I
didn't think there'd be shooting."
"Then
you have a very convenient memory."
"Actually
I was giving you more credit than you deserve."
She went toe to toe
with him, fury whipping through her blood. "I made the same mistake with
you five years ago. Then I stopped waiting for you to show
up."
"I didn't think you'd want to see me.
Jesus, Kate, I helped screw you up. But you have to own your part of it."
"Part?
I got to own it all, remember?"
"I screwed up, I
know that. I tried . . ." He scrubbed a hand over his head, fingers
rasping over close-cropped black hair going grey at the temples.
"I should have called you. By the time I figured it out too many months had
passed."
"Years.
You were always slow on the uptake," she added grudgingly, "at least
about that kind of thing."
Reese
smiled a little.
"We should get
some rest," Kate said. She tried to go around him, but he wasn't moving.
"The bedrooms are upstairs."
His
gaze lifted, burning into hers.
"On
second thoughts, you can take the sofa."
"Nope."
Reese got to his feet.
She
refused to give ground. "Maybe you can pop back into my life, but my bed
is off limits."
He crowded her back
against the wall. "Who needs a bed?" he said, catching her hand and
staking it to the wall. He lay his body on
hers and took her mouth.
She
kissed him back, more aggression than surrender. He remembered her taste, but
there was a dark edge to it now that raced through his blood like adrenaline,
goading him to respond, to give as good as he got. He held back, let her spin
him around and slam him against the wall. He let her use her teeth on him, and pound with her fists - not as an attack, but
as a woman who'd been hurt by him. And then he let her collapse, her forehead
resting against his shoulder as her breath sobbed in and out, and her tears wet
his shirt. Then, because he knew she
hated the loss of control, and because they both needed to remember this moment in a different light, he skimmed his hands
up her ribs, lifting her sweatshirt and rubbing his thumbs across her
nipples.
Kate drew in a shuddering
breath, pleasure spearing from her breasts to the centre of her stomach. Her back arched, pressing her closer to his heat. She
lifted her arms, moaning when her sweatshirt disappeared, then her tank top. His hands were on her again, hot
and strong. Need rushed through her and built. She remembered the need, how it
felt to be filled to bursting with it - trembling one moment, energized the next,
riding the edge of a wave of desperation that had her fumbling with the snap of
his pants. They both shed clothing as they worked their way up the stairs,
stopping ever}1 few steps for a drug-like kiss, an inciting caress.
She
was grateful for the bed since her muscles had gone rubbery, her head spinning
by the time Reese laid her down. And then he took his mouth to her, from her
breasts down her belly and lower, and every nerve ending she possessed
seemed to fire at one time, all screaming with pleasure that built and grew.
His eyes locked on hers and he whispered, "Let go,” and
his fingers speared into her, shooting her to her peak.
Before she could
catch her breath, while she was still lost in the last shuddering wave of her
climax, Reese slipped inside her, driving the pleasure to an
impossible height. She loved the feel of him, his weight pressing
her down into the mattress, heated skin over muscle that rippled and bunched,
the sense of controlled strength that made her feel frail and protected, but
not weak. Until he began to move and her pulse tripped, her breath rushing out again.
"Give
me a minute,” she wheezed.
"I
don't think I have one."
Her
lips curved, her gaze holding his as she shoved him on to his back, rose above
him and shook him to the core with her beauty and strength, the
kind of strength that made room for vulnerability. She was more than
he could have hoped for, and then he was beyond thought, her body moving over
his, heat and friction and raw sensation, driving him up and over, to a place that wrung
every ounce of pleasure from him, until lie
was empty, sated, floating back to earth to find her draped over him, just as
wrung out, just as breathless, her
heart galloping against his. Even the smile on his face was an effort. Not that
he could have stopped it if he’d
wanted to.
"That's a
cat-that-ate-the-canary grin."
"You
got it, chickadee.”
Kate
rolled her eyes. "We never had any trouble in bed."
"That
was a whole lot better than trouble-free."
"That
was amazing.”
"No,”
he said, rolling until he was looming over her. "I’ll show you amazing.”
Six
Mistake or not, Kate had to admit she wouldn't
have slept so well - probably wouldn't have slept at all, if not for Reese. She'd showered, and she felt
remarkably alert and absolutely focused.
When
Reese came downstairs, showered and dressed, she was collecting weapons from
around the house.
"Definitely
not a kid-friendly place,” he observed.
"It
is if the kids are being held by terrorists.”
"Good point. Kashani
is covered. As soon as they know his family is safe, the agents in the
bargaining room will take out the
Reformists and let him know he's free to negotiate in good faith again. I'm
going with you.”
"No."
Reese
didn't make an overt physical threat, but he shifted his weight to the balls of
his feet. "We go together or stay together,” he
said, prepared to back up his ultimatum.
'You
don't trust me,” she said flatly.
"It's
a two-man job.”
"Then
it's just about right for one woman."
"This
isn't about feminism. All your people are compromised. The two at the house, if
they're not dead, are incapacitated in some way. Your other
employees are on their own assignments, and you can't pull them
in and leave their protectees in the lurch. Go or stay, your choice, but we do
it together.”
'You
keep saying that.”
"And
“I keep saying it until it gets through that hard head of yours."
She
sighed and gave up. She'd never take him in a contest of strength and, damn it,
she couldn't shoot him. "Always the eternal optimist,”
she said and led the way into the den. The closet was an arsenal – metal lined,
with, a combination safe.
When she opened it,
Reese just stared for a moment, clearly flabbergasted by the array of weaponry,
from knives and guns, to explosives, big and small. "Some of these
are home-made," he said, "and a lot of them are illegal.”
But he grabbed a couple of flashbangs and stuffed them in his pockets.
Kate
secured the small-calibre Glock she'd been earning earlier at her ankle. She
strapped a knife holster at the opposite calf, smoothed her jeans down over both
weapons, then slipped a shoulder rig over her
stretchy T-shirt and pulled a hooded sweatshirt over it all. She stuffed extra
clips into the pockets of the hoodie
and said, "Ready to go."
Since
they were going in during the day, she was dressed like she was out for a walk
in the morning sun. Reese had no choice but to wear what he'd worn to infiltrate her
house: black cargos, black T-shirt, black boots,
intense expression. The first civilian they came across was going to run
screaming.
"You
really ought to change your clothes,” Kate said to him, "but,
hell, you'd look menacing in a tutu."
"Menacing
doesn't begin to cover what would happen if you tried to put me in a
tutu."
Another
time that mental picture would have made her laugh. Another time when she
didn't have life and death on her mind. She headed for the car, talking as she
went, not to calm her nerves, but to set the scene for Reese. "It's not a
crowded neighbourhood. The houses are on big lots, most of them with stone walls
or some sort of privacy barrier between them."
"That's
a plus," he said.
"In
the minus column, they're high-dollar places, lots of square footage."
"But
you know the layout of the house and all the security features. Another
plus."
"It
helps. The family will be held together, probably in the kitchen area. It's
convenient for food and water, and there's a bathroom in the maid's quarters, right off
the kitchen."
"The
maid's a live-in?"
“Was.
Mrs Kashani always prepared the family's meals, so on my advice they went from
a live-in maid and gardener to once-a-week services, both on Friday. Cuts down on
the number of possible cracks in the armour."
Reese
grunted his approval, and they made the rest of the trip in silence. Kate used
the time to centre herself in a calm, cold place, not
anticipating what they might find but preparing to react to it. She glanced over
at Reese as they pulled down the street, and knew he was doing the same.
They'd timed it to
arrive before Kashani left for the bargaining table, not that there'd be any
negotiating that day. There'd be formalities, opening speeches,
feeling out the other side. Not much actual progress would
be made on the treaty, a silver lining since Kashani would not be acting
independently. He would be by the time real
negotiations began, if Kate had any say in the matter, and the other side would
never know he'd
been under duress in the opening hours of the peace process.
"That's
the house," Reese said as they cruised by a sprawling, white-pillared
colonial behind a mile of front yard studded with landscaping
features.
Kate had no trouble
figuring out how he knew. "The gates are disabled,” she said,
noting that one was slightly ajar.
"They were in perfect working order two days ago, so the Reformists must
have broken them getting in. Good
news for us."
She parked down the street next to a green
belt between two houses, and then they walked back. It was early but the sun was up completely, the air cool
with the tail end of spring, so their jackets didn't look out of place.
Amir Kashani's house
was surrounded by wrought-iron fences and fronted by a stone wall. Kate crouched
down at one side of the gate, behind some bushes that had been planted to
camouflage crumbling mortar. Reese hunkered down behind her.
"Take the other
side," Kate said, not looking over her shoulder. Just the feel of him was
enough to split her focus. Seeing him could
only make it worse.
"There's not
enough greenery over there to cover you and you're a lot smaller than I
am," he said, and unfortunately he was right. He was also curled around her, so
close she'd have said they were spooning if they'd
been lying down.
"Do you have to hover?" she
snapped, resigned but cranky because, even though she didn't look at him and he didn't say anything, she could tell he was
grinning.
A long black Lincoln
Town Car slid down the drive. She shoved her emotions down inside her, a coiled
spring of
frustration and anger she could unleash on the kidnappers when the time came.
Poor bastards.
The Lincoln stopped at
the gates, and a man exited the front passenger door. He was young, with black hair and dark skin, his ill-fitting suit outing
him as one of the bad guys. Kashani's men would be turned out in something high end, probably Savile Row, since
Kashani had been educated in England. The bad guy looked up and down the street, his eyes scanning
for traffic. He completely overlooked the shrubbery as he walked one
side of the gate open and then the other, ending up about five feet from Kate
with his back to her.
The
car pulled out. Reese waited until it was out of sight, until the kidnapper was
walking one side of the gate closed again, then he moved, fast and
quiet. He took the guy down, cutting off his shout for help mid-yelp. Reese
dragged the unconscious man into the bushes and secured him with ties which,
Kate thought,
had probably been meant for her when he broke into her house the night before.
Kate,
meanwhile, eased around the edge of the brick wall, far enough to see a shadow
in the house's large front window. A shadow armed with a rifle. Reese had stayed
low enough that he hadn't been seen, but they'd know someone had taken out one
of their men.
"Sniper,"
Reese said from right behind her. 'You can tell by the scope."
"Silencer?"
"I
don't think so."
"Then
he won't use it on me and risk alerting the neighbours,” Kate said.
She started to her feet.
Reese pulled her back
down. "I know what you're thinking, but they'll kill you as soon as you
step foot in that house."
"So you should
go instead?" She shook her head. "We already agreed about this. You
walk in there and you're dead. They'll recognize me, and
they'll be more interested in what I know and why I'm not dead than in killing
me themselves. Once I'm inside, I can convince them that I'm still bitter about
the way the Bureau treated me, so there's no way I would call
in the FBI."
"And
they're just gonna believe you?"
“I’ll
be really convincing." She held up a hand. "I know how to play them,
Reese."
"These
aren't you average kidnappers. They're fanatics."
"Yeah,
I got that. Look, we've already spent too much time talking. I need to get in
there before they decide the mission is a bust and kill the
hostages."
Reese's
jaw clenched.
If they hadn't given
themselves away they could have snuck in, scoped out the situation and made a
game plan. That wasn't in the cards now. And as much as he hated to admit it,
Kate was right about everything. "They won't believe you're
alone. I'll take out the guy they send out looking for me, cut the odds down by
one more, at least."
"And after that
you're going to wait at least an hour before you come in. HI need time to get
the lay of the land."
"Jesus,"
he said, "you don't want much."
"Just your
trust."
Seven
Reese looked into her eyes
then nodded. It would have been a nice moment, if not for the life-and-death
stuff. Which was all on her shoulders, since she'd left him with nothing to do
but cower behind the wall while she took all the risk.
She flipped her cell
open, ran the contact list and dialled Kashani's house. She held the phone so
Reese could hear as well. "It's Kate
Morris," she said into the phone, "I'm coming in."
"Hurl your
weapon over the wall," was the accented response, "and keep your
hands in sight as you walk to the house. Any sudden moves and you
are dead."
All Reese could do
was watch from the screen of bushes as she followed instructions, her hands
loose at her side but a good six inches away from her body as she
crossed the deep lawn. The front door opened when she got to it.
She climbed the steps without hesitation, didn't flinch when the man with the
rifle stepped
out and grabbed her arm. As he spun her around to check her for weapons, her
gaze lifted to Reese's. He almost broke cover. Not because of her - she looked
dead cool calm- but because he couldn't bear
to watch her disappear into that house with an unknown number of armed
terrorists, not knowing if she'd get out alive. So he didn't watch, dropping
heavily to the ground and bracing his back against the warm brick. Trusting Kate.
"How many are with you?" the
kidnapper at the door asked as he patted Kate down and took all her weapons.
She'd
anticipated that, but it didn't stop her from feeling a little jolt of panic.
"How
many?" he demanded, shoving her roughly through the door.
“I’m
alone."
"You
lie!" He gestured with his gun, and a figure separated itself from the
rest of the shadows. When her eyes finally adjusted to the gloom she
could see that the man was armed to the teeth but dressed as a gardener so he wouldn't
draw attention.
"You
know where all my people are," she said, which was more than she could say
herself. She had no idea where her men were, or if they were even alive. If they were,
they would be bound and gagged. The family
wouldn't be tied up, not for the entire day. That meant there'd be a man
guarding them, which put the enemy at
three at least with one outside checking the perimeter. But not for long.
"If the Feds were involved they
wouldn't let me anywhere near this place."
"Yes."
He smiled, "I know of your history with FBI. But maybe you bring in
police."
She
snorted. "The local cops are useless in this kind of situation."
"So
are you. Where is the man tasked to kill you?" the head kidnapper snapped.
When she didn't answer he backhanded her, splitting her lip.
She
barely noticed because something in his voice caught her. When she took a
closer look she saw the resemblance and knew the kid in her basement was
related to him. She could use that.
He
pushed her down the main hallway, the barrel of his gun in her back. When they
got to the kitchen he gave her a hard shove that sent her
sprawling in front of the table where the family sat. The oldest son, a boy
of about fourteen named Rahim, jerked, and she could see the hatred in his eyes
for the kidnappers and for his own helplessness. And then his
eyes met hers and she saw hope.
She
winked ever so slightly, keeping her head down as she got to her feet. She
remained as submissive as she could bear, thinking "game over" when the head
kidnapper put his rifle down, tore a pistol out of his waistband and held it to Mrs Kashani's head.
It
worked far better than binding her hands because she froze, flashing back five
years, the image of another hostage superimposed over Mrs Kashani, a hostage
shot and dying. Her mind went blank, and a
shaking
started deep inside her—
"Answer
my question."
—and
just like that she snapped back to the image of Mrs Kashani. It helped that the
kidnapper snarled his question right in her
face. And he had bad breath. Seriously bad. Nothing like a little comic relief
to make you remember what was
important. She still had a chance to save these hostages, if she kept her head.
She
dragged her eyes off Mrs Kashani and put them on the kidnapper. "You can't
kill her," Kate said, giving up on the submissive routine. It
wasn't working anyway.
"Do
not tell me what I can and cannot do."
'You shoot her, or
anyone else, there's a chance the neighbours will hear and call the police.
Yeah, silencer,” she added before he could,
"but what will Amir Kashani do when he comes home to find that you killed
his wife?”
"He
will continue to obey as long as we have hostages."
"Do you really
believe that? You promised him you wouldn't harm any member of his family as
long as he
cooperated. He would never have gone to the negotiations otherwise. You harm
her, and you will have betrayed your word.
Why would he trust you again?”
"It
is your fault,” he screamed, and since he was a hair away from total
meltdown she pulled back.
"I gave Mr
Kashani my word that I would keep him and his family safe. That's why I'm here.”
If she died, she died keeping her word, and hopefully she'd be the
only casualty. At least on her side of the conflict.
Fuck it, Reese thought after
he'd taken down the enemy operative who'd been sent to find and kill him. The second guy had been older
than the kid at the gate. Older and better. Even after being disarmed, he'd
kept his head and gotten in a couple of good
body blows before Reese dropped him, trussed him up, and left him in a clump of
shrubbery along the west side of the property.
Less than fifteen
minutes had passed since Kate disappeared into Kashani's house, but he was done
waiting. Sure, Kate would probably hate him later, but at least she'd
have a later. He refused to consider any other outcome.
He worked his way
around the perimeter of the yard, conscious that time was limited but needing
to make sure he wasn't seen. It didn't take a genius to find the kitchen, but
peeking in the window told him precious little. Except that Kate was
hurt.
He was at the door, reaching for the knob,
before he could stop himself. It took a couple more minutes for him to holster his gun and begin the nearly
impossible task of talking himself out of busting into the house and killing
the guy who'd bloodied Kate's face. If he busted in she'd be dead. Two armed
men had guns trained on her - luckily
they were both facing away from him and hadn't seen him. But at the first sign of trouble they'd start shooting, and they'd take
out the biggest threat first. After Kate was dead they wouldn't care where they aimed.
Reese eased back,
retraced his steps, and slipped in the front door. He wasn't worried about
going in, or being heard, since the guys in the kitchen would think he was one
of them. The flipside of that was that the kidnappers would expect
their guy to check in and make a report. That meant time was limited.
He made his way back to the kitchen, not
using the main hall since he'd be seen that way. When he got there he heard Kate talking a blue streak,
keeping the bad guys focused on her. He stayed back, letting her run the show
and hoping to hell she had a plan.
"I caught the man you
sent to kill me," Kate said in response to the head kidnapper's repeated
question, "but I'm not telling you where he is until I get
some answers from you."
She'd hadn't heard
the front door open, but the change in air pressure had told her someone had
come in. She knew it was Reese. No way the kidnapper had
gotten the better of him, and no way would he wait an hour to come in, which
was for the best. Ten minutes of conversation with the kidnappers only
confirmed for her that more talking would be
a waste of time.
"He
revealed our plans," the other man grumbled. "You should not have
sent him, Taj."
"Shut up," Taj snapped, the
barrel of his gun drifting away from her, just for a second, when he looked over his shoulder. And then he turned back and she
saw her death in his eyes. "You must have tortured him."
"There was no
need," she said. All she had to do was hold Taj off long enough for Reese
to make it to the kitchen, and hope to hell he could read her
mind. "The men I had posted here didn't check in."
"And
what do you hope to do?"
"The
safety of the Kashani family is my only concern."
"The
family remains safe as long as Amir follows my instructions."
"They're
safe until the peace treaty has been negotiated and you don't need them any
more."
'You
are helpless to change the outcome."
Rahim
Kashani didn't look surprised to hear Taj agree with Kate.
Neither was Kate,
but she knew otherwise. "Helpless?" she said. "No, I'm really
not. Reese," she yelled as she lunged for Taj.
She saw the other
guy bring his gun to bear on the family, but saw him go down before he could
get off a shot and she knew it was Reese firing from behind her.
Then she was in under Taj's gun, deflecting it up so his
first shot went into the ceiling. She hit him hard enough to hear his breath
whoosh out and make him lose his grip on the handgun. He came right
back at her, and he had at least fifty pounds on her, all muscle. But he wasn't
trained in hand-to-hand. And she was rusty. Death was a hell of a motivator,
though, and she was getting the upper hand. Until he pulled a
knife and took a swipe at her, the point burning along her biceps
as she moved in, because he had the longer reach and staying back was to his
advantage.
Then
Taj stopped cold, moving his hands out slowly to his sides and dropping the knife.
Kate was pissed, filled to bursting with adrenaline and no
place to work it off - except on Reese. But when she stepped around
Taj, it wasn't Reese holding the gun on him. It was Rahim Kashani, cocking the
hammer on the gun Taj had dropped. And he was a hair's breadth from pulling the
trigger.
:£You don't want to do that, Rahim,” she said
to him, working hard to keep her voice calm, to talk him down when what she wanted was to take the
gun away and kill Taj herself.
'Yes,
I do."
"You
kill him, he's a martyr. His name will never be forgotten. You let him live,
he's nothing but a failure."
"Yes." Rahim
eased back, uncocked the gun and smiled. It wasn't a particularly nice smile.
"A failure beaten by a woman."
Kate
gave him a look. So did his mother.
"I
mean no offence," Rahim said with a slight bow. "This coward who
preys on women and children will be sent back to Balykistan, where we know how to
deal with pigs like him." He started the humiliation by spitting on Taj.
"I
almost feel sorry for you," Kate said.
"I
have no need of your pity," Taj sneered.
"No, but you
have it anyway," she said, knowing it was like rubbing salt in a wound.
Petty, but satisfying. "Nowwhere are my men?"
Eight
Thirty minutes later, Kate sat in the
Kashanis' kitchen watching the FBI bundle the four kidnappers off in a white
van camouflaged as an appliance repair truck. There'd been only one gunshot and
the neighbours were none the wiser.
Agents
had been sent to her house for the kid in the basement. Another agent was
debriefing her bodyguards, none the worse for being tied up
and gagged for twelve hours, but who were embarrassed about being overcome by
amateurs. That's what Taj and his accomplices were - young, stupid, fanatical, foolishly overconfident amateurs. Sure, they'd
gotten the drop on Kate's men posted at the house, but after that there were too many variables. Not just her,
but Amir Kashani as well. He'd been playing along. Waiting for the right moment. Some would have
said it was cruel to let his family suffer, but that was why he made a hell of
a negotiator. He knew when to play his hand. Sooner or later he'd have taken
action.
There was no need
now, since the two conspirators accompanying him had been quietly arrested and replaced
by FBI agents. Kate would get her people sorted out and replace the agents with
her bodyguards. If Kashani still trusted her.
"They
won't let their guard down again,” Reese said from where he sat
beside her.
"Still
reading my mind?"
"Just
saying."
"They
won't get the chance to screw up again, not in my employment." She twisted
to look at him. "And since when do yon suffer incompetence?"
'They've learned an
invaluable lesson."
"I'll
take it under advisement."
"Mike
Kovaleski can make the decision easier."
She
laughed softly, derisively, at the roundabout job offer. I’m not taking orders
from the FBI again. But I'd be happy to consult."
'You
think Mike will go for that?"
'Yep. He gets the credit if a kidnapping
ends well, and he has a nice, convenient scapegoat if it doesn't. It's a win-win for him. Not to mention he can
dump all the unsavoury protection gigs on me."
"That's what I
told him your answer would be. He said to tell you to send him your standard
contract and they'll keep it on file. Along with mine."
She
turned to look at him for the first time since he'd sat down beside her.
Yours?"
"I
quit."
And there it was, the flood of feelings
she'd been trying to ignore, buoyed this time by hope. "It's about time," was all she said. "What are your
plans?"
He
shrugged. "Got an idea or two."
She
dropped her gaze so he wouldn't see how much she hoped she was on the list.
'Yon could always come to work for me."
"Taking
orders from yon?"
'Yeah,
you didn't exactly wait an hour."
You didn't expect me
to." He bumped her shoulder with his. "I knew it wouldn't take you an
hour to scope out the situation. I let you make the first
move."
"I
noticed that. I guess I could take it as a sign of your trust. If I were an
optimist."
He shook his head. "I don't think I
could work for an optimist. And anyway, I was thinking more of a partnership."
She
twisted around and stared, speechless for a second. And then the outrage took
over. "Partnership? You don't want much, do you? After leaving
me hanging for five years, yon think you can waltz back into my
life, assist me with one successful op, and I'll just—"
He buried his hand in her
hair, took her mouth, and kissed her, long and deep and mind-scrambling.
"What
was that?" she said once she'd caught her breath.
"My
credentials for the partnership I suggested. We can talk about the professional
possibilities later.” "Sure. Talk. Later," she said, and
kissed him back. "Much later."
Cane River
Rinda Elliott
“I’m
calling in the favour.”
Marcus Bellany swallowed the
tongue-lashing he'd been about to lay on his friend for calling at one in the morning. He sat up in bed, flipped on the
lamp and reached for the glass of ice he1 d left to melt. His thin white sheet had been lacked to the floor. No
wonder. A sheen of sweat covered his naked body despite the air from the ceiling fan. "Must be serious,”
"It
is."
Tony's
voice was tighter than an over-tuned guitar string. Alarm skittered up Marcus1
back. No one did chill like Anthony Falk.
"I
know you're on leave,” Tony continued. "But it's Erica.”
Marcus swung his legs
over the side of the bed, ran his left hand through his hair. He could kiss his
entire
vacation goodbye if it had anything to do with that woman. "Oh no, not the
brat. Come on, Tony, I owe you and I owe you
big, but pulling your brainiac sister out of whatever mess she's gotten into
this time w-"
"Marcus.
I can't trust anyone else."
His voice wasn't only tight. That was real
fear darkening the edge. Marcus set down the glass without taking a drink. "What did she do?”
"She hacked
into the wrong computer network this time and stumbled on something that will
make you think this world isn't worth shit.”
Marcus had come to that conclusion on his
very first mission for the US Marshals’ Special Operations Group. He rubbed the
old knife scar in his thigh. It was supposed to have been a simple prisoner
transport for one of the nastiest creatures
to walk this earth. It had gone wrong. Very wrong. "What do you need me to do?”
"Get
her somewhere safe. I'd do it myself but I'm still in Italy. You're
closer."
"She'll
light me. I'm probably her least favourite person on earth.”
"That's
not true and you know it. But if she fights, knock her ass out and cany her
off. This went past serious, Marcus, and the stubborn idiot won't listen to me. She's
playing vigilante, thinks she's in hiding -thinks
these guys don't know she's collecting data on them. I got word through my
channels that something's going down
and I'm sure it's her."
"Who
is she messing with, Tony?"
"Reyes."
Adrenaline
flooded his muscles. Red hot fear burned along his lower back. Marcus stood,
paced across the hardwood floor. "She's already dead,
Tony."
"No,
I just talked to her. And don't call it in either. There's a leak. I'm sure
it's in my group, but you never know. Just get her out now. She's hiding out in
an old cabin along the Cane River, right outside of Natchez. I'm pretty sure
she's under surveillance already. You have to leave now," he insisted.
“I’mup.
Going. But why wouldn't Reyes' men just kill her?"
"I think Reyes
is fascinated with her. She managed to crack their code and sabotage an entire
section of his kiddie porn ring. She turned over the locations of a dozen kids
to us, Marcus. Three have been rescued already. It's possible Reyes
is thinking of using her. But if that doesn't work, we both know he'll kill
her."
Marcus
closed his eyes, his gut twisting into a sick knot at the thought of little
Erica in the hands of that monster. It had been five years since he'd seen her. Her
gorgeous, pouty lips had tightened into a thin line the minute he'd shown up at Tony's parents' house for dinner. His every
attempt at making conversation had
been met with smart-mouthed responses or glaring silence. She'd never forgiven
him for that night he'd turned her
down in college.
Didn't matter that his
college room-mate's sister had the sweetest, most athletic little body he'd
ever seen. Didn't matter that she'd been the cause of many a night sweat. When
she decided to test her new womanly wiles on him, she'd been only
sixteen.
Her humiliation at his
rejection still haunted him.
"Wait, did you
say she's single-handedly been responsible for the rescue of three missing
kids?" he asked, snagging a pair of jeans from the
floor.
"She's
fucking amazing, isn't she?" Tony was silent a minute and Marcus knew real
fear was twisting up his friend. "The only reason my people haven't got
her is she ran. And now I don't know who to trust. I need you to take care of
her, Marcus."
"I
know. Give me the directions." The knot in his gut sat heavy and thick. He
couldn't let anything happen to the brat. Still holding the phone, he grimaced as he
pulled denim over the sweat on his legs. He yanked
a T-shirt from a shelf in the closet then opened the nightstand to get his
wallet and Beretta. Before he flipped
the phone closed he made a promise to his friend. "It'll take me about
thirty minutes to get there. I'll
keep her safe, Tony."
Erica
Falk rubbed late-night tiredness from her eyes before staring at the computer
in shock.
Dammit,
he'd gotten away again!
She pushed her
wheeled desk chair away from the computer and jumped out before it crashed into
the wood panelling on the wall. Sweat plastered her white
tank to her chest, so she ripped it off and threw it into the
corner of the room before stomping through the hallway into the cabin's tiny
bathroom. She turned the shower on frigid and aimed the spray at a
monster palmetto bug latched on to the white ceramic tile.
She loved the Cane River.
Loved the rich, citrus smell of magnolia blossoms on the breeze. Loved Louisiana.
Hated.
The. Freaking. Huge. Bugs.
The insect managed
to get away. Buzzed past her ear as it flew out of the bathroom. ''Probably
into my bed," she muttered as she peeled off her khaki shorts and white
cotton underwear. She draped a towel over the curtain rod and shrieked as she
stepped into the stream of water. That first hit of cold was a bitch, but it still
felt better than the sauna of this cabin. Midsummer was not her favourite
season in the south. She spent the month as a walking puddle of
misery. She'd have to find another hiding place - one with air conditioning.
While she soaped off
the sweat and the grit that permeated the air, Erica went over the hacker's
tracks in her head. She still couldn't believe he'd cracked her
system. She'd used everything she had to catch him’ had installed more than one
intrusion detection software and even the prototype to a new tracer program she'd
written. It was better than anything on the market, but this guy was good.
Had
to be one of Reyes' men. Trying to get into her files, see what she'd managed
to gather on the scumbag.
Someone in her
brother's organization was a damn mole. That was the only way they could have
traced her because she'd left too long a trail. And the
beginning of that trail started with a fake identity. She hadn't shared that
little titbit with her brother. Mr By The Book wouldn't approve. But that was
the only thing that had slowed them down.
Her brother's call
tonight had let her know it was too late now. Her real name had been leaked.
She'd made the hit list. Tony would hunt that person down and
make him or her regret the spill, but Erica would have to stay in hiding.
Probably forever. Reyes'tentacles reached far and wide. Even if he was taken
down, others would come after her - the bottom feeders who made up his sick
client list.
Familiar anxiety curled in her stomach but
she quickly squashed it and let fury flow through her veins. They'd find her
eventually, she didn't doubt it. And her death would probably be a long, slow
one. But the rest of her life, short or not,
would be filled with nightmares of those first images of children she'd
stumbled upon. She didn't feel she
had had a choice.
Hot tears joined the cold
water gushing over her head. She snatched the shampoo bottle and proceeded to
take her raw emotion out on her hair.
That
first little girl couldn't have been more than seven years old.
A
sob tore from her throat and she tilted her head back to let the water and
lather pour down her face. The shampoo was gone long before the
tears.
When
she turned off the shower, Erica took a deep, shuddering breath and blindly
reached around the curtain for the towel. She buried her face
in it, wishing it were one from home, which would be softer and would
smell of the flowery dryer sheets she liked. This one had a nappy, cotton
surface that scraped her skin. At least it was big.
When
she stepped into the hallway, every sense went on alert.
There were no out of
the ordinary sounds or smells and because she'd left on the lights, there was enough
illumination streaming from the open bathroom. Nothing seemed out of place.
Yet, it felt like someone had rubbed sandpaper down her spine.
Her
brother's words from their earlier call went through her mind.
'These people have
invested millions setting up this porn ring. The client base alone took years.
They know who tipped off the feds. They'll
kill you."
Maybe
she'd been too cocky in thinking she could hide. She hadn't gone through any
sort of special training - not like her brother. But she was a nonentity on the
Net - a faceless being who bounced through many
computers on her way to her destination. Officially, she was a software
developer. Or she had been. She'd missed her last deadline.
As she stood there
weighing her options, a noise from outside sent her heart into overdrive. Her
few years of aikido training were great for self-defence, but
what she really wished for in that second was a gun. Or
two.
Erica took three cautious
steps into the bedroom and scanned every dark corner. Leaving the light off, she raced to her suitcase to grab another tank top
and pair of shorts. She hurriedly pulled on the clothes and dropped to
the rug so she could reach under the bed. She'd stashed a backpack there with
everything she'd need in case she had to
run: snacks, water bottles, flashlights with extra batteries, her wallet and,
the most important thing when a
Louisiana river was involved, bug spray. What kind of damage would it do to
someone's eyes? As quietly as possible, she pulled out the can and uncapped
it.
She set the bottle
on the floor and tugged on her socks and tennis shoes, then pulled her blonde
hair into a ponytail.
Erica
felt the warning slide of real panic along her ribs and she took a second to
find her calm. Her biggest urge was to crawl down the hall and grab her laptop. The
rest of the equipment would be lost, but she
had to try to salvage something. She was taking her first step into the hallway
when a hot hand smelling of the
outdoors closed over her mouth.
Gasping,
she kicked backwards. A male grunt sounded behind her. She yanked the bug spray
up and was taking aim over her shoulder when the can was knocked out
of her hand. It clattered down the hall.
"Shh,
Erica," whispered a deep, familiar voice. She felt the heat of his body as
he pulled her back against him. "It's Marcus. Keep it down. I took down
one man out front, but there could be more on the way."
His words caused the strangest mix of
relief and terror. Her body didn't know whether to relax or run. Someone was here to help her, yet someone else was
also here to kill her. She sagged against him.
His other arm came around her as he took
his hand off her mouth. His presence made the already small hallway feel miniscule. Marcus Bellany, six feet
two inches of raw, dark-haired, Italian male. The man who'd inspired every schoolgirl fantasy she'd ever
had.
"How
long have you been here?" Her whisper shook. Someone was here to kill her.
Kill her. Plus, her rescuer was none other than the man she
would have once done anything to make her knight in shining armour.
"Long
enough to see that you unpacked all your computer equipment and none of your
clothes."
She
frowned at the amusement in his tone. "You think it's funny that someone
is here to kill me?"
He turned her to face
him and she stilled the urge to touch him. Stupid, damned urge had sprouted when she'd first met him
at sixteen when her older brother had brought him home from college for a
visit. She'd taken one look at his broad
shoulders and big hands and wanted things that had never occurred to her before. She'd spent that entire first night
with red cheeks and a throbbing, uncomfortable warmth in her gut.
Those
dark eyes narrowed, his breath brushed over her cheek. "I don't think any
of this is funny. Tony called me, told me what you've been doing.
Messing with Reyes is crazy. Courageous, but crazy."
When she opened her
mouth, he put his hand back over it. "We can argue on the road. You're
coming with me before they send anyone else after you."
"I doubt they
would," she said behind his palm. 'Tve learned a lot about Reyes. To him,
Fm just a woman. And a geek. Both weaklings in his eyes."
The corner of
Marcus' mouth lifted. "Don't underestimate what Reyes knows or thinks.
There's a reason he hasn't been brought down yet. The man is smart and he surrounds
himself with smart."
"Not
that smart or you wouldn't have taken one of his men down already."
"The
bright ones aren't the muscle. Lucky you. In fact, I think this one was mostly
just enjoying the show. You should really put some curtains up in that bathroom - or
pin up a sheet or something."
"Oh,
man." She was out in the woods, miles from another house. The thought
hadn't even occurred to her.
"Sweets,
there isn't a manly thing about you."
She wanted to smack that
grin off his face. Yeah, once she'd wanted to crawl all over his big body and
explore, but she'd spent the last few years in a state of "Marcus
Hate". Or, more realistically, "Marcus Resentment". And not for the reasons he thought either. But she had
no plans to set him straight. It was easier to just stay away from him - something
she'd managed to do every time her sorry brother brought him
home for the holidays. "Just let me grab my laptop."
"Not
a good idea. Don't want to haul it through the woods."
"What?
You didn't drive here?”
His
thick black eyebrows came together in a frown. "I certainly didn't park here."
"Then
we'll take my Jeep."
Marcus
didn't say anything, just waited.
"The
bad guy messed with my Jeep, didn't he?"
"That's what I
would have done first. Come on. We've only got a mile to walk. I’ll secure a
safe house for you- a real safe house with good guys
who guard it with guns." He held up his hand.
She
hadn't even noticed the gun before. "I just wished for a gun. How
convenient." She reached for it.
He
pulled his arm back. "Brat, I'm not giving you my gun. I held it up for
show and tell only."
Fuming, she marched into
her room and hauled her backpack up so she could slip her arms through the straps. "Sweets. Brat. I prefer neither
nickname so how about you just call me Erica. And when we get out of here, you can never call me again."
He started to smile
and she tightened her hands into fists. Lucky for him, he said nothing, merely
turned to
walk towards the back of the house. She sent one last, longing glance at the
room she'd set up with her computer equipment and sighed. Reyes would send in
men to take it all. She really liked that laptop, too. "Oh wait." Dashing into the room, she unplugged a USB cord and
slipped the small attached hard drive into her backpack.
He didn't follow her into
the room - probably because the light was still on and the windows uncovered - instead lurked in the dark hallway. "I
said I didn't want us hauling stuff around."
"That drive
holds over two hundred gigs of information and has enough data to put Reyes
away. It's a sweet, sweet piece of hardware and since it's the size
of a cell phone ..." She paused, walked back into the hallway
and glared into dark-brown eyes. "I don't think it'll slow us down."
"Cheeky,"
he muttered, shaking his head as he turned away. "Always cheeky."
"I
said the name is Erica."
Cheeky
or not, Erica Falk was all grown up now.
Marcus had years of
training, yet one glance into that open bathroom window had almost gotten him killed.
Reyes' man had actually
spotted him first. He'd never admit to that. Never admit to being caught like a
deer in headlights when he glimpsed a nude
Erica in the bright window. That incredible body - the one she'd bared
to him way too early- had changed. It was a little rounder. In all the right
places. She still ran. He could tell by the
whipcord leanness of her legs, the strong muscles in her thighs and her
beautiful, toned backside. Her skin glowed, made his fingers itch.
Marcus moved through
the small living area of the cabin towards the back door. Erica stayed close behind
him, her strawberry shampoo teasing his senses, reminding him of that night in his
dorm. He’d said no back then, but not right away. He had touched first. Felt
her against him. Memorized her smells.
It
had taken years to get the memory of her out of his pores.
And
now, he had to keep her alive through unfamiliar woods with a raging hard-on.
He
should be fired.
At the door, he
picked up the night-vision goggles he’d dropped just inside, put
them on his head, but not over his eyes yet, then glanced at Erica.
"On the way here, mosquitoes nearly ate me alive. Do you want to
grab longer pants or something?”
"Wait,"
she hissed. "The spray!"
She dashed back into
the hallway and returned with the can he’d knocked out of her hands
earlier. After spraying a mist of it over her legs, arms and
neck, she handed him the can. "Do my back then use some yourself.”
He
eyed the can. Raised his eyebrows. "You were going to spray this in my
eyes earlier?"
"Yep.”
"Good idea.”
He sprayed it over her whole back, clothes and all, then sprayed a bunch in the
air and walked through it. They didn't have any more time for
finesse.
Erica
coughed and waved her hands in the air. "Trying to poison us first?”
"This stuff
does make a good weapon. A shot in the eyes would have given you a decent
running start." He turned back to the door, eyes burning a
little. "We should hurry. The man I knocked out is tied up -can't
hurt us - but we've still dawdled too long.”
"Lead
the way.”
"Don't let
go of my hand." Marcus wrapped his fingers around hers and looked through
the small window in the door, scanning the woods for any signs of
movement. Moonlight filled the small clearing, but the
forest beyond was pitch black. He held his gun ready and pulled her with him,
opening and then shutting the door behind them.
The stretch of grass
behind the cabin was only about ten yards deep, so they made the cover of trees
fast. If any more of Reyes’ goons had been out
there, they would have tried a shot. He’d scouted the area thoroughly
and was pretty sure there had been only the man posted, but he’d
also stood staring into her bathroom longer than he should have.
Watched her drying off after her shower longer than he should have.
Yeah,
he should be fired.
An
owl hooted somewhere close by and the sound flowed into a natural symphony with
the throaty croaks of frogs, the flapping of wings, different bird
calls and crickets - so much noise, it blanketed their steps. The damp ground
helped, too. "You up for this? Ill be able to see with my night-vision
goggles, but you
won't. You'll have to stay close to me."
"I’m
up for it. But can I wear them part of the time? Those are cool. Slimmer than
the ones I've seen."
Amusement
curled in his chest. He should have known. Gadgets. "You can play
with them after we get out of here safely.”
Marcus settled into a good pace, one that
would let him watch out for obstacles like exposed tree roots and brush. It
didn't take long for sweat to soak through his jeans and T-shirt. He scanned
the forest as his feet crunched twigs and
undergrowth. He spotted movement a couple of times, but wrote it off as
animals. The humidity sat heavy on
his skin, reminding him of those seventeen-hour training days when he'd first joined the Marshal's SOG programme. Hours running
in sweltering heat, working on little sleep.
Erica stayed close, her
body brushing his, doing its best to distract him. They were moving along the Cane River, the smell of warm, wet vegetation
pungent. To their left, something big plopped into the water, splashed around. They were still pretty far from
his truck, and he kept his voice down when he asked, "What started all this?”
"Gut
suspicion,” she whispered. I’ma part of this locked message board -
mainly a bunch of tech geeks who hang out and talk code. One of them
made what he thought was a joke, some random reference to young
girls.” There was a scuffle, then what he thought was her elbow hit
his back. "Crap, it's really dark.” She put her hands on his
waist, stepped closer. "Can't explain it really. I just had this feeling.
So I hacked his system.”
"And
got Reyes?”
"Not
at first. Took a while." She dug her fingers into his sides. “What
I did find made me sick. I kept digging and found one of the kids. Then I got
obsessed with it. Man, Marcus, I saw things I wish I could forget.”
She
stumbled and he turned to grab her arms so she didn't fall. He couldn't see the
colour of her eyes through the goggles, but the ripping horror in her
expression tore him up. "I've seen a lot of bad things in my job.”he said.
"Even what you've seen. It's not an easy thing to get out of your
head."
She briefly closed her
eyes. "Every second I spend away from my computer feels like a betrayal to
the kids I haven't found. I just couldn't
stop, Marcus.”
He pulled her close,
wrapped his arms around her. "I promise to get all your hardware replaced
as soon as we get you protected. We'll set
it up somewhere safe where you can track them all down. I'll help.”
He
shouldn't. He should turn that hard drive over to his superiors and let them go
after Reyes. But the determination in her eyes touched his soul. She needed to do this.
He
understood that feeling all too well.
She
stepped away, clenching her fists. "I've never been a violent person,
never liked guns. But in the last few months, I've read and
seen enough to know I could easily pull the trigger on Reyes - on anyone like him
really.”
"I
have," he said softly.
She
was so damned beautiful - even bathed in the green reflections from the trees.
Sharp cheekbones, narrow chin and full, pink lips that had always drawn his gaze. He
flashed back to her at sixteen and that one
kiss he'd taken before coming to his senses.
Marcus had been with
several women since then and not one experienced kiss had compared to her eager,
inexperienced one’ to that unbearable excitement he'd felt in that small dorm
room. His hands had trembled when he'd pushed her away and he'd been afraid he'd never
breathe right again. Everything he'd felt since then had been nothing more than
a shadow in comparison. But right now, in this dark forest with her pale face raised to his, those powerful
feelings came rushing back.
He wondered if that
desire he'd felt then, like now, had more to do with her and who she was -what
she was to
him - than just some horny kid's reaction to a naked girl. Maybe he shouldn't
have felt so ashamed for wanting her then.
His heart picked up rhythm. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek from his
temple. She stared back and he knew
she was lost in memories, too, because she surely couldn't see much in the dark. He shook his head. They'd have to talk more.
Later, when she was out of danger. "Come on, we should keep moving."
She grabbed his arm.
"Wait, just give me a couple more seconds." She licked her lips.
"I should have said this to you a long time ago," she whispered. "You were
right to push me away. You did the honourable thing."
"I
didn't want to. God, I didn't want to."
Her smile tugged at his chest.
Self-deprecating and nothing like the innocent, bright smiles she'd gifted him with before that night in his dorm. This one
settled inside him - deep inside him. He needed to keep moving, to get
her out of here, but he stood frozen. Stunned by the realization that he'd been
carrying this emotion for a long, long
time.
Erica placed her
palm on his chest, smiled again when she felt the rapid thumps of his heart.
"I arranged for Tony to be gone that night."
"I
know."
"I was a stupid
kid who thought she was a grown-up. I wanted you so much and nothing about it
felt kidlike. I didn't stop to think what that would do to you, what kind of
trouble it could have caused you. I was selfish, immature and—"
Marcus put his hand over
her mouth. Wanted to put his mouth there.
She
growled at him.
He chuckled, but sobered quickly.
"What you did, that kiss we shared, it's nothing like what's going on with Reyes, so I don't want to see this expression
in your eyes again. Our age difference wasn't that big - we were both young."
She
pulled his hand away. "I know that. I do. But I was just so impulsive and
stupid and later, all that anger ... it wasn't directed at you. It
was all mine. And I didn't know how to apologize. Was too ashamed of myself.
So—" she sighed
"—I was a bitch."
"1
wasn't totally innocent, you know." He tugged on her arm again.
"Seriously, we'll finish this in the truck.”
She
followed behind him, held on to one of his belt loops. "Marcus, you were
nineteen years old and Tony had told me you'd been without a girlfriend a long time. I
walked out of your bathroom completely naked.
You didn't stand a chance." He heard a slapping noise. "The bug spray
isn't working."
"We're sweating
it off. And we need to pick up the pace. I should have called in my team - I
trust them. But Tony thinks there's a mole, that there could be more.
Plus, I wrote Tony's request off to brotherly overreaction."
"But
you came out anyway. Armed and with night goggles."
"It's
good to be prepared."
They came to a low
wire fence and he plucked her off the ground and swung her over, murmuring in
her ear as
he did. "By the way, I liked it when you walked out of that bathroom
naked. I liked your body at sixteen. Can't
lie about that. But if s so much better now."
Erica knew she should be terrified.
Reyes had sent someone to get her, she would probably have to go into witness
protection now that her brother had gotten the Marshals involved . . . and who
knew where she would end up? But the relief she felt in
finally apologizing trumped it all. And damn if she didn't still want him.
Wanted him so badly her body ached with the desire. It was hotter than Hades
out here and there were bugs the size of her hand on that ground
yet she wanted to throw him down and crawl on top of him.
This
craving was no different than what she'd felt as a teenager, only then she'd
been too young to handle it. He'd been young too. But strong. He'd wanted a career
as a United States Marshal too much to throw
it away on a one-night stand with an underage girl. At the time, she'd been
angry. She'd wanted him to give up everything for her - no matter the
cost.
She'd
been such a selfish teenager.
She followed behind
Marcus now, taking in the tight fit of his jeans, knowing he had to be dying from
this heat in them. Eyeing his broad shoulders, she felt her belly tighten and
wondered if that return desire she'd seen
in his eyes had been real or a figment of her own desperate wishes. Ones that
never went away, damn it.
Marcus suddenly stopped.
He held up a hand for her to stop, too. She leaned against a tree and strained her ears to pick up any out of the ordinary sound
from the cacophony of the woods at night. The voices trickled in, raising the fine hairs on her entire
body. More than one person. Marcus pointed to the right and she
peered through the thick foliage until she caught a spot of red. In the moonlit
clearing, it stood out like a target among
all the surrounding green and brown.
Two
men, in suits of all things, peered into the truck windows.
Her
heart threatened to beat through her ribcage. Marcus slid his gun from the hip
holster. Motioned for her to stay behind the tree.
They waited. She
guessed he expected them to leave, but when they finally moved, it was to come towards
them. Blood rushed in her eardrums, her thoughts sped up until they became a
jumble of incoherence.
She'd spent years in aikido, mostly for fitness and self-discipline. But she'd
picked up a few things and one was not to
panic, to stay focused and to use whatever the enemy had against them.
Erica pulled air into her lungs then
silently let it out. She focused inwards and found a core of strength she hadn't expected. Frustration and protectiveness
towards Marcus helped fuel it.
Right
before the men stepped into their small clearing, Marcus held up the gun.
"Stop right there.”
Both
men did, but one snapped his gun up. Fired.
Marcus
fired back.
Ears ringing and
stunned, Erica plastered herself to the back of the tree. In the movies, they
always stood around and aimed the guns at each other for a while. And talked!
Sweat poured down her
face and neck. Rough bark scraped her bare skin. Something crawled over her hands, yet she couldn't move. Until she realized
they'd stopped firing. She peeked around the tree, her gaze zeroing in on the one suit down. Another gunshot
rang out and she ducked back, covered her ears, then squatted low to steal another look. The other
suit was running her way.
She gulped, dropped her
backpack and rummaged for the bug spray. She released a huge cloud into the air. Pushing away from the tree, she crouched. The
suit hit that toxic air, stumbled, and Erica was ready. Shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, she
grabbed his suit jacket in two fists and used his weight and momentum to
throw him back over her head.
He
smacked into a tree. Staggering to his feet, he snarled at her, swiped at eyes
that were probably burning from the spray and pulled up his
gun.
Marcus shoved her to
the ground and fired. The bullet ripped through the man's cheek. The spray of
blood made a sickening, splattering noise on the surrounding trees and leaves.
Erica closed her eyes and gagged. She coughed up bug spray, rubbed
her own streaming eyes.
Marcus
sat on the ground and pulled her into his lap. "Are you OK?"
"Yeah." She
put a hand on her churning stomach, looked at Marcus to keep from looking at
either of the dead
men. Her hair had been pulled loose and several strands stuck to her sweaty
cheek. "Think there are more?"
He nodded, tucked her
hair behind her ears. "I think there will be a lot more. This has turned
into a lot more than a favour for a friend. I've got to call it in,
get my team out here. Then we're going to get you somewhere safe. I
promised your brother. Besides, he'll kick my ass if anything else happens to
you." He used the bottom of his T-shirt
to wipe her eyes. "Sorry, no handkerchief."
She tried to smile
but failed. The burning in her eyes made her blink. "Shit, you can take
Tony. He's been behind a desk for two years."
"Most of your
life has been behind a desk and you just sent a man twice your size flying.
Pretty impressive." He pulled her closer, pressed his hands
tight to her back. "I like you in my lap," he whispered. "A
lot."
She
didn't say anything. Just held her breath, closed her eyes. She'd wanted this
man for so long and had never thought either of them could get past
the humiliation of her ill-conceived advance that night.
He
rubbed his hands up and down her back, tucked his face in her neck and inhaled.
"You smell like bug spray and strawberries. Hot. And that move? Where you
made him fly? Also hot."
"Aikido," she whispered, turning
her face, then resting her lips against the stubbly skin of his chin. He went still when she kissed his jaw. "Tony
insisted I learn self-defence."
"About your
brother," he murmured. "He saved my life once, when we went out
together on our first mission-before he left to join the Feds. I made a stupid mistake,
ended up losing a prisoner and gaining a wicked
knife wound in the leg. Tony caught the guy, saved my ass before I could bleed
out. He called me tonight. Asked me
to return the favour. But Erica—" he paused, looked at her "—I didn't come out
here just because he asked."
She
smiled.
"So
how do you think he'll feel about you dating a US Marshal? He once told me he'd
rather see you alone than with someone who carries a
gun."
"I don't
care." She rubbed her hands over his shoulders, down his chest - nearly
groaning over the muscles she felt under that damp T-shirt.
They both needed a shower. And maybe a place away from all the dead
bodies. "Am I going to be dating a US Marshal?"
He slid his hands up her back, under her
hair, and cupped the back of her head. He stared into her eyes for what felt like for ever. She saw the same
glittering need she'd witnessed so many years ago and this time he
didn't hold anything back. He let her see the strength of that need, let it
flow into her body through his touch.
Her belly fluttered. He pulled her head to
his. She moaned with the first slide of his lips over hers and sank into a kiss that made her forget the dead
bad guys, her surroundings, everything. When they came up for air, she smiled against his mouth. "You
know, I've always loved Cane River. Always thought this place had a spirit of
its own, that it absorbed the essence of every living creature passing through.
Every emotion. Feels like a person
can live for ever here. You feel it?"
"I'm feeling
something," he murmured before returning her grin. "Are you talking
about for ever already, Brat?"
She
pulled back enough to meet his gaze. "Maybe."
Marcus
chuckled, his breath brushing over her lips. "Guess I'd better take up
aikido then. Wouldn't want to find myself thrown into any trees."
"No trees," she
whispered, "but I won't promise not to try that with a bed." Erica
dropped a kiss on his mouth. "A very, very—"
she dropped another kiss, loved the groan that rumbled from his mouth into hers
"big bed."
Surrender at Dawn
Laura Griffin
One
Phuket, Thailand
Jack's senses went on alert,
and it only took a glimpse at the mirror behind the bar for him to know why. The
woman making her way through the scattered rattan tables and chairs was
American, clueless and on a mission, and the combination tripped an alarm in Jack's
brain.
He eyed her from beneath the brim of his
Dodgers cap as she approached the counter. She claimed the empty stool three down from his and tucked one of
those yellow corkscrew curls behind her ear. Then she flashed the
bartender a smile.
"I'm
looking for John Brenner, of Brenner Aviation."
Kai
responded with a blank look, and she leaned closer to him.
"Do
you speak English?”
Kai
nodded.
"I'm looking for John Brenner,"
she repeated, and Jack caught the Southern drawl in her voice. "He's a pilot. American. I was told he hangs out
here?"
Jack
savoured one last swill of beer. He plunked the bottle on the bar, and the
noise caught her attention. She cast a glance in his
direction, did a double take, then slowly turned to face him.
"Mr
Brenner?" She slid off the bar stool and walked over.
"Who's
asking?"
She held out a hand,
and he glanced down at the French manicure. It went well with her loose-fitting
white shirt and snug designer jeans. Heeled sandals, too. Jack would bet
his Cessna she'd stepped off a plane from the States just this afternoon.
When it became clear
he wasn't going to shake her hand, she rested it on her hip. "I'm
Charlotte Whiteside. I need your services."
He
looked her up and down, hoping she'd read the intentions behind his gaze.
She
cleared her throat. “You fly seaplanes, is that right?”
"I
fly lots of things.”
"I
need you to fly me to an island not far from here.”
''Whereabouts?”
"Ko
Aroon.”
Kai's
hand stilled on the tap. Every pair of shoulders at the bar tensed.
“I’msure
you've heard of it," she went on. It's supposed to be one of the best dive
spots in Thailand.”
Jack
slid his empty Singha bottle across the counter and stood up. "It's not on
my route,” he said.
"I'd
like you to put it on your route.”
He
gazed down at her, and she didn't act the least bit intimidated by his size,
although he knew she was. Despite the ballsy attitude, he could
tell Charlotte Whiteside wasn't comfortable in this seedy watering hole surrounded by leering
men.
"Sony,
sweetheart. No can do."
''I'm
prepared to pay you well."
Jack
traded looks with Kai as he took out his wallet and left some baht on the bar.
He
put a hand on her shoulder and felt her muscles stiffen. He leaned close, but
kept his voice just loud enough for the barflies on either side of them to
hear.
"How
'bout we go back to your place,” he said, "and “1 show you
exactly where I can take you?"
Confusion
filled her brown eyes. He squeezed her shoulder - much too hard - and
understanding seemed to dawn.
"All
right.” She smiled up at him, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Lead the way.”
John Brenner was tall and
muscular, and looked exactly like Charlotte had expected, except for the meanness.
She hadn't expected a decorated veteran and a former Navy SEAL to have that
meanness about him. And despite his warm hand at the small of her back, she knew
as he steered her out of the bar that he couldn't stand her.
Three
paces on to the busy sidewalk, he turned to face her.
"What's
a nice girl like you doing in a shit-hole like that?”
She
gazed up at him as taxis and motorcycles and rickshaws rushed by. She hadn't
imagined it. He really, truly disliked her, and they'd only just
met.
This was going to be much
tougher than she'd thought.
"Listen,
Mr Brenner—"
"It's
Jack," he snapped. "And if you have a brain in that pretty head of
yours, you'll get your butt back to the Two Palms, where you
belong.”
She glanced up and down the street. Bars,
strip clubs and massage parlours, as far as the eye could see. She looked up at him again. "How’d you know
I was staying at the Two Palms?"
"Lucky guess."
He slung a leg over the nearest motorcycle and gave her a hard look. "Get
on. I’ll take you."
She stared at him,
all broad shoulders and Levis and bad attitude. He was a dangerous man’ she
knew that for a fact. It was crazy to trust him. But almost everything she'd
done in the past forty-eight hours –starting with leaving her job in the middle of a
workday and catching a flight to Thailand -was just as crazy.
Charlotte
looked at the motorcycle. She glanced at a nearby doorway, where a man she
recognized from the bar now stood smoking a cigarette and watching her from the
shadows.
"Get
on," Jack repeated.
She
met his gaze. Then she threw her leg over the back of his bike and settled in.
The engine growled, and they lunged into
traffic. He sped through streets and alleys and black puffs of car exhaust.
Charlotte's hair whipped into her eyes, but she didn't dare let go to push it
aside. Instead, she tucked her forehead
against his back and clutched his waist, trying not to cling too tightly as he
dodged in and out of cars. She was close enough to smell him over all
the exotic smells of the city - male heat and sweat
and that vague, indefinable scent she hadn't smelled in a long time.
He
took a corner, and her hands and thighs clutched tighter. She peeked up as they
sped through a narrow alley, then turned on to another
congested street. Moments later, they were on a two-lane highway flanked
on either side by coconut trees. She closed her eyes as he leaned into the
curves - left, then right again, then suddenly a sharp left. Her eyes popped open and
they were on a familiar driveway lined with bougainvillea.
He glided up to the bevelled glass doors of her hotel and cut the motor.
She
unclenched her hands from his T-shirt and realized they were trembling. Her knees
were trembling, too, and she didn't know whether it was the
place or the man or the thing she was about to do, but Charlotte felt
rattled, right down to her bones.
What now? Was she
supposed to invite him up to her room and persuade him to take her to Ko Aroon?
Just two days ago, such an idea would have
been unthinkable.
At
this moment, she was thinking about it.
Her
throat went dry as she pictured herself taking her clothes off for this man.
That's what he'd insinuated . . . wasn't it? That if she'd
sleep with him, he'd take her where she wanted to go? It was, and yet... as
she looked into his face now, she saw nothing but loathing.
"Stay
away from Aroon Island," he said.
"But-"
"Yeah, it's one
of the best dive spots around. It's also been taken over by dirtbags who would
like nothing better than to get their hands on a blonde American
travelling alone. Get out your travel guide and find someplace
else to play."
"But
I need to-"
"Stay
away," he said, and roared off.
Charlotte awoke with the sun
in her eyes and the unmistakable feeling that she wasn't alone. She sat up and
blinked across the ocean of her king-size bed.
She
jerked the sheet up. "How did you get in here?"
Jack Brenner stared
at her from across the room, arms folded over his chest. "You didn't tell
me you knew Mark Colter.”
She pressed back against
the headboard as he came to stand at the foot of the bed. "Would it have
made a difference if I had?”
"Mark
and I went thro ugh BUD /straining together,” he said, as if that
answered her question.
"How..."
She shook off the grogginess and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Eight
fifteen. It must be the jet lag. She'd never felt so out of
it.
Jack
just stood there, watching her.
"How
did you find out about Mark?”
"Simple
background search,” he said. "You're from Lazy Springs, Texas.
It's a small town. You two graduated high school a year apart.”
She brushed her hair
out of her eyes and looked at him. Something had changed since last night. The hostility
was still there, but he'd come back, which could only mean one thing.
"So
... will you help me?”
His gaze drifted down, and she adjusted
the sheet again. Then his grey eyes met hers, and they were as hard as stones. She wondered how many men had
looked into those eyes and hadn't lived to see another day.
"What's
on Ko Aroon?" he asked. "And don't give me some bullshit about the
coral."
Charlotte
paused a moment, trying to remember how she'd planned to explain herself. Jack
was a straightforward man, so she decided to go with
simplicity.
"I'm
looking for my brother."
"How'd
your brother get mixed in with a bunch of two-bit mercenaries?"
"I
don't know. He's a reporter. I can only assume he's following a story."
Jack let out a stream
of curses. But with every word that spewed from his mouth, Charlotte relaxed a little
because she knew it meant he was going to help her.
He
grabbed the terry-cloth robe off the chair beside him and tossed it at her.
"Get dressed," he said.
"Meet
me at the marina across from the hotel in ten minutes."
He
moved for the door.
"But
where are we—"
"Pack
light,” he added, as he jerked shut the door.
She
stared after him in shock. They were going somewhere in his plane. He was
taking her to Ko Aroon.
Charlotte
scrambled out of bed and pulled on the robe. She went to the safe in the closet
and, with shaky fingers, entered the code-her brother's
birthday. Tears stung her eyes as she punched the numbers.
Hang
in there, Davey. I'm on my way.
She grabbed the stacks of bills - all the
money she'd been able to withdraw on a Wednesday afternoon on short notice - and shoved them into the small
black backpack she'd bought at DFW Airport. She'd chosen the bag because it was sturdy and came with
a padlock.
Charlotte
glanced around her room, feeling the adrenaline coursing through her system
now. They were going. Finally. She was doing something, and
action was always better than inaction.
She
spent about five seconds in the bathroom, barely taking time to splash water on
her face. She dressed quickly in khaki shorts and the white button-down
she'd worn yesterday. It was wrinkled, but it was made of linen and
she needed an airy fabric in the stifling tropical heat. She shoved her feet
into sandals, dropped a change of clothes and a few toiletry items into the
backpack, and rushed across the street to the marina. There,
she saw fishing boats and dive boats and tour operators milling about, but no six-foot-three
former SEALs.
She did, however,
see a seaplane. It was small and silver, and, as she neared it, she discerned
the words BRENNER AVIATION stencilled across the side.
"You're
late."
She jumped at the
voice and turned around. Jack brushed past her on the dock, his arms loaded
with wooden crates. She trailed him down a rickety pier to his
plane. He wore cargo shorts, sport sandals and an olive-green
T-shirt that stretched taut across the muscles of his back. He ducked through
the doorway of the tiny aircraft, and Charlotte stood on the dock as he loaded
the crates. He reappeared and held a hand out for her backpack.
"That
can go in with the cargo."
Her
fingers tightened on the shoulder straps. "I'll hang on to it,
thanks."
His
expression darkened, but he didn't comment. She moved closer to the plane and
took a tentative step up the ladder. Jack clamped a hand around her elbow and
practically lifted her aboard. Charlotte glanced around. There were
several jump seats in the back, but they were folded up to make room for crates
of produce and cases of wine from New Zealand.
Charlotte lowered
herself into the only available seat, which was up in the cockpit. Defying the
laws of physics,
Jack squeezed his immense body into the seat beside her. He reached over to
fasten her seat belt.
His knuckles brushed the tops of her
thighs as he yanked the strap and she flinched. When, he met her gaze again,
his cool grey eyes looked amused.
She
turned to face the window. "Where, exactly, are we going?”
He
ignored the question as he began flipping switches and jabbing at the controls.
Then he put on a headset and started talking with someone
over the radio.
Conversation
time had ended, apparently. Charlotte busied herself taking in scenery as they manoeuvred away from the
pier and across the lagoon. The engine changed pitch as Jack turned the plane
to face the mouth of the harbour and the western horizon stretched out before
him.
"You
ready?”
She
glanced at him and nodded.
He shifted the
controls, and an invisible force flattened her against the seat, and then they
were speeding across the water's surface. Her stomach dropped as they
suddenly lifted into the air, and the only thing she could see was sun-drenched
sky.
After a few long
moments, they levelled off. Charlotte gazed down at the azure water, the white shoreline, the
emerald-green coconut groves. The blue became darker as they gained altitude
and moved out over the ocean.
Charlotte's
heart pounded. She stole a glimpse at the man beside her and marvelled at his
perfectly relaxed features. This was routine for him, just a
regular morning. She wondered what he must think of ordinary people who spent
their days in office buildings and SUVs and subway cars, caught up in the endless
rat race of American life.
He
handed her a headset. She put it on, and the snug cushions over her ears
blocked out the engine noise.
"Tell
me about your brother." His voice came through to her, and it no longer
sounded as hostile as before. He was on board now. They were in
this together, and he probably wanted as much information as he
could get so he could perform his mission.
And
yet he hadn't said a word about payment. She cast a tentative glance at him.
Would he accept money from her, or would he want something else?
"Davey's a year
younger than I am," she told him. "He and Mark were best friends
growing up.” She looked out the window at the shimmering
ocean below. The passed over a tiny island covered in palms, and she pictured Mark and
Davey as kids playing GI Joe in the woods behind her house. It seemed ironic
now that Mark had gone on to become the real
deal, while Davey had become a roving reporter.
"Last
I heard,” she said, "he was in Kandahar, Afghanistan, covering
the war for an online news site. Ten days ago he posted a comment
on Facebook, saying he was on to something 'big' and that he was hopping a flight to Phuket. One of
his friends told me he sent him an email mentioning Ko Aroon. That was the last
anyone's heard from him.”
Charlotte's chest tightened as soon as the words were out.
"Ten
days isn't a lot of time."
She glanced at him.
"It is for Davey. Our mother was diagnosed with lung cancer a year ago. He
calls home
every few days to check on her. But in ten days we haven't had a word, and I've
left him dozens of urgent messages.”
Jack
glanced at her, his face unreadable. "Any ransom demands to your family?
Maybe to his employer?”
"No,
nothing like that. But he works freelance, so it's not like he's got a boss
breathing down his neck.”
"And
I'm guessing Mark's deployed, right?”
"I assume,”
she said. "The only contact I have for him is an email address. When I
emailed him, I got back a brief response with
your name and the name of your company. Davey's his oldest friend in the world, so that tells me he was pretty tied up.”
It also told her Mark was worried - worried enough to send her to one of his SEAL friends for help.
Charlotte
glanced at Jack and wondered what he thought of being second in line for this
job. She would have preferred Mark, obviously. She wasn't comfortable asking a
total stranger to do something dangerous for her, but she didn't
exactly have a long roster of military-trained badasses to call on.
Jack glanced at her.
"Ever since the coup, Ko Aroon's been taken over by criminals: drug
runners, gun runners, you name it. Going in
there as a reporter would be suicide.”
"I know.”
Charlotte could hardly talk around the lump in her throat. Hearing him say it
made it all too real.
"And
just what were you planning to do? Wade ashore and ask if anyone's seen him
around?”
She heard the scorn
in his voice and knew it sounded crazy. It was crazy. But Davey was her kid
brother. She'd been bailing him out of trouble all her life and she wouldn't
run away now.
"I
brought money. I thought I'd hire someone to go in there and try to buy him
out.”
Jack
didn't respond, and she wondered what he thought of this plan. She wondered
what his plan was, because he obviously had one.
"Where
are we going?” she asked again.
"
Reconnaissance."
The right wing
dipped, and Charlotte gazed down at a cluster of green islands. Not Ko Aroon.
From the map she'd studied, she knew it was an isolated chunk of land about
twenty miles from anything else.
The wings levelled again,
and Charlotte took a deep breath. She was in good hands. Not Mark's hands, but
good hands. Jack Brenner was highly trained, and Mark trusted him. So why did
she feel like she was about to throw up?
"If
s coming up on your right."
"What's
that?”
"Aroon Island.
Up ahead, about three o'clock. Keep your eyes peeled because if I fly over more
than once, it'll attract attention.”
"What
are we looking for?" she asked, as a green dot came into view.
"Boats,
docks, buildings. Anything that gives you an idea of who or how many we're
dealing with."
A chill slithered
down Charlotte's spine as they neared the island. It looked like a patch of
jungle, hardly larger than a few football fields. Was her
brother down there, amid all that tangled vegetation? Was he alive?
"I've
got three motorboats, two long-tails and a kayak," Jack said. "What
about you?"
She swallowed down
her fear. It wouldn't help Davey. "I see two primitive buildings set back
from the beach.”
"Quonset huts,"
he said. "There's one on that south hill, too. OK, we're going to go
directly over. Look carefully."
She
peered out of the window. "I see a tower of some kind on the hill to the
north."
"Cell
tower."
aAnd
there's a rectangular clearing. It looks man-made."
"Any
clearing around here is going to be man-made."
"Is
it an airstrip?"
"Not long
enough," he said. "Looks like a firing range. And it wasn't here last
time I did a flyover. Neither were the Quonset huts. Looks like
Chanarong's been making some capital improvements."
"Chanarong?"
She glanced over at him.
"The
big bad mofo who runs the place. He deals in heroin, arms and pretty much
anything of value he can get his hands on."
"He's famous around
here?"
"Infamous
would be more like it."
"Infamous
enough that someone like Davey might want to interview him?"
“Who
knows? I don't know what your brother was working on. Do you?"
"No. But he
prides himself on always getting the impossible story, the most unattainable
interview." Charlotte's stomach filled with dread. Had
Davey really risked life and limb just to interview some Thai drug lord?
They
passed over the island and the water turned turquoise, with an abrupt shift to
indigo.
"That's
the reef," Jack said. "Used to be a popular dive spot before
Chanarong moved in. Not much going on on this side of the
island. It'd be a good insertion point, if it weren't for the current."
She
looked at Jack as the wings tilted again and they veered east. Charlotte
pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was hammering. She was sweating, too.
Just being this close to the island had way too many terrifying thoughts racing through
her brain.
Jack
glanced at her. "You OK?"
"Fine.
Why?"
'You
look pale."
"Fin
not used to flying, that's all."
"Paralegals
don't travel much, I take it?"
She
looked at him. That must have been some background check. She wondered what
else he knew about her. She turned to gaze out of the window. "Not in my
office, they don't. We're one of Dallas' 'boutique' law firms, which
sounds cool, but what it really means is there's a limited budget."
"And
do you like the job?"
She
took a deep breath. He was trying to distract her, and she was happy to let
him.
"The
work is interesting," she said. "I like the people, for the most
part. And the pay is decent, the benefits are good." She
shook her head ruefully. Her job at Bakers and Bindle and the problems she'd thought
she had just a few days ago seemed light years away now.
"Sounds
like a nice gig."
She
shot him a look. Was he being facetious?
He
smiled at her. "Add a two-storey house and a black Lab, and you'll be
living the American dream."
She
nearly choked on her laughter. "I have a Lab. She's at my neighbour's
right now."
"Oh,
yeah? What's her name?"
She took a deep breath.
"Daisy," she said, and closed her eyes. She could breathe again.
Jack's voice in her ears had calmed her,
and she wasn't going to have a panic attack.
They flew in silence for a while, and the
vibration of the plane soothed her. She stole a glance at him. Underneath all those muscles, there was some
sensitivity.
"Ko
Phi Phi, coming up on your right," he said.
She
looked out of the window. "What's that?"
"Popular
tourist spot. It's two islands, actually. Phi Phi Don and Phi Phi Leh."
They
dipped suddenly, and her stomach pitched.
"What
are we doing?"
"Landing.
I've got to offload this stuff, then make a plan for tonight."
"We're
going at night?"
"I'm
going." He looked at her. "You're staying at the resort."
"I
most certainly am not! It's my brother we're going after. With my money."
"It's
non-negotiable."
"But
this is dangerous. I hardly know you. I can't possibly allow you to—"
"Trust
me, I'm much better off with you back at the resort."
She
gaped at him. "My brother's life is at stake. What the hell am I going to
do at a resort?"
"Have
a Mai Tai. Get your toenails done." He cut a glance at her. "You can
do whatever you want, just as long as you stay out of the way."
Phi Phi Island - 23.00
Jack slung his waterproof rucksack over
his shoulder and left his bungalow. He didn't bother locking it. Although
it served as his temporary home whenever he touched down on Phi Phi Island,
there was nothing inside worth stealing, and the resort manager
kept an eye on the place for him to keep out squatters. Jack walked
down the beach, passing a few bars, all fairly empty because it was the low
season. He glanced up at the sky. Mostly cloudy with a slight breeze
out of the south. Perfect weather for a swim.
Provided
he could lose the tail he'd picked up.
Jack trudged across the sand, using the
glow spilling from the beachfront hotel rooms for guidance. He passed a line of sleeping jet skis and a dive
shop. He spotted his dinghy on the sand between a pair of long-tail boats, right where he'd asked Sajja to leave
it. What he didn't spot was Sajja. Jack tossed his gear into the rubber
raft and glanced around, but he didn't see the man anywhere.
'You're
taking a boat?"
This
from the blonde who'd been on his six for ten minutes.
"You
got something against boats?” he asked her.
"But...
it's like thirty miles away. I thought the quickest way to get there was by
seaplane."
"Quick,
yes. Quiet, no."
She stopped beside the
dinghy, which would serve as his aquatic headquarters tonight. She wore the outfit she'd had on before,
right down to the backpack that contained something near and dear to her heart - most likely her life savings. She scraped a curl
back from her face and looked up at him.
"I
want to come with you."
He'd
expected this. "Not happening."
"I
only just met you. It's not fair for you to risk your life all by yourself for
someone you don't even know."
He
stepped closer and gazed down into those big brown eyes that had been even
bigger this morning when he'd snuck into her hotel room.
"Who
ever told you life was fair?" he asked. "And anyway, you're paying
me. Believe me, the risk is built into my fee."
She
looked uncomfortable at this, which was just what he'd intended. Maybe she'd
think twice about being alone with him. She should. She should
stay far away. If she had any sense, she'd lock herself in that bungalow she'd rented and
not come out until he returned with her brother.
If
her brother was even alive, which was a huge if. A reporter dumb enough to go
to Chanarong's private island to chase down a story probably didn't
have much in the way of survival instincts. Charlotte seemed to
know this, which accounted for the
desperation he'd seen on her face for the last twenty-four hours. It also probably
accounted for her willingness to sleep with a man who clearly scared the hell
out of her.
Jack checked his
watch and muttered a curse. Where was Sajja? They had approximately three hours
to get this job done before the cloud cover was scheduled to
dissipate. Tonight was a full moon, and Jack much preferred to
work under cover of darkness. He glanced up and down the beach.
"Who's
meeting you here?" she asked.
"No one."
He stepped into the boat and checked the plastic gas jug sitting beside the
motor. It was full, as was the back-up jug. His friend had done
everything Jack had asked him to, except stick around to drive the boat.
"They've
stood you up, haven't they?”
He
glanced at Charlotte now and caught the excitement in her tone. Beneath those
powder-puff looks was an opportunist.
Jack rummaged through his
rucksack and checked his phone. No messages.
“Let
me go instead," she said eagerly. "I can do whatever you need help
with."
"Oh,
yeah? What if I need you to slit someone's throat? You any good with a
knife?"
She
stepped back. "You really think you'll have to—"
"I don't know
what I'll have to do. But whatever it is, I'd sure as hell rather do it before
the moon comes out." Jack searched up and down the
beach again, but still no Sajja. Shit. He didn't mind working alone. And he
didn't mind being outnumbered, because he relied on stealth, not firepower to
get himself in and out of tight situations. But he was going to
have his hands full retrieving the hostage tonight. And given the sheer number of unknowns,
this op would be much, much easier if he could get the lay of the land before committing to an extraction point.
He checked his watch
again. Almost 23.30. Jack rested his hands on his hips and looked at Charlotte.
"You ever driven a dinghy?"
She
smiled up at him and stepped into the boat.
Jack checked the GPS on his
watch. He was just where he wanted to be, and only a few minutes behind schedule.
He took another look through the night-vision binoculars before turning and
handing them to Charlotte, who was seated beside him on the
narrow wooden seat.
"Here,
have a look."
She lifted the
binoculars to her face as he glanced around for landmarks. They'd motored their
way to within two miles of the island, and then Jack had cut the engine and
rowed, to minimize sound. They'd been going against the current, and now he was
covered with sweat and had a good dose of adrenaline pumping through his
veins.
"You
see the guards?" he asked her.
"Where?"
"There's
one on the beach, leaning up against a palm tree. Another pair is positioned
near the Quonset hut at the top of the hill."
"OK,
I see them," she said. "What does it mean for your plan?"
"The
man on the beach looks asleep. The two men on the hill are conducting a patrol.
Which tells me there's something in that hut up there worth
guarding.”
'You
think it's Davey?" she asked, and he heard the hope in her voice.
"Possibly,”
he said. Though not likely. Charlotte had shown Jack a photo of her
brother. The man wasn't exactly a bodybuilder, so it should have
been no problem for Chanarong's men to keep him in check, even if he
wanted to leave. Jack felt pretty sure those guards were more about keeping
people out than in.
"Look again at
the shoreline,” Jack said. "The rest of the activity is
concentrated in two buildings down on the beach, near the boat docks. I'm
guessing that's where Chanarong is, assuming he's on the island.”
"Why
do you say that?"
"Two generators and a satellite dish.
He's got power, television, access to boats. It looks a lot more comfortable than that hut on top of the hill.”
Charlotte lifted the
binoculars again. She sighed quietly, and the little female sound tugged at
him. She was worried. And scared. For the
past hour, she'd been practically vibrating with nerves.
She
turned to look at him. "How well do you know Mark Colter?” she
asked.
"Well
enough. Why?"
"Because
this is an incredible amount of trouble to go to as a favour for an army
buddy."
"Navy," he
said, taking the binoculars. "And anyway, I don't think of it as trouble.
I'd swim through shark-infested waters for that guy,”
Jack said. He had, in fact.
"That's
crazy."
"That's
the way it works in the teams. He'd do the same for me."
She
paused, digesting this. The SEAL code was hard for most civilians to
understand.
"If
you feel so strongly about it, why did you quit?”
"I
didn't." He stowed the binoculars under the seat.
"But
why-”
"Injury,"
he said, and left it at that. He didn't really want to talk about how he'd
shattered his knee falling off a mountain in Afghanistan. He didn't want to talk about
how, even after three surgeries, he'd never be the same, and how he'd chosen to leave the teams rather than be the weak
link that someday, somewhere got one of his teammates killed. He never
discussed that part of his past with anyone, and he sure as hell wasn't going to discuss it now, with Charlotte Whiteside,
while he needed to be prepping for an op.
Jack rummaged through his bag,
inventorying gear: SIG Sauer 9 mm, ammo, knife, radio. He tossed a couple extra flashbangs into his pack just for
good measure, then stripped off his T-shirt and pulled his fins on over his coral boots.
'You're
swimming from here?"
He
glanced at Charlotte. It was too dim to see her face well, but he heard the
emotion in her voice.
"It's
no big deal."
'Yeah,
right.” She snorted. "A half-mile swim. With all that stuff on
your back."
"Trust
me, this is nothing. I once swam twice this distance in forty-degree water
carrying a twenty-two -pound haversack full of explosives.”
She
went silent at that, and he wasn't sure whether he'd alleviated her fear or
made it worse.
What
was it with this woman? He couldn't remember the last time someone had worried
about him, and her concern was getting to him.
Or maybe it was the
image he couldn't get out of his head, the image from this morning. In one of
life's nicer surprises, he'd learned that Charlotte Whiteside liked to sleep in
the buff.
"Jack,
I'm scared.” She edged closer to him now on the narrow seat.
"Maybe we should try this another way. Davey's never been a
strong swimmer.”
"He
doesn't need to swim a stroke,"
"But
how can you possibly—”
"Relax." He
took her hand, which he could tell surprised her. "I've pulled people out
of much worse situations than this. This is going to be fine."
Provided he's still alive in there.
Her
hand was cool in his, and damp too, which for some reason made him feel good.
He'd be willing to bet this woman had never been so terrified in her life. And yet
she was sitting here, trusting him to do the most
important job she'd ever asked of anyone. He planned to doit, too, and it
wasn't just because of Mark.
"Remember what
I told you about the radio," he said. "Silence means you wait for me
here, but if I call and give the signal, then I need you to move
around to the other side. Stay away from the reef. Just wait for me
about fifty yards out." He dropped her hand and picked up his mask.
"And if anything goes boom, that means my plan to tiptoe in
and out of there is shot to hell, and I'll need you to meet me at the easiest extraction
point possible, which is that strip of beach. You got it?"
"I
got it."
He pulled his
back-up weapon from his rucksack and folded her hand around the grip. 'You ever
used a Glock before?"
"No."
Must
point and shoot," he said. "No safety. Don't be afraid to use
it."
He looked at her wide
brown eyes and knew that it was a ridiculous thing to say. She was afraid of
all of this.
But she nodded anyway and put on a brave face- so brave, in fact, that he
wanted to kiss her.
Instead,
he swung his legs over the side of the raft. "Listen for that radio."
"Wait."
She caught his arm. And then she kissed him. It was an explosive kiss. A bomb
blast. Her mouth fused with his and sent a shot of fire
straight to his groin. She smelled good. She tasted like heaven and sin rolled
into one. And when she finally pulled back, he could barely remember his own
name.
He
stared at her.
"Come
back quick,” she said.
He
pulled on his mask and slipped into the water.
Two
In the clear, warm waters of the Andaman Sea, a
night swim is a psychedelic experience. Phosphorescent particles swirl around.
Fish dart by, leaving little glowing trails in their wake. Jack loved the
ocean, and normally it was one of those
weird nature shows that he really appreciated. But when embarking on a mission it was fucking distracting.
About
forty yards from the shore, he surfaced and filled his lungs. Then it was a
straight shot underwater until turbulence told him he’d neared land.
He removed his fins
and clipped them to his rucksack, then hit the beach. A sprint across the sand
had him concealed in the jungle inside of three seconds.
He crouched at the
base of a coconut palm, motionless for a moment as he got his bearings. Noise
from the Quonset huts on the shore. The hum of one- no, make
it two separate generators. Nothing but silence and shadows behind
him.
Jack slipped into the
darkness without a sound. The terrain went from flat to steep to nearly
vertical, and he used branches and tree roots to haul himself up the
hillside. There was definitely an easier path to the top,
but he wasn't feeling particularly sociable tonight, so he’d opted
for the steep and solitary route. When he reached the top, he
turned north, towards the structure he’d seen from the boat. He
moved to the edge of the thicket where he’d be more
exposed but less likely to make a sound.
Cigarette smoke
drifted over on the breeze, beckoning him directly to the hut where a pair of
clowns with AK-47S were talking loudly and sharing a smoke. These
guys were strictly amateurs - Jack could tell from the way they held those
Kalashnikovs. Their voices provided extra cover as he crept around the building
and peered into the sole back window.
A kerosene lamp glowed
from the centre of the room, atop a table covered with papers. Beside the lantern - looking
completely out of place- was a sleek silver laptop.
Jack's gaze skimmed
over the chairs and overturned crates scattered across the floor. No hostages stashed
in the corners. No inhabitants at all, in fact. What the hell were these guys
guarding? But the instant the thought entered his head, he
knew. He shifted his position so he could see the part of the wall directly
beneath the window.
A narrow bed. And on it a lump. A pale
hand dangled off the edge of the mattress, attached to the bed frame by a handcuff.
He'd
located the hostage.
But
that wrist didn't belong to a man.
The lump shifted,
and a sneaker peeked out from under the grungy blanket. It was definitely a
woman's shoe, with a lavender Nike swoosh.
Jack
gritted his teeth and went through a silent litany of curses.
OK,
change of plan. A female hostage was a no-brainer, but it sure as shit
complicated things.
The lump shifted
again, and Jack settled on a plan. Good thing he'd skipped the face paint. If
he'd bothered to cammy up, he'd no doubt scare the spit out
of this girl. He tapped, as lightly as possible, on the windowpane.
She bolted upright
and turned to face the glass. She had a mane of tangled brown hair, grimy
cheeks and green eyes that had gone wide with terror.
Don't
scream.
Jack
flashed a peace sign, followed by the universal signal for shut the hell up.
He pointed at the
window lock. Fear flitted across her face. She cast a frantic look at the door,
then turned back and used her free hand to unlock the window.
The pane didn't want to budge, but Jack used his knife to prise it
up. Silently, he slipped into the hut and crouched beside the metal bed.
He motioned again
for her to keep it zipped. He didn't know if she even spoke English, but her
rumpled Northwestern University T-shirt and denim cut-offs told
him she was most likely American. He made quick work of taking apart the metal
bed frame, then slipped off her cuff.
"Can
you walk?” he whispered.
She scrambled to her
feet in response. He started to pull her to the window, but she jerked her hand
away and
pointed at the table. Jack followed her across the room and watched as she
lifted the corner of a big map and pulled
out a pair of passports. She stuffed them into her pocket and crept back
towards the window as Jack frowned
down at the map.
He recognized the city. And his blood ran
cold as he recognized the building circled in red. A metal squeak at the window snapped his attention back
to the job at hand. She was getting the hell out of Dodge. Jack rushed over and poked his head outside to
check for threats. He helped her through and quickly followed. Then he
took her arm and led her into the woods, but she suddenly freaked out and tried
to pull away. He kept a grip on her until he
knew they were out of earshot.
"We
have to go back," she whispered. "My boyfriend's back there."
"Where?"
Jack hissed.
"The other hut.
The wooden one." She tugged his arm urgently. "They beat him to a
pulp. I think he's unconscious."
"What's
his name?" "David Whiteside."
Charlotte thought she knew
what fear was when Jack had pulled on his scuba mask and left her alone in this dinghy. But that was
nothing compared to the raw, stark terror she felt right now as she heard the
roar of a boat motor closing in on her. She
had no cover, nowhere to hide. She thought about starting the engine and taking
off, but the very last thing she wanted to do was tip anyone off to her
presence.
She flattened herself
against the bottom of the boat and prayed for the moon to stay hidden behind
clouds. The noise drew nearer and nearer, and then finally - just when she
thought she was about to get run down - the roar receded. The dinghy
bobbed over a huge swell, and she knew they'd left her in their wake.
But
they were going towards the island.
Charlotte peeked over
the side. She groped for the binoculars and peered through them in time to see
the motorboat pull up to the dock. The base camp hopped with activity now as
newcomers piled off the boat. Six, seven, eight... when she reached twelve, she stopped
counting and grabbed the radio.
"Are
you there?”
Nothing.
She waited. And waited. And her mouth went dry as she watched the men
assembling near one of the Quonset huts. They carried big black guns and milled
around like some sort of ragtag militia.
"Hello?
Bravo, you there?” Still nothing. What was she doing wrong?
"Bravo
here.”
"Do
not, I repeat, do not return to the beach." She clutched the radio in her
quivering hand as she surveyed the activity on shore.
"There's a boatload of new arrivals, and they're heavily armed.”
Silence
on the other end.
"Did
you hear—"
"Roger
that." He sounded out of breath, like he was running. With a heavy load.
"Go to PlanB, over."
"PlanB."
PlanB was the other side of the island. "I'm there, over."
Did he have Davey?
He must, or he wouldn't be leaving. She clung to the thought as she scrambled
into the
seat and picked up the oars. She was too scared to start the engine, at least
until she put some distance between herself
and that crowd of armed men. She rowed for all she was worth until her
shoulders screamed in pain and her
arms felt like they were on fire. The current picked up as she neared the tip
of the island. Finally, she stashed
the oars and found the pull cord Jack had shown her when he'd demonstrated how to start the engine. Just one simple pull...
After
the third unsuccessful attempt, she was nearly in tears. She got up off her
knees and stood in the middle of the boat. She gripped the handle and
took a deep breath. She yanked fiercely, and the engine sputtered
to life.
She sat down and
grabbed the rudder. As the dinghy slammed across the choppy water and ronnded
the tip of the island, Charlotte prayed all the while that no one could see or
hear her.
At
her feet, the radio crackled. She snatched it up.
"Bravo
... dock ... south end."
"What?"
"I
said ... dock ... side."
"There's
a dock?"
"Affirmative."
"How
will I-"
"Flashlight...
you ... close as you can ... Roger that?"
Pop!
Charlotte dropped
the radio at the sound of the gunshot. Someone was shooting at them! She groped
for the radio and finally got her hands on it. "Jack? Jack, are you there?
Jack?"
Panicked, she headed
for the island. She hadn't caught every word of what he'd said, but she'd
gotten the gist of it. She was looking for a flashlight signal.
Assuming he was still alive to signal her. Heart racing now, she
curved around the southern tip of the island. Her stomach clenched as she saw
nothing but the hulking shadow of the island itself. No lights. No
signals. She tried the binoculars, but didn't see any warm bodies or even anything resembling
a dock. She manoeuvred closer to the shore, hoping she wouldn't get caught up
on the reef she'd seen from Jack's plane.
Suddenly
a flicker, there in the darkness. She peered through the binoculars. A large
figure moved quickly towards the shore. Jack. And he had someone in a
fireman's carry.
Please,
please, please be OK. She didn't know whether she was praying for Davey or
Jack. Both, she decided.
Another
blink, close this time. Charlotte stowed the binoculars and steered the boat
towards it. When she was almost there, she cut the engine and the dinghy drifted
right into the dock. A shadow crouched to catch
it.
"Nice
work." Jack's voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
"Are
you OK? I heard a gunshot!"
'Yeah, one of the
guards wasn't too happy when he noticed his hostage was gone. Good thing his
aim isn't worth shit."
Jack lowered
something into the boat. Davey. She grabbed hold of the body and instantly
recognized her brother as she helped ease him aboard.
He
groaned, and Charlotte's heart skipped. She got to her knees beside him. “What
happened?"
"He
took a beating."
She
jumped at the words. "Who—"
"Fin
Jane," A woman stepped aboard the boat. It was too dark to even see her in
the shadows.
"Yeah, you
didn't tell me your brother had a girlfriend." Jack finally stepped
aboard, and they were packed together like sardines. He didn't
waste any time jerking the cord and bringing the engine to life.
Gunfire erupted from the beach. Jack
shoved Charlotte's head against the floor of the boat. "Everybody down."
The
boat lurched forwards, and they were skipping over the waves. Charlotte
clutched Davey's hand as the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire shattered
the night.
"Hurry!"
Charlotte pleaded. "They could hit the raft!"
Jack
tossed a glance over his shoulder as they rocketed across the water.
"What
if they follow us?" This from Jane.
"By
the time they figure out which way is up, we'll be airborne,” Jack
said. "Now everyone hang on. It's time to haul ass."
Three
Jack ended his cell-phone
call and gazed across the treetops at the marina where he'd left his plane. For
the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he was in Charlotte Whiteside's
hotel room. She was down the hall with her brother and his girlfriend,
who were being checked out by some Thai doctor the concierge had managed to
scare up at 4 a.m.
David
Whiteside was safe. Mission accomplished. Jack had about sixteen things he
needed to be doing right now and not one of them involved standing on
Charlotte's balcony, waiting for her to come back here and
collapse on that giant bed.
He needed to leave.
Now. He'd fulfilled his obligation to Mark, and the honourable thing to do
would be to disappear into the night like the elusive special
operations warrior that he was.
But
Jack didn't want to do the honourable thing. He wanted to do Charlotte.
A lamp went on in the
room behind him. The sliding glass door scraped open, and he turned around to face her.
She
nodded at his phone as she stepped outside. ''Who'd you call at this
hour?"
She
still wore the sea-soaked clothes she'd had on in the dinghy, and the wind had
turned her hair into a riot of yellow curls. She looked drained and
dishevelled and so goddamn pretty he wanted to pull her inside and
throw her down on the bed.
Instead, he shoved
his hands in his pockets right along with his phone. "Just talked to a
buddy of mine at the embassy. They're sending someone down from Bangkok to talk
to Davey and Jane."
"Why
does the embassy need to talk to them?"
He gazed down at her,
knowing he couldn't give her too many details, but wanting to, so maybe she'd
understand better what he was about to do. Because she wasn't going to like it.
He didn't know Charlotte very well, but he knew that much.
"Did
Davey tell you what he was doing on that island?" he asked.
"He went down
there for an interview. Jane's his photographer, so she went too. He said they
were invited."
Yeah,
invited to be used as jihadists.
"He
give you a name?"
She shook her head, and
Jack breathed a sigh of relief. It was the one smart move the kid had managed so far.
She
eased closer, watching his face carefully. "I'm guessing it's not
Chanarong."
Jack
just looked at her.
"I'm
also guessing it's someone affiliated with Al-Qaeda. Someone important."
"Where'd
you get that?"
"Jane told me. She said some of the
people on the island were speaking Arabic. She thinks the place is some sort of training camp."
It was. It was also
a staging ground for a major operation, but Jack didn't say that. Jane had told
him the name of the man they'd come to interview. He was a leader
of Jemaah Islamiyah, an Al-Qaeda affiliate based in South-east Asia.
"Looks
like Chanarong's got himself some new friends," Jack said vaguely.
The
less Charlotte knew about all this the better. But he had a feeling she
understood much more than she was letting on because her eyes were
shadowed with wariness.
'Your
brother and Jane were very, very lucky to get out of there alive."
That hadn't been the
kidnappers’ plan. Jack didn't know the plan- not exactly-but he felt pretty
sure it involved
the building he'd seen circled in red on that map of Manila. What better way to
smuggle a bomb into the American embassy
than to have two American tourists waltz it right through the door?
Or maybe just one of
them. Probably Jane. It was certainly no accident the militant leader on that
island had
selected an American couple to come interview him. He probably figured his men
could threaten the stronger one with
torture to get the weaker one to do his bidding.
Charlotte eased
closer, and Jack felt a sharp stab of protectiveness. He didn't want her
anywhere near this thing, and yet here she was, caught in the middle
because of her idiot brother.
Jack gritted his
teeth. He couldn't make it right, but he could do damage control. Which was
what he needed
to do. Right now. Jack was in possession of valuable, time-sensitive
intelligence - the only kind worth having.
And he knew a SEAL commander in the area who was more than eager to get his
hands on it.
Charlotte
slid her arms around Jack's waist and gazed up at him.
"I
need to go," he said.
She
tipped her head to the side. "It's four in the morning.”
“I
have to be somewhere in exactly three hours. And I have to fly."
Something flashed in
her eyes. Confusion? Hurt? But then it was replaced by a cool determination.
She tipped
her chin up, exposing her neck to him in that thin white blouse. It was dry
now, but it had been wet before, out on the
dinghy, and he wondered if she had any idea how much he'd wanted to peel it off
of her. How much he still wanted to.
Her
hips shifted, and he stared down at her. She knew. She knew exactly what she
did to him.
"Don't
go," she whispered.
He
had to go. He needed to go.
"Charlotte-"
She
went up on tiptoes and kissed him, just below his ear. It was a soft, timid
kiss, and it sent a powerful jolt of lust straight through him.
Then she pressed her
mouth to his, and it was all over. What little will power he'd had vanished. He
pulled her
against him, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth and trying to devour her in
one greedy bite. She tried to devour him
right back. She was hot and ready and he could practically taste the energy humming through her system, because it was
humming through his, too. And he knew what this was. This was about danger, and life-or-death situations,
and all the things she'd felt tonight that she wasn't used to feeling. Jack had
trained himself to deal with his body's response to danger, but Charlotte was
utterly untrained. She just surrendered to it, gave into the urge, and no
matter what logic his brain threw at him, Jack's body was right in sync with hers - amazingly, perfectly in sync.
He moulded her against him, and she moaned into his mouth, and he knew that
there was no way he was putting the brakes on. He'd fly like a bat out of hell if he had to, but he wasn't going
anywhere this minute besides Charlotte's bed.
He
slid a hand between them and tried to undo her buttons, but his fingers were
too big for the little holes. She took over the job, and soon her shirt was on the floor
of the balcony, followed by her bra. Jack didn't
even give himself time to look. He just scooped her off her feet and carried
her through the doorway, then laid
her down on the bed. She propped up on her elbows and watched him as he got rid
of his shoes and T-shirt. Then he
kneeled beside her, and she rolled into him, laughing, as he filled his hand
with one of those plump white breasts
he'd been fantasizing about all day. He took her in his mouth, and her body arched.
"Jack."
She said his name in
that soft Southern accent that reminded him of home and heat and places he
hadn't been in a long, long time. He nuzzled her breasts. With
his free hand, he went to work on her shorts. She went
to work on his, too, and pretty soon they were skin to skin, and he felt her
bare legs wrapping around him and pulling him closer.
She
said his name again and nipped his ear, and he nearly went off.
"Wait."
He grabbed his shorts, fumbled for a condom, and barely managed to get it on
before she pulled him again, and he sank into her sweet heat.
She
was heaven. She gazed up at him and moved with him, urging him on with her
sighs and her hips as he supported his weight above her and battled
for control. He didn't have it. He didn't have nearly the control he needed to
take on this woman’ this warm, lush woman who'd turned herself over to him completely.
He
kissed her again, loving her taste, her scent, the way she moved beneath him.
She trusted him. He felt it in her clasping hands. He saw it in her smoky eyes
as she let herself get lost in the pleasure he was giving
her. She whispered in his ear, over and over, and time spun out as he tried to
give her what she wanted, tried not to stop, tried not to let
it end, even though it was a losing battle. She wrapped her arms around
him and said his name. And finally he felt her coming apart, and his world
became a blinding flash of pleasure.
For
an endless moment, he just lay there, too wasted to move. But he knew he must
be crushing her, so he rolled over on his back and pulled her
with him.
She
didn't say anything. She just nestled her head against his chest and sighed
deeply.
Jack closed his eyes,
and several minutes ticked by as their heart rates came down from the
stratosphere. Her breathing slowed, and he wondered if she'd fallen asleep.
'You're
still with them, aren't you?"
He
opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. “With who?"
"The
SEALs. You never really left."
She
propped up on an elbow and watched him. "It's OK, I won't tell
anyone."
He
glanced at her with a questioning look, and she rolled her eyes.
"Come on, Jack. The night-vision
binoculars? The phone call? The urgent meeting you have to race off for?"
He
sighed. "I'm not a SEAL anymore."
She searched his
face. "But you want to be. And you're helping them. You're going to help
someone bust up that terrorist cell."
He looked at her for a
moment, then reached over and tucked a curl behind her ear. "Why do I keep
underestimating you?"
"People
do it all the time." She smiled slightly, and then looked down at his
chest. She traced a little pattern with her fingernail. I’msorry I got you into this. I
don't want you to get hurt."
He cupped his hand
over hers. "I'm glad you got me into this." He remembered the way
he'd felt staring down at that map, seeing his country's embassy circled in red.
Something had shifted inside him. He'd had a
purpose before, all those years as a SEAL. He hadn't had a purpose that
mattered in a very long time, and
he wanted to go back.
Charlotte had given him that. As long as he lived, he’d be indebted
to her for it. Maybe someday he’d even find a
way to repay her.
She rested her head
against his chest, and he pulled her closer. He felt her shoulders tense. She
was fighting tears, and he didn't know if it was for his benefit or hers, but
held on to her and let her win the fight.
The room was washed with the
grey light of dawn when she woke up and realized he'd gone. She sat up and
looked around. On his pillow was a paper airplane. Charlotte picked it up and
unfolded it to read the note:
If
you ever need me. just call. - J and then a phone number. It
was a Los Angeles area code, if she wasn't mistaken. She remembered the
Dodgers cap he’d been wearing when they first met. Maybe he still
had some ties to home after all, ties that might bring him
back some day. She shrugged into her robe and tucked the
note safety inside the pocket.
Birds trilled from the
trees below. She gazed out at the sleepy marina, where the tourist boats still bobbed
placidly beside the dock. Her gaze followed a silver Cessna as it taxied across
the harbour and picked up speed. Charlotte's breath caught as it shot up into the
air. It receded towards the west, then made a
wide arc and circled back.
She lifted her hand
to the sky and smiled as it neared her. The right wing tipped up. Her heart
filled. She whispered goodbye and watched him soar away.
Into the Night Sky
Charlotte Mede
One NYC — present day
The hand with the credit
card moved with brutal swiftness, cutting the white powder spread on the table like
an offering to a god.
Only
Alexa noticed that she trembled picking up the tightly rolled hundred-dollar
bill before holding it to her left nostril. Just like blowing out
the candles of a birthday cake, only in reverse.
The
white powder was gone, a bullet into her cerebral cortex.
A burst of clarity,
like somebody had turned on an extra bright light. The sounds in the background
were simultaneously faded and magnified, and she saw clearly
now, as if for the first time. The man with the deep tan, smiling, his eyes inches from
hers. The woman in the corner, her dress a shimmering white, her face stretched taut in agony or ecstasy, she
couldn't tell.
For
this people lied, bartered, bought, sold - and killed.
She took a sip from
her vodka and ice to stop the flow of unwanted memories, the cold bringing a
fresh reality
to her senses. The sunken marble floor gleamed, the swell of the sea a lullaby
that helped her crest the waves in her head.
She remembered that they were on a yacht in North Cove at the foot of Wall
Street.
The man leaned in closer.
"Only the best for the guests. Don't think this stuff will give me snow
lights like last time."
She saw beneath the mahogany of his skin
and beyond the deep creases at the corners of his eyes. His words were meaningless, buried by the deep draught
of cologne that flooded her awareness. Against the drip of cool at the back of her throat, she
wrestled with the aromatic clot of bergamot and musk.
Even
with the cocaine fueling her bloodstream, her pulse steadied to a slow gallop.
"Only the best for his guests,” she repeated, the irony lost
least upon her.
"Bouncing powder is the only way to
get off - if you can afford it." He directed her by the elbow over to the ornate lapis lazuli
fireplace. Her senses artificially heightened, she fixed on a Renoir, a Miro
and a Goya lining the opposite wall.
He
caught her appreciative glance. "Amazing what money can buy. Did you
notice the helicopter pad on your way in? Somebody running around here swears
there's also a submarine tucked away below deck."
"Such excess - I
like it. Very much." She took another sip from her drink and removed her
elbow from his surprisingly soft hands.
Voices tumbled from above, echoing in her head, the source a dozen or so people
clustered around the pool on the main deck. The pool, another gem that only
fathoms of money could buy. Bronze
and inlaid with an original twelfth-century mosaic from Turkey which, with the
flick of a computer key, could be
transformed into a dance floor.
The
woman in the corner, in the shimmer of white, had disappeared moments ago. She
and Marcus Wright, if that was really his name, were alone. The drug
in her veins pulsed with false courage.
"He
collects art, does he?"
Wright
chuckled. "He collects everything."
“I’d love to get to
know the owner of this wonder,” she said, glancing around admiringly
before sinking into the Giorgetti chaise, crossing her legs. Wright was hardly
immune, his glance taking in the length of bare skin beneath the simple ivory
sheath.
"Don't
know if that's a good idea. Unless you like looking right into the fucking
sun."
"I
might go blind?" She knew how to bluff, her eyes holding his.
Wright
paused for a slice of a second then switched on a Baccarat crystal wall sconce.
The soft light stung. "Everybody wants to know the guy
but it's in his own best interests to stay out of the glare, if you get what
I mean." This time he was looking at more than simply her legs. "You
can't blame him for being paranoid, especially when people start sniffing around for no
good reason. How’d you get an invitation to this
party anyway?"
"A friend of a
friend. Somebody who's equally paranoid and suspicious." Even in the
flattering glow of the lounge, Wright appeared older than she had first
thought, perhaps in his mid-fifties, dissipation lining a face no surgical magic
wand could touch. And it was always the eyes, the emptiness. She clutched the tumbler between her palms more tightly, forcing a
casual tone. "I've yet to meet our host."
"Let's just say
sometimes he doesn't show." Wright shrugged carelessly beneath the fine
linen of his shirt.
"Really?
So he does all of this for what purpose exactly? To have his guests test the
merchandise?"
Wright
sat down opposite her, a careless man, the kind she had met many years ago. He
wouldn't care until it was too late, and maybe not even then.
"I don't know and
even if I did I wouldn't tell you." He propped one leg thoughtlessly on
the priceless lapis-lazuli-encrusted side
table. "I'd be real careful about asking too many questions."
"Even
if they are of a business nature?” she tested.
Wright eyed her
speculatively, taking in the heavy fall of her hair, the cut of her dress, not
failing to notice the discreet, but serious, cabochon diamond and white
gold band on her left hand.
"Doesn't
look as though you're down to your last million."
She glanced at the
Goya opposite. The mad grin of the shepherd leered, guessing at half-buried
truths she
never wanted to unearth again, as if to acknowledge that great art and great
suffering were mankind's claim to fame. The
glass in her hand was suddenly slippery, the ice long since melted. She placed
the crystal tumbler carefully on the
table between them.
"It's
never enough."
"What's
never enough? Money? Or thrills?"
Alexa's
shoulders tightened, ignoring the last question. “I’m looking for something
else entirely."
'You're
looking for—" Wright paused as
though to suggest an abomination "—an introduction?"
"If
it can be arranged."
"And
why should I?"
"It
might be lucrative for you."
He shook his head,
his smile revealing a shark's small white teeth. "You don't know what
you're asking, Alexa. Either you're blowing smoke or the
coke's really gone to your head. Wouldn't be the first time somebody
too bored and too rich decided to walk on the wildest side there is."
She forced a small smile to bloom on her
face. "Motivation is a strange thing. Regardless, you'll regret turning
down my offer. As a matter of fact, I know that you will."
'You've got a fuck
of a lot of confidence. Which must mean you either don't know what you're
doing, or you do."
"Care
to take a guess which it is?"
Wright
shook his head. "No thanks. I like living too much."
"He
can't be that bad." Although Alexa knew just how bad he was.
Wright exhaled sharply,
clearly uneasy with the focus of the conversation. He was on the Gabriella to
party and this scene was bringing him down.
'You didn't hear it from me."
She bent her head to
hide her disappointment, absently twisting the rings on her left hand. Then she
rose and tilted her head towards the murmur of people on the main deck.
"I suppose I'll have to find our host on my own."
"The
man doesn't like people nosing around, I told you." He was nervous,
leaning over the table between them, reaching into the inside pocket of
his dinner jacket. "Plus you don't even look like his type, no offence.
His women are a little more obvious if you know what I’mgetting at."
Bile
rose in her throat, a caustic mix of anger and revulsion so strong she thought
her chest would explode. God, let it never come to that.
"Another
hit?" Wright asked without looking at her, bent over the table.
His
words jangled her nerves like cut piano wire. She had to get out of the room.
Wright's voice had lost its studied
laziness, picking up on her tension. His hands stilled as he gazed at her over a little mound of white powder. "I
don't usually repeat myself but you're looking for the worst kind of trouble.”
She held her breath
to keep from screaming, then swallowed the urge to laugh hysterically. If only
it were that simple. She caught, and held, his glance and
there was no hiding the look in her eyes.
"You're
wasting your time warning me." The statement came straight from what was
left of her soul.
His hand stopped mid-air,
a small packet clenched between elegantly manicured fingers. "Look, I'm
just telling
you that ugly things can happen ..."
Her
smile was bleak. "Ugly things have already happened, Mr Wright.”
And
I have the scar tissue to prove it.
Alexa Stoppard forced herself to slow down, to
walk deliberately up the majestic spiral staircase in the atrium, her hand trailing the onyx and silver
handrail. The false courage was beginning to fail her now, the pumping in her
veins fading to a faint rhythm and leaving her with the beginnings of a
headache.
Up on the main deck,
she skirted the open-air bar and the dozen or so people brandishing champagne flutes and false smiles.
The woman in white laughing wildly at something somebody said. Three men in a corner feigning heartbreak as she walked by. She
ignored their gestures and disappeared around the corner, swept along by her
own brand of desperation.
Maybe
Wright was right and Rafael Hunter wouldn't show. It could take weeks and
months to get anywhere close to him. He was probably better protected
than most heads of state.
She hurried now up a short flight of
stairs to the bridge deck. The sharp scent of the tidal estuary of the Hudson River cleared her head, a warm breeze
blowing off shore. Pulling the hair back from her face, she rested
against the rail of the Gabriella, Manhattan at her feet. Daylight bled
into dusk as North Cove was transformed into
a dangerous playground by the sea. A short distance away on shore a child
gathered up her pail and shovel,
looking for stones, while an anxious mother followed close behind. The little
girl was four, maybe five. Alexa stared and then looked away, the dull headache
tightening around her forehead like a
tourniquet.
She
never cried, not even at Julian's funeral, but now she felt the unfamiliar
sensation of building tears, salt water biting at deep wounds. Zachary had relinquished
Julian's papers, giving her what she needed to secure an invitation aboard the Gabriella. As long as he'd been
alive, her husband had kept away everything
that might hurt her.
Names, dates, locations. The possible whereabouts of Hunter.
Twelve years. But
little had changed. Hunter was probably millions of dollars richer with
millions more lost lives to account for. She would find him.
Because
this time she wasn't alone.
The thought of Zachary Coombs brought a
sad smile to her face. He’d tried but failed to put her off, an old warrior who recognized when to raise the flag
of defeat. Against his better judgment and directly against his best friend's wishes, he made the one simple
phone call that had opened the gates of hell and unleashed the forces of her
past.
If
Julian were still alive he would have never forgiven him.
The
wind shifted and, despite the calm of the sky, a faint rumble of thunder
sounded. The ship continued its gentle movement in
counterpoint to the tightening of her stomach. She pulled away from the rail to
peer into the purpling horizon.
A blur of black appeared off shore, an ink
blot spreading its nasty stain. The rumble was a roar now, a huge storm cloud closing in. The deep grunt of
rotor blades were transformed into a giant metal insect floating above,
at one with the sky, hovering over the yacht. The stench of fuel, a great wind,
her hair and dress plastered against her
body.
A half-formed thought blossomed like the
beginnings of a plague. Bright light flooded the yacht as the helicopter touched down with awkward grace.
Instinct
told her to run. She pushed herself away from the rail and turned to stumble
down the stairs, a childhood monster biting at her heels. Afraid to look over her
shoulder, she was back on the main deck in seconds.
And then, like in a horror movie, the film began to unspool.
Above,
near the bridge, blades sliced the air as men loaded with AK-47S poured from
the helicopter and on to the landing pad. How many? Four? Five?
They fired from the hip, shooting wildly, scattering Gabriellas
guests like petals in a storm. Crystal shattered, deck
chairs overturned. People lunged for the stairs below.
She
froze, impulse taking over, as screams ripped the air whenever a round hit its
mark.
Get
down, get down, get down. The words ricocheted through her brain
while a flat-out panic pushed her to the floor. She made herself
small, her skin slippery against teak and the hot fear knocking the air out of
her lungs.
Smoke,
ash and a fervent prayer. Hopeless. She didn't even believe.
It
had never come to this, those many years ago. But she knew it had been there,
in the background, a miasma that poisoned everything she was and
everything she did.
She
squeezed her eyes tight against the smoke and then the smell of sweat as a
gloved hand clamped over her shoulders and the butt of an AK-47
jammed into her ribs. The man dragged her up in front of him, making
sure he stayed behind her, the gun still buried in her flesh.
It
would end before it even started. She didn't struggle but forced her eyes open.
Marcus Wright - his
shirt tail flapping in the wind and debris like he was still looking for a
vodka or another hit - lurched towards her.
Her breath rushed back
into her lungs.
Alexa winced as her
head was forced back in a brutal grip. She couldn't look away over the ship's
rails to the blue of the river, now festooned with palls of smoke. Wright's
bizarre smile held a demonic intensity as he rushed straight towards
hell. Towards her.
His
words sailed over the growl of helicopter blades, indecipherable.
The grip around her
waist didn't ease but the gun swung away from her. Before she could breathe
again, before she could groan a protest, three red holes flowered on Wright's
still immaculate shirt.
For countless
seconds he swayed - high, smiling and suspended between life and death - then
collapsed to the floor.
The
gun jammed back into her ribs and, before she could be sick, a dirty rag was
pressed over her mouth and nose. The rough movements barely
registered as her arms were wrenched behind her back, cutting off her
last coherent thought.
I
can't go back. I can't...
Two
Washington, DC
Zachary Coombs, retired Supreme Court judge,
hauled long and hard on his cigar. His wife detested the habit but she was at their country house in
McLean, Virginia so he didn't have to care.
He
punched a number into the phone at his desk, checking first to make sure he had
a secure line.
The
voice on the other end snapped to attention. "Yes, sir, what can I do for
you this evening?"
He
dispensed with niceties. "Mrs Stoppard, I want to know where she is at all
times, is that clear?"
"We're
on it, sir."
Coombs exhaled a curl of
cigar smoke. "I don't want you on it - I want you on top of
it." The former judge's voice brooked
no dissent. Well into his seventies, he knew his reputation as one of the
toughest supporters of the war on drugs still carried weight. He could quote
the statistics in his sleep, that 40 per cent of violence and crime was drug related, that of the thousands of
sentenced prisoners in federal institutions,
those in for drug law violations were the largest single category.
"Mrs Stoppard's car dropped her off
at North Cove and she boarded the yacht Gabriella where she has been for the last two hours."
Coombs
grunted and then set down his cigar. He didn't have to enquire as to the
registered owner of that
floating castle. "Keep me posted. Doesn't matter what time it is. I
damn well want to know."
He
slung the receiver back into its cradle. Alexa Stoppard was his worry now that
Julian had passed away. He opened the bottom drawer to his
desk with a key and removed a DVD, deliberately ignoring the book
that lay beneath. Rotating his chair around, he inserted the disc into the
flat-screen television built into his oak credenza.
The
face of his best friend flickered to life.
Hell, he'd loved the old
guy like a brother. And he knew how much Julian had loved Alexa - his young wife - and wanted to keep on protecting her from
beyond the grave. The stubborn bastard.
"She's the most
important thing in the world to me. When I'm gone, Zachary, you are the one man
who can ensure her continued safety. Shell
come to you for information, the kind that will put her in danger. And I trust you'll know what to do. Because I've
always trusted you."
Coombs stared, no longer
hearing the words. Julian's eyes were goddamned imploring him. Christ, the two of them went way back, years before Alexa.
He grabbed the remote.
Julian's image vanished into the ether.
Well,
Alexa was certainly the poor little rich girl now. More like rich widow. Coombs
pictured her walled up at the Connecticut estate, surrounded by
Julian's priceless collections of paintings and sculpture, as strong
as she was vulnerable.
As
though money would keep her safe. It would take a helluva lot more than that.
Impatiently, he swung
his chair around and picked up his glowing cigar. The hot smoke filled his
mouth. After a second's hesitation, he opened his desk drawer
again and pulled out the book - its title, The Description
of the World, gleaming in gold lettering. First published
in 1299, it was Marco Polo's account of his travels across Persia
and Afghanistan.
Coombs had been
through the volume at least a hundred times and had all but memorized the story
of the
explorer, his father and his uncle travelling all the way from Venice to
Hormuz, a port on the Persian Gulf. He'd
read between the lines, scoured for details, looked for hidden clues, anything
that would shed light on their
decision to follow a trade route across Asia. And through Afghanistan.
He flipped through the pages with
impatient hands. Nothing, nothing, nothing. This was over his head’ criminal litigation, not historical exegesis, was
his bread and butter. He couldn't risk bringing in the experts, not now. The FBI, the CIA, the DEA had more holes
than a sieve. As for academics, he didn't know where to start or whom to trust.
Coombs snapped the book
shut and threw it back in the desk drawer. Taking another haul on his cigar, he
grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers he had committed to memory.
Country code 93 -
Kandahar, Afghanistan.
Three
Alexa Stoppard opened her eyes and thought
she had gone to heaven. Sweeps of cerulean blue, pink-cheeked cherubs
flecked with gold dust swirled above her.
Early
Renaissance, a fresco and a fake.
The
thought hurt her head, which throbbed with the intensity of a train coming into
a station. Her mouth was dry. Somebody had removed the rag
but her hands and legs were bound, fastened to the bed she was
lying on.
A small porthole on
the left told her she was still on a boat. The pitch of the small cabin said
they were at sea. Far out at sea.
Bitterness
filled her mouth and with it the memories. She remained calm, forcing herself
to breathe deeply until her heart rate settled. Waiting was the
hardest thing of all, enduring those long moments when time was suspended, luck
stretched into the thinnest wire. To make yourself still, make yourself
invisible.
And
hope chance was on your side.
She studied her surroundings. The cabin
was small but opulent with a queen-sized bed colonizing most of the room. Sleek cabinetry made of some exotic
wood she was hard pressed to identify took up one wall. A desk, a Philippe Starck invisible chair, filled the
rest of the space. A partially open door suggested a bathroom beyond.
Was it the Gabriella?
Somehow the ship felt different, smaller, less glamorous. Beyond the
pounding of her head, she tried to remember. She had a bare outline
of what happened when Wright was killed. Sometime after the cocaine,
she'd passed out. But somehow she remembered another boat, a loud motor. She
wasn't sure. It could have been the helicopter.
A
glimpse of light from the porthole indicated that it was day. The day after?
Her ears strained. She heard murmurs just
outside the door to the cabin. Spanish, spoken by Mexicans. Coming closer.
The
door to the cabin slid open with a hiss and two men stepped inside. She slammed
her eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness as she tried to
gentle her breathing, a thin layer of sweat coating her body.
"Let's get her
up." A rough hand on her left foot began loosening the ties. His tone was
emphatic, anxious, like the boss was waiting and getting
dangerously impatient by the second.
A
combination of dread and elation rose in her throat. She'd sent out feelers and
somebody had taken the bait.
"Up,
come on, up, you bitch." Brutal hands shook her shoulders, hauling her
into a sitting position.
She
opened her eyes. He leaned over her, tall and rail thin, his hair slicked back,
his eyes, black, deep set.
At the foot of the bed was a portly man, his trim
beard shot through with bits of grey. Her skin pricked on the back of her neck.
"I don't understand, don't speak
Spanish," she lied. "Please. Need to go to bathroom. Bagno" The
cold muzzle of a pistol punched her hard between her breasts and brought her up
short.
"Shut up."
In English. The tall man's voice was as deadly as the gun he levelled at her
chest. "Or you die right now.”
Her
hands were still tied in front of her. Her head throbbed from what she
suspected was chloroform which they'd used to knock her out. She needed
food and she needed water. But more than that, she needed
to destroy.
The
bastard. The word gave her strength.
She
held the tall man's gaze defiantly. "I want to meet with him."
"Madre
de Dios. I told you to shut up." With a hard tug, he pulled
her off the bed. Her head reeled as blood rushed to her brain, her knees nearly
buckling under her unsteady feet.
The stout man gave a
slow, disgusted sneer, his thin lips under his greying beard revealing
discoloured teeth. "Stupid woman. She
thinks it's so easy," he said in Spanish to his partner. "Let her
have the bathroom. Could be fun for
us too, eh? We don't want her pissing on the floor."
Her
legs trembled beneath her and she remembered how the ground had shaken under
the helicopter assault on the Gabriella. Her
thoughts reeled. Why would Hunter order a hit on his own yacht? It made no sense.
And those AK-47S, the choice of the American military. Colombian or Mexican
drug lords wouldn't have access to them.
A cell phone shrilled
and the bearded man withdrew it from his pocket. "Si si." he
muttered into the mouthpiece, scratching his beard before snapping the device shut.
He jerked his head, motioning upstairs. "Hay
unproblema.y
It
took a moment for her to react and she didn't see it coming. His punch landed
on her abdomen with a soft thud, sending her backwards, sprawling on
the bed. She tried to catch her breath and focused on a cherub
that danced mercilessly before her eyes. Her stomach burned, obviating her need
for the bathroom, and she rolled into a fetal position,
clutching her middle. Groaning, fighting through the dizzying pain, she was
barely aware of the men leaving the cabin.
It
was worth it. It would all be worth it. Would all be worth it.
She rocked herself
gently back and forth. Please let it be Hunter, in the next stateroom. Let it
be Hunter they would take her to. The pain in her abdomen was a deep ache. She
pulled her legs closer to her body to staunch the pain. This was a
test, a rite of passage, another trial by fire. Remember Danni. . . No,
don't remember Danni. This wasn't the time, not
now, not yet.
She swam somewhere
in purgatory between sleep and wakefulness. Thoughts of Julian, the last days
of his illness, mingled with images of his dear friend Zachary at the funeral.
The cloying scent of lilies as she begged him for the files sealed twelve years
before by the courts. He could do it, a former Supreme Court judge, now that his best friend was dead and
could no longer stop him.
They
were coming back.
She
jerked awake as she heard the cabin door slide open, then close again. Panic
trumped pain and, with every muscle screaming, she rolled to a
sitting position, prepared to face her demons. Her courage dissolved
like snow in the desert when she saw that it wasn't the two Mexicans standing a
few feet from the bed.
The eyes that captured
and held her attention were a hard blue. He was a large man, standing well over
six feet, broad shoulders, lean torso,
narrow hips.
She
could tell all that because he was sheathed in a neoprene wetsuit.
He
didn't say a word but pulled her from the bed and began stripping her tattered
dress from her body.
"Don't
scream, don't say a word, or “1 have to gag you." His voice was low and
dark, the words English and his hands lean and efficient.
She remained still,
listening to her heart pounding in her ears. All her muscles tightened,
overwhelmed by a different type of awareness, a renewed danger that poisoned
the air. He was different from the other two
men - not Mexican, probably American, his movements silent and stealthy,
controlled as a jewel thief. All she
could make out were his eyes and the outline of a strong nose and clean
jawbeneath his mask.
Still
leaving her wrists bound, he unzipped her dress and, with little effort, tore
the rest of the fabric until it was a rag at her feet.
The
cool air hit her skin. She looked down at the silk of her bra and suddenly came
to life, struggling in his arms. He spun her around and the
expression in his eyes said there would be no mistake about his intentions.
He knew he had her, and he let her know it with the subtle shifting of his body
closer to hers.
She strained away from
him. He held her effortlessly with one hand while with the other he extracted a
wetsuit from his backpack, clearly meant
for her. "Toilet... I need to go ... desperately,”
she said.
His
breath was heavy with impatience. Jaw hard, his eyes dead ahead, he bundled her
towards the bathroom.
Mercifully, he turned his back while she made quick work of her business,
bunching down her panties with her bound
wrists. When she was finished, she glanced at his broad back, his profile
limned in the light from the porthole.
There
was no way she would go with him. All she had to do was yell, throw something
at his head - that water glass on the sink. Trembling, all too aware of her near
nakedness and growing vulnerability, she grabbed the glass and opened her mouth
to scream.
Her
first mistake. The man was as sharply tuned as the finest seismograph.
Before she could make a
sound he'd dragged her flush against him, his hand clamping over her mouth. The glass tumbler fell to the floor without
breaking as she shoved against his chest trying to break the contact. He
lifted her off her feet and carried her back to the bedroom. She was pushed to
the edge of the bed while he covered her
thrashing limbs with his torso. She tried to knee him in the groin but,
anticipating the move, he deftly shifted aside.
He was strong, too strong, positioning his
body over hers, pinning her bound hands over her head with one arm. He lowered his face to hers, the blue of
his eyes more vivid than the cerulean of the fresco overhead.
"I trusted
you," he whispered a fraction from her mouth, removing his hand. "I'm
not going to hurt you if you do as I say."
"I
don't want to go with you," she hissed the words. "Leave me .
.." She tried to scramble away but it was impossible.
His breath was hot
against her skin, the scent of ocean and something else, a searing shock of
physical attraction that sent her bucking
beneath him, sending the wetsuit intended for her to the floor. She saw his eyes darken a second. Her heart beat like a
jackhammer doing triple time. He held her with his eyes, looking for her submission.
She
didn't make a sound.
Slowly he relinquished her bound hands.
Then he lifted his hips and balanced his weight on his knees, still keeping her prisoner. His expression
darkened when he saw the purpling on her abdomen.
Alexa
sucked in her breath, watching as, with the utmost gentleness, he traced the
outlines of the bruise, his fingers lingering, sending darts of heat
to her core, the gesture more shocking than the wildest violence.
She just lay there, her eyes searching his
with a wariness shot through with distrust. For him and, most of all, for herself.
Who was he? A rival of
Hunter's? The wetsuit intended for her meant that he wanted her off this boat. Without glancing at the porthole, she imagined
the swell of the ocean outside.
She
stared at his profile above her, his sinewy forearms balanced over her.
The
weight above her eased. With an economy of movement she was already becoming
accustomed to, he pushed off the bed and picked up her wetsuit, motioning her
to put it on.
At
the moment, she had little choice.
This
time he didn't turn his back as she struggled into the tight material. Coolly
efficient now, he helped her zip up the suit and, gathering her thick
hair in a fist, pushed it underneath her cap until only her eyes and
lips were visible. Her feet remained bare.
He
took her arm and pulled her towards the doorway. Opening it a fraction, he
peered outside before edging them both through. The corridor was deserted, the pitch of
the sea making it difficult to wind their way
down the hallway and up a flight of stairs.
She
estimated the ship was eighty or ninety feet long, far smaller than the Gabriella.
Their bare feet made no sounds on the carpeting as they
passed several cabin doors. They were closing in on the deck, the tang
of sea air stronger now. She studied the broad back in front of her, not sure
when she'd make her move. This she did know for sure - she wasn't
going with him. She had waited half a lifetime to get close to Hunter,
the man that haunted her nightmares, and she wasn't about to be stopped now.
He shrugged open the
door with his shoulder and a gust of wind nearly pushed her back inside. Propelled
to the deck with a strong wrench on her arm, she stood on the sodden floor,
slippery with salt water, confronting the cresting waves
crashing against the boat, at least eight feet worth of swells.
No
land in sight, only endless horizon that blended with an overcast sky.
The metallic taste
of terror closed her throat. The rail of the ship came to her waist and every
few seconds the vessel heeled on a precarious angle, swells rolling
into the hull. No use even guessing where they might be,
but it still looked like the Atlantic, grey and dead cold. She would never
survive.
Which is what her new
captor probably intended. She would have preferred a bullet to her head. She watched
as he opened a bulkhead and quickly drew out two tanks, two regulators and a
facemask.
She stared in horror.
"I can't swim." The words that slipped out were barely audible over
the crash of the waves.
"It
doesn't matter. Let's go."
"You're
insane."
He
didn't bother to respond but took another quick look up and down the deck
before strapping a tank to her back, securing the weight belt and
quickly checking the regulator. The mask snapped into place, covering
her eyes and nose, swallowing her protests.
'You
really can't swim?" He was pulling on his own equipment as though it was
second nature to him.
The
terror in her eyes was his answer. "We'll have to improvise," he said
grimly.
She shouldn't have
revealed her fear. Just let him go first, give him a good push and then run
screaming from
the deck. She thought quickly about the two Mexicans who might interpret this
scenario as a display of loyalty on her
part. She'd handle the tough questions. Her mind worked quickly.
But
his body moved even faster. Before she could complete her last thought, he had
leaped the rail, grabbed her around the waist and hauled her,
like the lightest buoy, overboard.
The
horizon tilted on its side and, for a nauseating second, all she knew was the
cold embrace of the ocean flying towards her.
A drumming in her
ears, the pressure excruciating. Alexa couldn't see, couldn't breathe, her arms
flailing against the strong body that held her securely. For a
moment she struggled, wanting to get loose, to rise to the surface of the water
before her lungs would burst.
The body beside hers
grabbed her arms, shaking to get her attention. Frozen with panic, she blinked several times, surprised
that she could see anything at all. The dark-green water swirled around them
and all she could make out were hard blue eyes, trying to communicate with her.
He tapped on her regulator, which at some
point he must have shoved in her mouth, his broad chest mimicking the rhythm of
deep, controlled breaths.
Breathe,
breathe. How many times had she repeated those words, a mantra
that helped her evade customs, the border police, a nervous
teenager, his hand trembling from the weight of a Glock. Miraculously
now, she became aware of air filling her lungs with each breath she took. His
arm still around her waist, he read her expression, looking
for signs that her terror was under control.
They began to float, swim, she as stiff as
a board clutching the shoulder at her side as he held on to the oxygen tank on her back. She didn't dare think
where they were going, her hold on sanity as tenuous as a silk thread. Green kelp swayed beneath them as
though buffeted by a gentle ocean breeze and, if she looked up, she pretended that she could see daylight break
the top surface of the water.
One breath at a time, she
forced herself to calm, fingering her mouthpiece just to make sure it was still
there. After what she estimated was half an
hour, she realized they were going in circles.
A
rendezvous point. She glanced at her captor who was effortlessly spinning them
around in wide circles. They were waiting fora boat-that was the only
explanation. But then what?
Even through her
wetsuit, she was beginning to feel the cold, a weakening in her legs that even
she knew was
a bad sign. They were moving with a deceptive buoyancy, and she worried about
how much oxygen they had left in their
tanks.
He
glanced at the bulky watch on his wrist. A sudden exhalation of breath and
bubbles danced above his head, startling her. Her eyes strained to
see through the saltwater murk, distracted by the vigorous frothing overhead.
Then
she saw him. A diver materializing from behind an outcrop of rock.
His
knife glinted like lost treasure in the gloom as he dug the blade into her
captor's lifeline, the pump that connected the register to his
tank. Compressed air leaked into the sea water, releasing a trail of useless oxygen.
Paralysed,
she watched the surreal display, absorbing the slow motion into her body as her
captor pushed her away. The taller of the two men, he spun
around to face his assailant, first grabbing and then hanging fast to his tank
and weight belt. The struggle was a slow dance, keeping time with the swaying vegetation
below.
Alexa
kicked at the water, frantically mimicking the moves she'd learned moments
before, going against her instincts, towards the two grappling
men.
The
taller one thrashed, choking as his attacker grabbed his dive mask and refused
to let go.
Her
consciousness began to flicker and she wondered whether she was running out of
oxygen. She kicked down towards the blurred images, towards the taller, leaner
man. He was weakening, his head sinking to his chest, losing
awareness. Seconds, maybe a minute passed. His assailant was feeling confident,
peering into the taller man's mask ready to leave him for dead.
The
body slackened, the head bobbed, the precious bubbles of oxygen subsiding.
The
lone diver turned towards her.
A
quick jerk of his flippers and he was there. She kicked hard against him,
against the water, anything to propel herself away from this creature
and to the surface. She was no match for either his experience or his strength
but could only grab hold of the slick rubber covering his face. From someplace
deep inside, waves of anger replaced terror and she wrenched
away, clawing at his mask like an animal in a cage.
Then the air bubbles, a
halo around his head.
Resurrected, emerging
from the gloom, her captor floated behind the other diver. His knife twisted
and slashed into the smaller man's oxygen
hose, ripping his mask from his head. Dark spots flickered before Alexa's
eyes and she thought she saw the shorter man reach for the knife at his belt.
Without thinking, she grabbed the weapon
with cold, stiff hands - only to have it wrenched from her grasp a second
later.
A fresh wave of horror.
Her captor - without precious air- worked the knife she'd held moments before and slashed efficiently at the chest of the diver.
Blood poured from the wound, a sinuous plume discolouring the murky
water. It didn't take long. The smaller man convulsed like a wind-up toy,
jerking fitfully in a macabre ballet. He
stilled and then descended into the aqueous shadows.
Less
than two minutes had passed. How long could her captor survive without oxygen?
She watched as he struggled to cut loose the weight belts
dangling from his waist. Maybe because he was her only hope right now, she
wanted to see this man breathe, to see him suck sweet oxygen into his deprived
lungs. To live.
She
wasn't thinking clearly. Her hand shaking, she removed the register from her
mouth and offered it to him.
Instead
of the panicked breaths she expected, he took short gasps, inhaling
rhythmically for a few seconds before handing her back the
register. With frozen fingers, her lungs already bursting, she followed suit.
When she'd had her
fill of the precious elixir, she motioned to him with the register but he shook
his head and grabbed her tank again. He kicked powerfully and
they ascended a few feet towards a dark shadow in the water above
them.
A
cylinder, maybe twenty feet in length and eight feet in height, emerged from
the green shadows. It looked like a small plane with a tether
attached and a miniature, silent propeller spinning in the rear.
A small enclosed space,
fathoms deep beneath the ocean. Despite the oxygen flowing to her lungs, her
throat constricted.
He
must have seen the change in her expression because he was ready when she began
shoving away from him. He slipped under her and pushed her towards
the submersible, remaining below her body, solid, unshakeable as a dam.
She
twisted wildly, churning the water, a heavy blanket of disorientation beginning
to take over.
The ocean floor beckoned,
anything, anything to get away from the suffocation of the enclosed space, the box, the coffin in front of her. Hands grabbed
her waist, pushing her on to a solid platform. Her head thrashed back and forth, her eyes closed in
denial. All she saw was Danni’s face.
Four
Ripe opium buds smell fresh, like wet
grass. Not unlike the wet grass of the perfectly manicured lawns on his estate
in Kent.
Although
looking at the landscape from inside the Jeep, Daoud knew the scene was as far
away from the United Kingdom as heaven from hell. These denuded hills
were brick red, not a scrub brush marring the harsh contours that
folded into flat planes of brightly nodding flowers.
The Jeep turned a
corner sharply. Impossible to avoid the ruts in the roads pockmarked with
mortar shells. NATO forces climbed like rats all over these
provinces. He swallowed a curse.
Opium jihad. Smack, china
white, horse, black tar - he knew all the names that were used for heroin
in the West. And he also knew how the
by-product of a simple flower was converted into one of the most addictive drugs known to man. Inhaled, ingested or
injected, heroin created an instantaneous rush that lasted only a few seconds. Then the heavy
drowsiness, followed by a sense of contentment and detachment from the world.
And then the addiction,
since tolerance was inevitable, leading the user to increase the dose to create
a high. Sometimes four times a day.
The
most powerful weapon in the universe. A gift from Allah.
He looked out the
window, the scene of Afghanistan's endless war. In a playing field in the
centre of what was left of a neighbourhood, rested a Soviet tank, an abandoned
relic captured by the mujahideen years ago.
The Jeep ascended to
craggy, barren mountains, negotiating steep climbs, descents and hairpin curves
along a
narrow road. The terrain was familiar, etched by his childhood, with its
cluster of small red hills, smooth
mushroom-shaped rocks fusing into neat concentric lines. Rugged, unwelcoming,
another range of grey, forbidding
stone hills came into view.
The
Jeep slowed to a halt in front of a small granite building in the middle of a
field sheltered by two walls of rock. Daoud signalled his driver to
wait and watched his bodyguards emerge from two trucks, one in front and one
behind. They quickly secured the building.
Daoud
stepped into the bright morning air, breathing deeply, letting down his guard.
The Taliban controlled this part of Helmand province in western
Afghanistan, the population of poppy farmers thriving in a
chaos that funded the jihad. Every poppy lanced for its opium unleashed
a flow of black-market dollars conveniently taxed by the virtual government of
the Taliban.
Beautiful, just
beautiful. Daoud smiled, imaging the thousands of tons of opium from this year’s
harvest being processed, heroin that was about to flood the streets of the
West, all the while stuffing the pockets of drug lords like himself.
It
would be forever so. He would see to it. With the help of Rafael Hunter.
After
the bright light of day, the interior of the small building was dark. All he
could smell was earth until his eyes adjusted and he saw the two
men in the corner.
"Salaam."
Daoud approached and
knelt down on to the cushion on the dirt floor. To his right was Nazir Ghalib,
a local farmer with thousands of acres under
his operation. In between his flowing robes, on his lap, he held a clay pot.
Just before reaching
maturity, the poppy plant produces a flower. After a week, the petals fall off,
leaving a capsule. Raw opium gum is harvested from this capsule,
about a hundred of which nestled in the earthenware container
Ghalib cradled between his hands.
Ibrahim
Azhar, with a full beard and flowing robes, nodded approvingly. His dark eyes
glistened as he listened to Ghalib with the attention he would have given the
prophet Mohammed.
How close was Azhar
to Mullah Omar, Emir of Afghanistan and head of the Taliban? Daoud knewit was useless
to speculate. Instead, he made sure to demonstrate his obeisance by focusing on
Ghalib's words.
He nodded gravely. Nothing he didn't
already know. But the success of the jihad rested in the hands of these poor farmers who used opium as their
currency, selling or trading it for the basics like food, clothing and tools.
Azhar
stroked his beard, leaning forwards to invite the Ghalib's further confidence.
"We
need help, money, supplies to refine . . ." He ran his fingers carefully
through the buds like they were the finest jewels.
Daoud knew
first-hand how raw opium could clear out an airport terminal with its strong
odour. All the more reason it had to be converted into a
morphine base before it could leave Afghanistan.
"So what do you
need - more money?” he asked, shifting from the cushion to the hard
dirt floor. "Chand afghaniy?" How much?
Ghalib
raised his eyes expectantly. "Qimat ast." If s expensive.
"Expensive”
to these poor farmers meant throwing a few more dollars their way.
'You'll
have it,” he said patting the older man on the back under the
watchful eyes of Azhar.
"You do the work of
Allah, salam aleikom." Peace be upon you. Azhar was generous in his
praise. He leaned closer towards Daoud.
"How
soon will you have the money?" he asked in surprisingly good English.
Daoud
gritted his teeth. "I have always been faithful, with Allah's help. And I
will not turn away now.”
Ghalib
watched the exchange, raisin eyes glinting in his sunburned face.
"Have you developed new ways of
getting the material out of Afghanistan? The shipments have been slowed in recent months and we can't delay with
the infidel at our gates.”
Daoud
bit back a reply, resenting the simple world view these men lived with.
Smuggling heroin wasn't as effortless as loading it on a donkey's back and humping it over
a few mountain ranges. Customs was becoming
smarter and jumpier than a junkie looking for his next fix.
Just a few shipments ago
he was having couriers swallow bags of heroin, cross the border and wait for
the bags to run their digestive course. He'd also tried hiding bags in gas
tanks and tyres of cars or mixed with
garbage. He'd even heard of a border patrol unit in Texas finding millions
worth of narcotics stuffed in human
body parts - the legs, arms and intestines - that had been stolen from a
hospital.
"Leave
it to me," he said simply. It was time to assert some control. He rose
from the floor and signalled to Ghalib that the meeting was over. The older man shuffled
to his feet, still cradling the bowl, bowing to Azhar although there was a set to his shoulders that was anything but
respectful.
Desperately poor, ravaged
by years of war, these tribes didn't know loyalty. So as long as the Taliban paid...
Azhar watched as
Ghalib left, then he motioned Daoud to return to the cushions on the floor. He
spat off to the side and wiped the corner of his mouth as though what he had to
say was particularly dissatisfying.
"You know how
important this is? How without the support of these farmers and their crops we
cannot rise up and defeat the
infidel?" Azhar didn't trust him, didn't trust his loyalty.
"I
know better than anyone, Ibrahim."
Azhar
flicked his gaze over Daoud's robes, knowing full well the Europe an -style
trousers and shirt that lay beneath. His gaze held disdain. "It
is this woman who will guarantee our future - the only way to preserve
our future and fulfil Allah's will. This is but the first step towards
the complete and final devastation of the West."
Daoud's
spine tingled though not from the cold. "So you have heard from the
American."
Settling
his hands on his thighs, Azhar looked to the east, his expression impenetrable.
"Ensa allah, God willing, it will all come to
pass."
"And
I am to know no more?" In the distance, two explosions. Mines going off.
They lay like ticking time bombs across the length and breadth of the country.
Azhar's answer was simple. "Just
bring her." he paused in acknowledgement of the sin he was about to commit.
Yosuf
Daoud knew the meeting was over.
Leaving
the darkness of the concrete building, he couldn't ignore the shrapnel and
bullet marks decorating the doorway like some kind of a frieze,
courtesy of American-led forces and their B-52S, smart bombs and daisy-cutters.
Would
the woman present a problem?
There were ways to ensure the highest
levels of cooperation, all the way through Washington, DC. He looked to the horizon, which was enshrouded by the
smoke and dust of war, and smiled. No, he didn't think Alexa Stoppard would present a problem at all.
Five
Life
was a crap shoot. And lately all that was coming up were snake eyes.
He watched the woman
sleep, lost in the queen-sized bed, her hair a dark-honey cloud spread on the pillow,
her breathing shallow.
Alexa
Stoppard had been out cold for eight hours now, an improvement from the
catatonic state she'd entered just before he'd pulled her aboard
the submarine. He didn't shock easily but a lifetime of experience
had still not prepared him for the blind terror in her eyes, a meltdown that
kicked the shit out of anything he'd ever seen in the faces of the
most desperate men - men belly-down in the jungle, men with electrodes
attached to their balls, men forced to kiss the business end of a Glock.
In the green gloom
of the Atlantic, Alexa Stoppard had disappeared and shrank into a dark corner
of her soul.
The tightness across
his shoulders was like a straitjacket and he flexed his muscles willing the
tension to ease. Deliberately facing away from the woman on the bed,
he moved to look out the porthole with its expansive horizon of blue.
But he still saw her face, the wide grey eyes closed to him like a prison door,
the generous mouth, controlling her panic as she fought
against him. He allowed himself a grim smile at the memory of the softness of
her skin, the taste and feel of her. And that dancer's body, slender and
strong, struggling beneath him.
The
rapidly reddening bruise on her taut abdomen. A harbinger of things to come.
Once
he got his hands on her, once he got what he wanted, Daoud would kill Alexa
Stoppard.
Michael concentrated
on a single seagull, alone and free, skimming the water's surface. Of course
like so many before her, Stoppard was ultimately expendable and, if Michael
were in Daoud's situation, he'd do the same thing. It was just good fucking
business practice.
The
seagull soared, the glint of a fish in its bill, disappearing into the faint
line of the horizon.
He
didn't believe in luck, never had, and it raised every godforsaken instinct in
his neural system that this scenario was all too convenient. Alexa
Stoppard had been choreographed off the yacht with the kind of ostentatious
violence that raised the profile of the business in ways it couldn't afford.
Christ, the favours he'd had to call in to clean up the mess.
Something
made him turn around, his senses tuned to the tiniest change in the room's
atmosphere. Although her eyes were still closed, he knew that Alexa
Stoppard was awake.
“You're going to
have to look at me sometime.” Michael remained standing a few feet
from the bed when slowly her eyes opened, as clear as a winter sky. He remembered
that she had saved his life, hours ago in the
cold, green depths of the ocean, sharing her precious oxygen with him.
It
must have gone against her every instinct.
'You're hungry."
The banality of the words was a good defence, heading off his dangerous
thoughts. This woman did something to him and he didn't
like it.
Without moving, she
stared at him, memorizing every detail of his appearance for later use. A few
more awkward seconds, and she shook her head, sitting up
tentatively. She clutched the sheet to her chest, her hair a tumble around the
fragile bones of her shoulders.
"I
was on a boat. You came into my cabin ..."
Her voice hit him
straight in the gut. He remembered she was all but naked under that thin sheet.
To head off the throbbing
blood in his groin, he turned his attention to the tray that had been left by
the door. Small sandwiches covered in
cellophane and a glass of iced tea. "Eat something before we talk,”
he said picking up the tray and
setting it by her bed.
Alexa glanced at him
warily before eyeing the tea and then carefully reaching to raise the glass to
her lips. He
watched the vulnerable line of her throat, as she first sipped the liquid and
then more thirstily drained the glass.
Maybe she really
didn't want to talk or maybe she was really hungry. He didn't say anything but
just watched, wondering how the hell to begin setting this
thing up.
Using people was what he did best, and
right now he needed to get a clearer read on Alexa Stoppard. "Something happened down there in the water.
Do you remember?”
"That's
what happens when you're thrown overboard."
"That's
not what I'm talking about.”
"Isn't
it?" Strength had returned to her voice, her shoulders above the white
sheet straightening.
He dragged a chair to the foot of the bed
and sat down so they were at eye level. "I'm talking about the fact that you went into a catatonic state. You've
been out of it for eight hours."
She shifted underneath
the covers, offering him an outline of slender legs, which he tried to ignore.
"I was in shock. I told you that I've
a terrifying fear of water."
He knew she was lying.
There were people that were far better at interrogation than he was but, Jesus,
he didn't want to think about that now. She'd never last.
A trace of colour had returned to her
skin, a soft flush of pink over her high cheekbones. "I'd like to get up, please."
"So
you can try and hit me over the head with a water glass?"
"I learn
quickly. It didn't work the first time," she said. The wide grey eyes
transmitted a sharp acuity as she made to rise, first carefully
bundling the sheet under her arms and then sitting at the edge of the bed.
She looked as innocent as a
woodland nymph though God only knew he wouldn't recognize one if he'd shot it
between the eyes.
He pushed back his
chair and moved to her side. She froze, her hands clutching the sheet. "I
can do this myself.”
“Must
in case you feel like keeling over.” She stiffened but the skin of
her arm felt like warm cream under his calloused palm.
"The bathroom's to your left. And there should be clothing in there as
well.”
"Thank
you.” She deftly detached herself from his grasp and disappeared
into the bathroom. He tried not to follow the gentle sway of her hips but stood
waiting with his back to the door until a few minutes later she emerged,
dressed in a pair of khakis which revealed fine-boned ankles and feet in a pair
of plastic flip-flops and a sweatshirt at least
three sizes too big. She'd washed her face, and strands of damp hair framed the sides of her cheeks.
Glancing
briefly out of the porthole, she sat opposite him on a small bench covered in
sleek butterscotch leather. With her knees set demurely together
and her bare feet, she looked like a schoolgirl. But the voice was
low, direct and damned adult. "Where are we?”
He grabbed the end
of the chair and straddled it, facing her. "Last time I checked with the
log, we were 25 degrees east off Cape Hatteras.”
"And
where are we going?”
"That
all depends.”
She
kicked off the flip-flops and curled her toes into the softness of the carpet.
"Look- I don't know who you are but it's probably best that you
let me off at the next available port. This has been some horrific mistake.”
'You
know the man who owns that yacht?"
"Yes, and I assume
you do as well.” She quieted her hands on her lap. "The
question is - who or what were you looking
for after the attack on the Gabriella?"
"What
do you think?” Lying was easy, living a lie even easier once you got
used to the fit.
It
took her less time to respond than he'd bargained for. "You work for him”
Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
'You
mean Rafael Hunter? And why are you looking for him?"
Her
eyes challenged him, the set of her mouth mutinous. "Does it matter?"
He'd bet half the opium
output of Afghanistan that Alexa Stoppard had something to hide. Something big. And he didn't want it coming back to bite him
in the ass.
"What
do you think?”
"Why
did he send you after me?”
He
shrugged, lying fluently. "Nobody likes loose cannons. Something had to be
done.”
"And you were
reluctant to leave me with your competitors, the Mexican contingent.”
"I'd
say the cavalry arrived just in time."
"I
would have managed something.”
"Just
be glad you didn't have to." Michael's tone was harsh.
"I'm obviously of
some value to you, otherwise you would have left me on the boat or at the
bottom of the ocean.”
"I didn't say
you weren't.” Her eagerness scared the shit out of him. He shifted
in his chair, awkwardness like he hadn't felt in two decades
washing over him. "It all depends what you're willing to do for us.”
The words sounded like profanity, even to his ears.
She
licked her lips, the gesture totally unselfconscious. "I think I
understand.”
like
hell she did.
"Is
he on board?"
He
rose from the chair. "Who?"
"Rafael
Hunter." She was standing now, outlined by the golden light of dusk on the
ocean.
He paused a heartbeat
before answering. "This business is about letting somebody else do the
dirty work for you. Does that answer your question?"
"Do
I at least get a name - your name?"
There
was the slightest hesitation. Then he said, "Michael."
Alexa followed Michael into
the elevator and they were once again in the atrium of the ship. The debris created
by the AK-47S had been swept away as if by magic. The Renoir, Miro and Goya
hung peaceably in place, the spiral staircase with its onyx and silver handrail
shining as though nothing had ever marred its glowing
perfection.
Up on deck the pool
sparkled in the early evening light next to a table for two that was set for
dinner with a bottle of wine and two glasses. The wind was slight,
the air a warm caress and the North Star had made its appearance,
glittering mockingly overhead. It was as if they were the only two people on
this ghost ship in the middle of the ocean.
Alexa felt him behind
her. The height of him, the breadth, the harshness of his features were broken
only by those striking blue eyes, an incongruity she couldn't hope to
reconcile. She should know better than anyone else the
difference between good and evil all too often came in shades of grey. When it
came to this
man, it shouldn't matter because he was only a stepping stone that would lead
to Hunter's ruin.
She
turned to face him. "How many people on board with us?"
"As
few as possible and just enough to keep the ship running."
He ran a hand through his
thick hair, hair the colour of old gold. Who was he, and how had he found himself
playing for a man as evil as Hunter? She watched as he pushed away from the
rail and moved over to the table to pour two glasses of wine.
He
was expecting her to say something. But she couldn't, the words stuck in her
throat.
"Are
you all right?”The man missed nothing as he pushed a glass of wine
into her hand. She took a sip.
She couldn't afford any
weakness but, before she could protest, he had propelled them both over to the sofa by the bar. She sank into suede the colour
and feel of butter. She pulled away from him, all too aware of the strength of
his body next to hers. With all the discipline she could manage, she slammed
the door on her thoughts.
"I'm fine,
absolutely fine. Simply not hungry." Alexa could read nothing on his face,
nothing in his eyes. He was just waiting’ waiting for her to
screw up, make a mistake.
'You're
in pretty deep, Alexa."
Night
had fallen and lights wreathed the deck in subtle shadows. "I
understand," she said quietly, thinking of Danni.
He
moved in closer until she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. For
the first time, she noticed the small scar on the side of his
mouth. A fall from his bicycle when he was six? She doubted it. More
like the remnants of a knife attack, the pattern as familiar to her as the
impasto of an artist's brush.
He
watched her with an unnerving stillness. 'You realize this has nothing to do
with trust. You don't trust me and I sure as hell don't trust you.
The only reason you're here is because we want you here."
We.
Us. He meant Rafael Hunter.
"And it's my job
to make sure our association pays off." His warm breath, spiced with wine,
assailed her senses. "All you have to know is that once you're
in, there's no going back. Do I make myself clear?"
What
was he doing, giving her a way out? Mesmerized by the deep velvet of his voice,
Alexa couldn't hide from the truth. She was crazy to think she
would survive this, let alone bring Hunter to his knees, the leader
of one of the world's most dangerous and complex drug cartels.
And now this man. With
his sensual mouth and the hard, beautiful eyes that missed nothing.
"Very
clear," she said.
His voice came low and
quiet. "If you want to say no, say it now - and not when I ask you to do
the impossible, to surrender the last shreds
of your conscience or to give up the people closest to you." His eyes flickered
over her shoulder, surveying the deck. Then he lifted his hand and drew it
across her cheek to her chin, tipping her
head towards his. "Now or not at all."
Alexa didn't know
what she was saying yes to. Her breathing came faster and she was powerless to
slow it. He was trying to seduce her’ this was part of the
game. To see how far she would go to sell her soul. And yet
all she could think about was his intense blue gaze. The particular slant of
his brows. And that he smelled of soap and sun.
"Yes,"
she said.
For
a long moment, he held her gaze. Then his hand slid down her arms to her
wrists, tracing her racing pulse. The pads of his fingers moved
slowly over the thin skin and she bit her lip as he wrapped his hand
around her wrist. Like a
manacle, shackling her as much to her past as to her future. She should pull
away but didn't. And it was as if he knew, the corner of that
wide mouth lifting in an almost smile.
"Scared? You
should be." He lowered his lips to hers. He kissed her hard and deep,
sending her a message with his thrusting tongue. Alexa moaned into his
mouth, her body shivering with a combination of dread and desire.
Hot,
urgent, demanding, his arms were around her. She felt his power as he held her,
his arm locked around her waist, his thick erection grinding
against her pelvis. She shuddered, mind and body, fear and desire, warring
inside her. His hair was thick beneath her hands although she didn't know when
she had reached for him. She didn't care. This was a fight she
didn't dare lose, a fight to the finish. And it had begun the moment he'd entered
the stateroom on the Mexican yacht and pinned her to the bed.
Retreat was not an
option, never had been. So she clung to him as his tongue thrust and thrust
again, stroking
her mouth, skimming her lips. One of his hands cupped her breast, bare beneath
the voluminous sweatshirt, and desire tore through her.
"God,
you taste sweet." His voice was rough and urgent, his shoulders blocking
her view as his hand slid to her other breast.
The craving was deep,
almost painful. Her stomach muscles tightened as his hand skimmed the bare skin
of her midriff, slowly bunching the material around her torso. She arched her
back as he ran his hands over her distended nipples still covered by the fabric.
Easing her back into the buttery cushions, he slid his mouth
over the sensitive nerve endings of her stomach. Butterfly kisses suddenly
gentle on her bruised skin.
"Take
off your sweatshirt for me, Alexa." The voice was a low, soft
contradiction to the hard gaze.
She
couldn't say no to him, didn't want to. Lifting shaking hands, she gathered the
fabric in her fists, first removing her arms and then pulling the
material over her head to sweep it aside.
His
jaw clenched and she felt the warm ocean air and those blue eyes on her naked
breasts.
"Beautiful," he said, his own
breathing short and rapid. He trailed his lips up her waist to the underside of abreast. She closed her eyes at the hard pull
of his mouth, the sensual lick of his tongue, sending bolts of pleasure
low in her body.
As though she had been
taken over by another being, her hips rocked and her arms wrapped around his
shoulders, so hard and warm beneath the thin T-shirt. Suddenly, she couldn't
get enough of touching him, losing herself in the rhythm of his mouth on her
breasts, desperate, hungry, aggressive.
Her voice shook.
"Please, please." Her heart beat so hard she could hear it in her
ears, feel it in the tips of her fingers. She felt his lips leave
her skin as he brought his mouth close to hers.
"What
do you want? Tell me. And don't lie."
She met his dark gaze, scared by the power
of her own need, afraid to analyse its source, petrified that she could never turn back. She closed her eyes,
unwilling to say the words.
She
didn't want to look at him. She didn't want to think. Everything drew up tight
inside her, a place where the past, present and future didn't exist. Her body was
everything, wanting too much, wanting him. Looking
into the night sky, the world became a cascade of shooting stars.
A shout rose from the
yacht's bridge. Alexa started, the feel of hard muscle beneath her hands reassuring.
Just then a burst from a rifle exploded into the silence.
Cool
air on her bare skin. He was on his feet, eyes skimming the deck and bridge.
"Get dressed. Now."
Alexa
threw on her sweatshirt as Michael hauled her to her feet and pushed her
towards the stairs leading to the atrium. "Stay out of
sight and keep quiet until I give you the heads up," he whispered so
softly she could barely hear him. His expression gave nothing away.
"Go!"
Another ricochet of bullets. Alexa turned
and ran down the stairs. The atrium was dimly lit, her eyes darting around the room: chairs, a settee, a
coffee table, a closet, the fireplace, a door in the corner -leading to where exactly?
Suddenly it was
quiet. The ocean calmed at night and the familiar groans of the hull stilled.
Her ears strained
for the slightest sound.
It
didn't take long. A thunder of footsteps coming down from the bridge. Now they
sounded like they were on the main deck.
"Drop
the gun or he goes overboard."
Alexa
slipped up the spiral staircase, the carpeting muffling her footsteps. She
reached the halfway point and stopped.
"Doesn't
work for me." Michael's voice. Cold as ice.
Taking
three more steps, she flattened herself next to the doorway and took a breath
of ocean air. Framed by the entrance was Michael, a Glock steady in
his hand. Three men had their AK-4S turned on him while
a fourth held somebody that looked like the ship's captain, epaulets dangling
on what remained of his jacket. The face of the captain was fading from white
to ash, his eyes bulging with terror.
"A bit of
persuasion is in order." The man spoke English with a Middle Eastern
accent. He tightened his hold around the captain's neck then
signalled something with the jerk of his chin.
One
of his men produced a green garbage bag. A tidal wave of stink from fish blood
and guts drenched the atmosphere. Alexa forced back a gag.
"Your
methods are as crude as ever, Daoud," said Michael.
Daoud
narrowed his eyes. "Don't you want to know what's in here and what we're
going to use it for?"
Michael
shrugged like it didn't matter either way. "Do what you must,
gentlemen."
"A
pleasure," said Daoud. "I'm actually looking forward to this."
Alexa
choked when she saw the green garbage bag dragged to the yacht's railing.
"What do you
think?" Daoud asked his men. "Should we throw the captain overboard
first?" He twisted the captain's neck for emphasis, as though
asking for his opinion. "And then baptize him with the fish blood
I have here? That should bring the sharks circling."
Alexa
thought she was going to black out, dark spots dancing before her eyes. Through
the haze she saw Michael, not moving, not giving in.
She squeezed her eyes
shut, heard the screams ripping through the night and then the splash of the body
hitting the pitiless surface of the ocean. Nausea soured the back of her
throat.
"Cold-blooded
bastard, aren't you?" Daoud gestured to Michael. "Now that's done,
I’ll ask again. Where is she? We know you have her."
'You're surprisingly
sure of yourselves." Michael's low voice was calm and steady. "I told
you she's not onboard."
"Amazing
how many people want Alexa Stoppard, isn't it?"
Her pulse notched up several beats until
all she could hear was a pounding in her head. Sweat trickled down her back and a fresh roll of nausea settled
in her belly, self-loathing dark and thick.
She
stopped breathing, expecting the worst. And it came.
Michael lunged at
Daoud, grabbing his gun, bullets spraying the other three men, caught unaware
in the split second between life and death. They collapsed to
the floor amid an ear-splitting series of blasts, screams,
and crumbling bodies.
Michael went for Daoud's throat, grabbing
handfuls of his shirt and his hair. Throwing him down on to his knees, he tightened his arm around his neck,
his foot knifing his back, grinding into his spine.
The
bodies of the three men lay twitching around them, like a macabre tableau.
"You
son of a bitch, Daoud.” Michael exhaled the words. "Who sent
you? I won't ask again."
"Fuck
you."
"I'm not a
patient man." Michael tightened the grip around Daoud's neck, the action
speaking louder than words.
Alexa watched as
Daoud clawed ineffectively at Michael's face, struggling like a fish on a hook,
his face purpling as he gasped for oxygen.
"For
the last time." Michael buried the muzzle of his gun in the man's ear.
"Tell me who sent you."
His
eyes bulged. "Coombs." The name was wrenched from his lips.
"Zachary Coombs."
Alexa swayed in the
dark. Impossible. The man she had trusted most of her adult life. The man who
had been her husband's closest friend. Impossible...
Spittle formed around
Daoud's mouth. "Coombs keeps the routes open for us, the veins of opium flowing
through the West. You should know - better than anybody."
It
made no sense. None. Zachary was at the forefront of the war on drugs.
Michael's grip loosened infinitesiinally,
his foot still on Daoud's back. 'You're doing a good job. Keep talking."
"Not just the
war on drugs he wants to continue," Daoud gasped, "but the war in
Afghanistan. Where he makes his money.”
Bile rose in Alexa's
throat. Her mind reeled, unable to grasp the fact that an esteemed Supreme
Court judge would be in the pay of both drug lords and arms
dealers.
"He's
the one who sent you after Alexa Stoppard. Why?"
Daoud's
face glistened with sweat. "Because she knows. From when she was a kid.
Coombs wanted her out of the way-in case she remembered.”
"Remembered
what?”
In
the darkness Alexa prayed, a prayer she had learned in the orphanage so many
years ago. Prayed not because she expected divine intervention but
because the rhythm of the words had, more than once, kept her
from going insane.
"Her foster
parents used her as a mule, to move drugs.” Sweat beaded Daoud's
brow. "She saw things, including her own sister killed.”
The pain was
suffocating. She remembered being shut into the container, with her little
sister. Danni’s white face, the staring eyes ...
Daoud
was no longer trying to escape, his body limp. "She saw things," he
repeated. "People.”
Her
past yawned wide open. She was about to step into the chasm.
"And
she'd remember you."
Alexa
heard a buzzing in her ears.
"Rafael
Hunter.”
She
stopped breathing. And in the dimness, she knew. Like a wild and heedless
animal, she climbed the last two stairs and stepped into the carnage, the acrid
trail of smoke biting her nostrils.
Rafael Hunter turned
towards her, his eyes now blue black as he dared her to back down. Not Michael.
Rafael Hunter. She saw his lips move but she couldn't hear what he said
over the thunderous storm in her head.
Desperately,
her eyes searched his face, looking for the features that had been burned into
her memory. The man who had killed her little sister, Danni, now stood
before her, as remote and unfeeling as the weapon in his hand.
Turning
away, she leaned over the ship's rail, the cool air on her face, the ocean's
roil reflecting her own torment. What was wrong with her? She
was lying to herself, denying that Hunter was the man in whose arms
she had lain only moments before. Her skin crawled with loathing.
In
the background, sirens, bright lights, a flotilla of small boats surrounding
the Gabriella. Dear God, she didn't have much time.
The
back of her neck burned. Hunter was watching her. Slowly, she moved from the
railing, eyeing the discarded weapons on the deck, lying between
them.
"You
want to kill me.” He said the words slowly.
Unable
to look directly at him, she shook her head, her voice strangled.
"I
didn't let Daoud have you.” His voice was steady. "When it
would have been so easy."
In
the background, men boarded the ship, moving like shadows. Bodies were dragged
away, Daoud among them. Alexa's confusion thickened.
"Don't
you want to know why?”
Even
Coombs had been involved. Releasing the files, knowing that she would go after
Hunter. She couldn't think of that now. It was time to look up. Look
into the face that was responsible for all the horrors of her childhood and
beyond.
The
cool wind caressed her face.
His
eyes were darker than the blue of the ocean. "You don't recognize me as
Hunter, do you?"
It was true. She
couldn't remember. Or didn't want to remember? He might have changed his appearance
to remain unrecognizable in a dangerous world.
"Face
your demons, Alexa."
She
couldn't weaken now. Her throat closed but she forced the words from her lips.
"When the time came, I thought. .." She paused and swallowed hard. "I
thought that I would remember. Recognize you ... him” Except that I don't.
Images bloomed in her
mind's eye. Michael's gentle hands on her bruised abdomen. Their escape from the Mexican ship. Michael refusing to give her up
to Daoud. The moments under the night sky.
She'd
responded to him like a flare going off in the dark. And he'd saved her life,
not just once.
Who
was this man, truly? "You're not. Can't be—"
He
took a step towards her. "My name is Michael." No hesitation.
"Michael Burke. You're the first person to know my true
identity in five years."
He
waited for her to speak. She pulled her arms around her body, looking again at
the ocean, rather than at him. His face was light and shadows.
"I don't know what to think," she said finally, softly.
"The
men boarding this ship, they're DEA and they will tell you, if you don't
believe me," he said, taking another step closer. "Rafael Hunter was
taken into custody four years ago and I was put in his place."
Her
head snapped up. Then silence, as she absorbed his words. Pieces dropping into
place like the tumblers of a lock. "You wanted to find who in North America
was behind Hunter's operation," she said, her voice hoarse. "Only to find Zachary Coombs," she finished
silently.
Behind
her, the gentle lap of the ocean, the wind warming her body. She let her arms
drop and moved towards him, her past flying out, leaving her. He leaned
forwards to meet her, pressing his mouth lightly against her forehead.
His lips were cool from the night air.
Michael
Burke sighed, and then breathed her in.
"I
believe you," she whispered against his chest.
"You can get all
the proof, all the debriefing you want once we get back to Washington."
Alexa began to pull back, but he wasn't
about to allow her to move away. "And we can prosecute Hunter and
everybody else connected with him, from
North America to Afghanistan.”
And
Danni would rest in peace. Finally.
Her
voice seemed to come from far away. "It's done. Over," she said
simply.
His
arms looped around her firmly. 'You believe me." He smiled for the first
time, a beautiful smile.
And
she did. "I do," she said.
His
grin broadened. "That's everything I need."
"Where
do we go from here?” she asked, not without some fear.
''Forwards,”
he promised her, "with no regard for the past. Yours or mine. Afresh
start."
Alexa took a long breath and exhaled, summoning
courage. His arms gathered her closer, blotting out the night sky, his lips claiming hers.
A Kept Man
Shannon K. Butcher
The pounding on John Augustine's front
door was loud enough to wake the sweet little old deaf lady across the street.
He glanced at the red numbers glowing on his alarm clock, blinking several
times to clear the grit of not-enough-sleep from his eyes.
Two
in the morning. Pounding at two in the morning was never a good thing unless it
involved a hot woman and a loose headboard.
The banging started
again, more frantic this time. John let out a resigned sigh, flipped the covers
back, grabbed his plaid robe and slid it
over his naked body as he headed for the front door.
The old oak planks
beneath his bare feet were cool, the air even colder. Another front must have
blown through last night, taking the fragile
warmth of spring with it.
The
leaded glass window in his front door vibrated as his late-night visitor
pounded again.
"Hurry
up!" The muffled, distinctly feminine demand slid through the solid wood,
and every hair on John's body stood at attention.
He
knew that voice. He’d dreamed about it often enough that for a split
second he thought maybe he still was in his bed, dreaming
all of this.
Brooke Stuart showing
up on his front porch in the middle of the night begging to come in was
definitely dream worthy. Wet-dream worthy.
John
hurried the last few steps to the door and wrenched it open. Sure enough,
Brooke stood there, bathed in his porch light, her pale skin
glowing like a dream. Her strawberry-blonde hair was swept up in a complicated,
elegant style that left a few delicate tendrils loose to caress her cheek. The
twilight-blue evening gown she wore shimmered with startling glints of
silver, matching her eyes exactly. A long slit in the
fabric showed off the sinful curve of her thigh, and two thin straps were all
that held up the daring neckline of her gown.
Right
now, the only thing John wanted more than a taste of her sweet mouth was a
sharp pair of scissors. Two snips and he’d see firsthand
what he’d been imagining for more years than he was
comfortable
admitting.
"Brooke?"
he finally found the sense to ask. "What are you doing here?"
"I
need a gun."
This was not how his
dream was supposed to go. She was supposed to step inside, wrap her slender
arms around his neck and kiss him. In those heels she wore,
he was sure she'd be able to reach his mouth, and if not -
gentleman that he was - he'd just slide his hands under the perfect curve of
her ass and give her a boost.
Brooke stepped forwards
and pushed past him, brushing her breasts against his arm.
John checked the tie on
his robe to make sure it was firmly in place and that his instant erection
wasn't too obvious,
"I
know you have one. You always had one. I need it."
His sleep-deprived
brain was having trouble catching up. He was still thinking about his hard-on,
and she was
talking about needing it. Those two wires crossed, and the sparks created skittered
over his skin. Suddenly, the air was no
longer cool enough to keep the beads of sweat from forming along his spine.
He
watched as she went through his house, flipping on lights as she searched for
something.
"Slow
down, Brooke. Start over."
She whirled on him, and the look of utter
ferocity on her dainty features startled the hell out of him. If this had been
a dream, that expression would have woken him for sure. She didn't look like a
woman here for a few hours of fun, she
looked like she was ready to kill.
And
she wanted a gun.
Brooke
grabbed the front of John's robe in her fist and gave him a shake. The beaded
surface of her evening bag clutched in one hand sparkled
under his living room lights, matching the angry shards of silver glinting in
her eyes. "There's no time. They have Uncle Charles. I need a gun."
Shock
rattled him, and his sleep-deprived brain tried to make sense of her words.
"Who has your uncle?"
"I don't know. I
don't care. All I care about is getting him back. I got the money, but it may
not be enough."
Her voice broke as if she was going to start crying, but she pressed a shaking
hand to her mouth and seemed to pull
herself together. "I need an insurance policy."
Seeing
her mad was one thing, seeing her afraid was simply unacceptable. It made him
want to find what had scared her and beat the hell out of it. Twice.
Even
though he'd promised himself years ago he'd never touch her, John broke that
promise now. He wrapped his fingers around her naked arms to
get her to focus on him. The feel of her warm skin against his palms
made him shudder, but he hid his inappropriate reaction and tried not to think
about how many rules he was breaking right now.
Brooke was off
limits. Way off. Not only was she way too young for him, she was practically
the daughter of a former client.
Six years ago, an injury had forced him
out of the SEALs and, after a few months of recovery, he had taken a job as a bodyguard for a scientific genius
working for the government - her uncle. Keeping his distance from Brooke had been easy then. She'd
been a kid fresh out of high school, headed for college. He hadn't even been tempted to look her way twice.
And then, five years later, she'd come back home, looking like a woman, acting like a woman. One who wanted
him.
John had left the
same day. He couldn't risk any more inviting smiles or accidental touches. He'd
turned in his resignation a year ago and never looked back. He
didn't dare.
He'd
walked away, his reputation and honour intact. All it had cost him was a small
slice of his sanity.
And here she was
again. In his home. Practically in his arms. All grown up and elegant, dressed
like his own personal wet dream.
He
steered her towards his couch and eased her down. "Start at the beginning.
Tell me what's going on."
Brooke swallowed, nodded. "I was at
an awards banquet for Uncle Charles tonight. He got his award, gave his speech, and I expected him to come back
and sit at our table again, but he never did. I wasn't worried. I assumed he'd met a colleague backstage
and got wrapped up in conversation."
That
sounded like Dr Charles York - easily distracted. "OK. I'm with you so
far."
"The
waiters brought out dessert. I was chatting with a woman next to me, so I
didn't notice."
"Didn't
notice what?"
"There
was a note sticking out from under my plate of cheesecake. A ransom note."
John
was officially awake now. "Do you have it?"
She
nodded, and pulled a folded piece of paper out of the bodice of her gown.
John
knew he shouldn't touch it, that he might mess up evidence, but he did anyway.
The need to help Brooke was nearly uncontrollable. And she'd
probably already messed up whatever evidence might remain.
He
unfolded it, touching it as little as possible and read the typed text.
Empty your uncle's safe
and bring the contents to me if you want to see him alive again. I will call
with details to arrange the trade. Tell no
one. I have informants on the police force. I'm watching you.
John felt a chill slide over
his skin. Whoever had Dr York meant business, and knew well enough to connect
Brooke to him, even though she hadn't lived with him for several years. Chances
were they also knew she'd have no means of defending
herself.
Clearly,
so did she, which was why she wanted a gun.
"We
need to call the police," he said.
"No.
It was dangerous enough for me to come here. I don't think I was followed, but
I'm not about to take a chance that he's telling the truth about being
connected to the police. All I want from you is a gun. And
your silence."
John
shook his head. "Not a fuckin' chance.”
Brooke had clearly made a mistake coming here.
She knew better, yet the urge to run to the one man who had always made her feel safe was too strong to resist.
John Augustine had been her one weakness
since she'd been eighteen years old and he'd come to work for her uncle, and now that weakness might get
her uncle killed.
She
grabbed the note from his hands and stood. "I'm sorry I woke you."
She
was almost to the front door before he looped one thick arm around her ribs,
stopping her. "Oh, no, you don't. I'm not letting you run off
in the middle of the night to deal with this alone and unarmed.”
Brooke felt him at her
back, warm and hard. She'd never been this close to him before, and despite the
mess she was in, every cell in her body was
vibrating with acute awareness of John's touch.
Her stomach fluttered with a mixture of
fear and excitement until she was sure he could feel it beneath the thin satin of her gown. "Does that mean
you'll give me a gun?”
"No.
It means we're going to talk.”
"There's
nothing to talk about. I need to go. I have a lot of cash and a bag of loose
diamonds in my car. I don't want to leave them unattended for long.”
His grip tightened
slightly, and she couldn't help but cover his bare arm with her fingers.
Prising him away would have been an exercise in futility - he was too
strong for that - so she simply wrapped her fingers around the hard
curve of his forearm and enjoyed the feel of his bare skin.
"How
much cash?” he asked.
"I don't know.
I didn't count it." She couldn't care less how much it was as long as it
was enough to buy her uncle's safety.
"We
need to call the police.”
"No.
You read what he said. He'll know if we do."
"Fine,
then the FBI.”
"No," she
forced the word out strongly, when, inside, she felt like a mushy puddle of
fear. "I'm not taking the chance."
He gripped her waist
and turned her around to face him. Brooke tipped her head back to look him in
the eye. He had such nice eyes - dark like his hair - and
they tilted down slightly at the corners, making him look
sad.
As a
girl, she'd wanted so much to find a way to make him happy. As a woman, she'd
never had the chance. He'd walked away, taking all her girlish
fantasies with him.
Brooke
had always known she wasn't woman enough to attract a man like him. She'd been
painfully thin and flat-chested all her life. Boys her own
age never looked at her - at least not until the boob fairy had come to visit
her junior year of college. It was like a switch had been flipped, and her
childish body had morphed into that of a woman almost
overnight. After that, male attention was easy to come by.
She'd been sure when
she went home for the summer that, as soon as John saw her, he'd stop looking
through her and see how much she wanted him, but she'd been wrong. Oh, he'd
seen her all right. He'd looked right at her from the top of her
ponytail to the bottom of her Skechers and back again. Then he'd turned on his heel,
marched into her uncle's office and turned in his resignation.
Brooke
hadn't seen him since, and if it weren't for the listing in her uncle's address
book, she would never have known where to find him.
"Have
you told anyone?" he asked.
"No,
and, clearly, I shouldn't have told you either."
'You
did the right thing coming here. We'll sort this all out."
"All
I need is a gun," she said.
"Do
you even know how to use one?"
She nodded, unable
to speak a lie while he was looking her in the eye like that - like he could
see inside her head.
"Who
taught you? What type of weapons have you been trained to use? Handgun?
Shotgun? Rifle?"
Brooke
lifted her chin. In for a penny ... "All of them."
''Which
do you prefer?"
“A
handgun."
"What
type?"
There
were different types? "The biggest one you have."
The
corner of his mouth kicked up a quarter-inch. "You are such a bad
liar."
Yes.
She was. The jerk. "Fine. Show me how to use one then. How hard can
it be?"
He
shook his head. "Not going to happen. I won't be responsible for arming
you when you're clearly distraught."
"Distraught?
I'm pissed off, scared to death and worried as hell."
"And
I'm not adding armed to that list."
The
crushing weight of disappointment bore down on her, making her feel trapped and
helpless. She was going to have to take her chances that whoever had kidnapped her
uncle had enough honour to uphold his end of
the deal. She had nowhere else to turn, and she didn't think wielding a tyre
iron or golf club was going to
intimidate anyone.
Her body deflated, and
she gave John a resigned nod. "Thanks anyway. If I don't call you
tomorrow, feel free to call the police and tell them what happened."
"Like
hell," said John. "If you think I'm going to let you walk out of
here, you're crazy."
She
gave him a glare that told him she meant business. "I won't let you stop
me."
'You
say that like you have a choice."
"Of
course I do."
"And
I have handcuffs. I’ll chain you up before “I let you leave."
Anger slid through her,
momentarily brushing aside her fear for her uncle. "Kinky is fun, but well
have to play later, John. I've got plans
tonight."
Two
Kinky is fun. John's
brain sputtered as it revolved around that phrase, trapped by all the lovely
things it suggested. His good intentions were swirling round, too,
ready to be sucked down the drain along with all the wasted will power
he'd expended to keep his distance and his hands off Brooke.
Until
now. His hands were definitely on her now, gripping her waist,
pressing into her flesh while he tried to imagine how good
she'd feel without so much fabric between them.
He
really needed to get her out of that dress.
The
thought made all the others grind to a screeching halt. Brooke was off limits.
John
ripped his fingers away from her and took a long step back. Far enough that he couldn't
reach her, but not so far that he couldn't still smell the warmth of her skin
and a hint of sweet perfume. "Enough," he said.
"We need a plan. Whoever has your uncle is supposed to call you,
right?"
"Right."
"Where's
your phone?"
She nodded towards the beaded evening bag
tucked under her arm. John took it, pushed aside a tube of lipstick and retrieved the phone. He checked to
make sure it had plenty of juice and that it was set to ring as loudly as possible. Then he shoved it into his
robe's pocket. No way was she leaving without it. Better than handcuffs
- at least that's what he tried to tell himself.
"Hey,
what are you doing?" she asked, reaching for the phone.
John dodged her hands.
"Helping. First, I'm going get dressed. Then, I'm going to make some phone
calls." He walked towards his bedroom, and she was right on his
heels.
"I'm
not letting you call the police."
"I'm not going to
call the police, or the FBI." Even though that was probably the smartest
bet, he didn't know who he was dealing with
or how deep their influence might go. Until he did, he was going to prepare for
the worst and hope it was overkill. He'd been trained to deal with this, so
deal with it he would.
"Then who are you
going to call?" She followed him into his room and stood in the doorway
with her hands on her lovely hips. The blue satin flowed over her curves,
glowing silver around the edges of her silhouette
where the fabric caught and held the light.
After so many years of
thinking of her as forbidden fruit, John couldn't believe he'd been lucky
enough
to get away with laying his hands on her
without losing them. He could still feel the smoothness of her gown
against his fingertips, warm from her body. As good as it was, it couldn't hold
a candle to the silken perfection of her bare arms.
He
needed to get her out of sight, just for a few minutes. Maybe then he could
think straight.
Adding
another layer of clothes was a good idea, too. He needed some sturdy denim to
keep his cock in check.
''Friends,”
he said and pushed the door shut, signalling an end to their conversation.
He
was alone for all of two seconds when the door flew open again. Apparently,
Brooke didn't read signals so well.
"No
one else can know," she told him. "I don't want you calling anyone.”
Tough.
You shouldn't have come here if you didn't want my help.”
"I
wanted your gun. That was all. Now give me back my phone and we'll pretend I
didn't come at all."
"Nope.
Too late for that. And if you don't want to see me naked, I suggest you leave
the room.”
She
crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
"The
robe is coming off, Brooke.”
"It's nothing I
haven't seen before, John."
As much as he hated admitting it to
himself, John despised knowing that. He didn't want to think about the other guys she'd been with, or how they might
stack up to him.
"Fine." He
turned his back, shrugged out of the robe, and dressed as quickly as possible.
As soon as her phone was back in his pocket, he shrugged his
shoulder holster on, slid his .45 home and covered everything
with a leather jacket.
When he turned back
around, Brooke was still watching him, but her militant posture had changed.
Her lips were parted, her cheeks were flushed, her breathing
had sped, and her nipples were tight under the shimmery dress.
She was turned on just from watching him
dress, and the knowledge was enough to make John's blood pressure spike. Women weren't supposed to be so
easily aroused, especially women who were off limits. It wasn't fair.
Before
he did something stupid and shoved her down on the already mussed bed to see
what else aroused her, John backed away from her.
He'd taken three steps
when the phone in his pocket started to sing.
The
colour in her cheeks disappeared and her mouth flattened in panic. "Give
me the phone."
John fished it out of his pocket, but he
didn't hand it over. Instead, he leaned close to her so they could both hear,
then flipped it open.
"H-hello?"
she said.
The
man on the other end of the line said, "Did you empty the safe?"
"Yes."
"Good.
I'll call again soon with directions to the meeting location.”
'Wait!
Can I talk to Uncle Charles, please?”
John didn't hear
anything, and almost wondered if the man had hung up, then a scratching sound
came over the line followed by Charles
York's voice. "Brooke?"
Beside
him, Brooke started to shake. "Uncle Charles? Are you OK?"
"Yes.
You need to call the police. Don't cooperate with—”
"Listen to him
if you'd like this to be the last time you ever speak to him,” said
the man. "Otherwise, get in your car and tell no one.”
Brooke felt like a leaf
caught in a hurricane. After the phone call, John took over, sweeping her along
with him for the ride. He didn't give her much of a chance to
argue, not that she would have. She needed his help. This whole mess
was way too big for her to handle on her own, and the stakes were way too high.
If she messed up, the
man who'd taken her in after her parents died, the man who'd taken care of her from
the time she was twelve, would die. Maybe it made her a coward, but she was
glad John was here. She trusted him not to let anything happen to Uncle Charles.
She trusted John, period.
When her uncle's kidnapper called back,
John listened to the directions, made a flurry of phone calls to his military buddies, and formed a plan. Now,
thirty minutes later, she was sitting in her car at the designated meeting spot, waiting to see whether or
not her world was going to come to a crashing halt.
She
couldn't lose Uncle Charles. She couldn't be alone again.
John reached over and settled his hand on
her knee. The warm comfort of his touch slid easily through the thin fabric of her gown, reminding her she
wasn't alone yet. He was right here with her.
"If
he sees you in the car with me, he's going to—"
"No," said
John, cutting her off. "He's not. Dr York will be fine. Besides, there's
only one road leading to this site. My friends are watching, and will
call as soon as anyone gets near. We'll have five minutes warning for me to
slip out and cover your back, just like we planned."
"There was no
'we' doing the planning. It was all you." She stared out the window at the
area that had recently been turned from farmland into a building site.
There were no houses here yet, but the lots had been staked off, some
of the roads outlined and there were open trenches indicating where sewer lines
would soon lie. Heavy machinery crouched in the darkness, casting deep
shadows over the moonlit landscape.
"I'm
glad you came to me tonight," he said. "I can't stand the thought of
you sitting out here all alone, waiting for some greedy
asshole."
Brooke
stifled a shiver that had nothing to do with being cold. 'I’mglad I found you,
too. What I don't
understand
is why you left like you did."
She
felt his body stiffen and he pulled his hand away from her knee. "I had another
job offer.”
"You're
lying. You liked working for my uncle. I know he paid you well."
"Not
well enough to sell my soul.”
"What's
that supposed to mean?”
"It
means I had to leave before I did something stupid."
She turned in her seat to
look at him. There wasn't much light, but she could see his jaw bunch, see the shadows play over his mouth as it twisted into a
sneer of self-loathing.
"Stupid?"
"You know what I
mean. You had to know. Every man you meet wants you. Did you think I'd be any different?"
He wanted her? Something
powerful rose up inside her, surging in victory. John wanted her. She
could work with that.
"I didn't think
you'd run because I had a crush on you." She still had one, but she wasn't
admitting it. She didn't want him running now.
"It wasn't your
crush that scared me. I’d been fine with that for years. It was the fact that I
started wanting you, too. That scared me."
"You
act like it would have been some great sins for us to have gotten
together."
"It
would have been."
"Why?
I'm twenty-four, single and completely free to make up my own mind about who I
date."
"You're
eleven years younger than me. And I don't date the family members of
clients."
"Uncle
Charles isn't your client anymore."
Shadows
moved over his throat as he swallowed. "I know."
And yet he didn't move. He sat there,
stoic and noble, unwilling to overlook something as petty as age when she knew how good they'd be together.
Brooke could love a man like John, given
half the chance - something he clearly wasn't willing to give her. And in that
moment, it occurred to her that if they were ever going to get past his
groundless worries, she was going to have to
be the one to make it happen.
She checked the
clock. It was nearly four in the morning, and the man who held her uncle wasn't
due until four thirty. She could either sit here, waiting,
worrying about her uncle until she burned a hole through her stomach,
or she could pass the time in a more pleasant way.
One
that could eventually lead her to the possibility of seeing John Augustine
naked again.
The memory of that one brief moment
between when he'd dropped his robe and pulled his boxers over his hips was
enough to fuel her fantasies for years to come. He was all lean muscles and
hard planes. The way the shadows had moved
over his back as he'd covered his tight butt had nearly brought tears to her eyes.
He was a beautiful man,
made to give a woman pleasure, and Brooke had wanted him for years. It was time to take what she wanted.
She
hiked up her gown, and manoeuvred herself over the console to the passenger's
seat until she was straddling John's lap. In this position, she
was nearly at eye level with him, and could see the panic flashing in
those dark, sad eyes.
"What
the hell are you doing?" he asked.
"Distracting
myself."
"On
my lap?"
"Best
distraction I could find."
He opened his mouth to
say something else, but Brooke stopped him with a kiss. He jerked as if she'd
hit him, and his whole body went tense. His
lips were hard under hers, but she didn't give up. She'd keep on kissing him for as long as it took.
She
slid her tongue along his bottom lip until she felt him yield. A deep, raw
groan of surrender poured from his chest, and his big hands moved to cup her
face. He held her there, kissing her back like he'd been dying
to do just that for years.
Maybe he had. Maybe
she'd seen things all wrong and he had left because he wanted her, but none of that mattered now. She
was here, now, in this moment, with the taste of John on her tongue and the
smell of his rapidly heating skin in her
lungs.
His kiss deepened,
becoming more ferocious and needy as the seconds passed. In the quiet of the
car, all she could hear was the sound of their rapid breathing
and the pounding of her own rejoicing heart.
John's hands slid down over her ribs until
they settled on her hips. He pulled her forwards, pressing her against his obvious erection, hitting just the
right spot to make something low and deep inside her melt.
She
let out a sigh and wiggled to make it happen again. Lights flashed behind her
eyelids, and, this time, John was the one sighing in pleasure. It was
the kind of sound that a woman was lucky to hear once in her lifetime - a sound so
pure and perfect and utterly right that it changed her life.
John
was her man. And she was keeping him.
She
pulled back from their kiss long enough to look into his handsome face. She
wasn't sure if he was aware of how the course of his life had now changed, and she hoped
that her decision to keep him wasn't glowing
in her eyes. She didn't want to scare the poor man to death.
Brooke
had other plans for him right now. Plans that involved getting him naked again.
He still wore his leather
jacket and shoulder holster, but she managed to snake her fingers up under the
hem of his shirt to feel the hard planes of his abs and chest. She dug her
fingers into him, feeling his tight muscles.
A swirling
wave of need rose up in her, taking her breath away. Not that she minded.
Breathing was
superfluous
right now. All she needed was John, deep and hard inside her.
She
reached down to undo his belt, needing to feel the smooth heat of him filling
her grip, but he brushed her hand aside. "Me first. Once
my jeans are off, I'm not going to be far behind.”
Brooke wasn't sure
exactly what he meant until she felt his fingers slide up her thigh, shoving
the hem of her gown up a few more inches.
She'd
worn a thong tonight to avoid the awkward combination of panty lines and shiny
satin, so there wasn't a whole lot of fabric to serve as an obstacle to John's
seeking fingers. She felt a tentative touch, a slight brush of one finger over the scrap
of silk, then that touch slipped under the silk, and met slick skin.
He
groaned as if in pain. "You're wet."
"I
can't help it when I'm around you. You make me want."
John's
freehand cupped the nape of her neck, and he tugged her forwards for another
kiss. Brooke let him do it. Now that he was no longer tense
and resistant, she got an idea of the level of skill the man had with
his tongue. She could hardly wait to see what else he could do with it.
His
clever fingers stroked her until she was frenzied with the need for more. Those
gentle, grazing touches were not nearly enough.
"I
want you inside me," she panted.
He
groaned again and, this time, there was a hint of pain reverberating in that
deep sound.
"Bad
timing," he said.
She couldn't think of any
time that had ever been better than this one right now. She opened her mouth to tell him so, and, just then, his cell phone
rang.
"Shit."
And then his hand was gone, and her body was quaking from the loss of his
touch, protesting the emptiness grating inside her.
He
answered his phone. "Yeah?"
In
the quiet of the car, she could hear a man on the phone say, "Stop necking
and get out. Our guy's here."
Brooke's body locked
up as a tidal wave of fear came crashing back down on her. Her mind had trouble
sorting out the fear and lust, and it all kind of jumbled together in her
stomach, making her feel sick.
John hung up, lifted
Brooke from his lap and helped her squeeze back behind the wheel. "Sorry,
Brooke. Showtime."
She
nodded, but couldn't speak.
He
stroked the side of her face and cupped it in his palm. "Do you remember
the plan?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"You
gonna be OK?"
"I
think so."
He
leaned over and kissed her, lingering for only a moment. 'You'll do great. This
will all be over soon."
John moved away, but
Brooke grabbed his arm, desperate to keep him near for just one more minute. "When
this is over, Fm not going to let you forget where we left off."
He
gave her a crooked smile and a wink. "You won't need to work very hard to
remind me."
A
second later, he eased out of the car and disappeared into the darkness.
Brooke
couldn't see the vehicle of the man who'd abducted her uncle yet, but she could
feel him getting closer.
Three
John's head was not in the
game. It was still back there with Brooke, feeling the satin warmth of her skin
under his fingers. The sweet wetness of her desire for him. The
intoxicating scent of her need for him.
I want you inside me.
John
was never going to get overhearing those words’ never forget the dark arousal
shadowing her eyes as she spoke, or the way the words came out
desperate and perfect.
He
had no idea what he'd done to deserve even that brief moment with her, but he
thanked God he'd had it.
There
was no way he was going to forget where they left off, despite her worries. In
fact, he was going to be remembering the last few minutes for a
very long time to come. The hard part was going to be forgetting them
long enough to do his job.
And
he had to do his job. If anything happened to Charles York, he'd never be able
to look Brooke in the eye again.
Then
again, maybe never looking at her again was the best thing he could offer her.
Either
way, it was time to shrug off the lust and get to work. Saving Dr York was his
priority. His dick was just going to have to wait.
From
his position behind a bulldozer, he saw headlights glowing in the distance,
signalling the approach of Dr York's abductor.
John's
body was pulled tight, hating every second that Brooke was out there alone,
dealing with the greedy asshole.
The
Bluetooth headset stuck in his ear buzzed with the voice of one of his buddies,
Abe. "I see only one guy in the van."
It
didn't necessarily mean there was only one, but it was better than seeing two.
"Got
the plates?" asked John.
"And
blocked the exit. The only way he's getting out of here is on foot. The
ground's too rough for off-roading in that van."
The
van pulled up in front of Brooke, spilling light on to her car, and over the
precious shape of her face.
John
was never going to get tired of looking at her. How the hell was he going to
find the strength to walk away?
She held her hand up
to shield her eyes then slowly got out of her vehicle. So did the man in the
van. He was armed, and though he wasn't pointing the revolver at
her, he had it in hand.
"Show
me the diamonds,” he ordered.
Brooke
held up a grocery sack.
"Not
good enough. I want to see them."
Brooke's
hands shook as she reached in the sack and pulled out a small velvet pouch.
"Open
it."
She did, then turned
the pouch upside down as if to spill the diamonds into her hand. Only, as
they'd planned,
she spilled them on to the pavement.
"Shit!"
growled the kidnapper.
"Oh,
I'm sorry," said Brooke as she bent down to pick them up -below the line
of any possible gunfire.
The
man stepped forwards, his entire attention focused on those loose diamonds.
That was all the distraction John needed.
He slipped silently
behind the man, disarmed him with one hard blow to his wrist, and sent the gun skittering
across the pavement. The man balled up his fist to punch, but John saw it
coming. He blocked the strike and countered with one of his
own, shoving his fist into the man's pudgy stomach.
The
give of soft flesh followed by a grunt of pain made John grin.
The man kicked,
landing a decent blow on John's shin, but he didn't feel any pain. Not now,
when his adrenaline was running hot and his body was thrumming
with the need to protect Brooke and her uncle.
Abe's voice sounded
from a few feet away. "We got the doctor, John. He's safe. You can stop
playing with the guy and finish him off."
With
pleasure.
John
swept his foot under the man's legs, knocking him to the ground with one easy
move. The guy's head bounced once, making a satisfying thud on the hard pavement,
then his eyes fluttered shut.
Three seconds later,
John's two buddies appeared from behind the van, supporting a wobbly Dr York between them.
"We're
clear. The van was empty."
John finished
restraining the man with flex-cuffs so he wouldn't get back up. Brooke sprinted
by him, the skirt of her fancy dress now wrinkled and dusty as it flew
out behind her. She grabbed her uncle in a tight hug and he held her
close, telling her over and over he was fine.
From
the sound of her sobs, John figured it would be a while before she believed it.
Strangely
enough, he wanted to be the man who was right there with her, convincing her.
However long it took. However wrong it might be.
John
asked his friend, "Did you call the police?”
"Yeah,
and Liam's moving his truck so they can get in here. We're going to hit the
road before the questions start so we can get in a couple
hours' sleep before work, OK?"
John
nodded. "Sure. Thanks, guys. I owe you."
“We
won't forget," said Abe as he sauntered off.
It took a while to satisfy the police and answer
all their questions. By the time the paramedics had cleared Dr York and taken the kidnapper to the hospital,
it was well past dawn.
Brook stood beside
her uncle, huddled under his arm. Her mascara was smeared, her dress was a wrinkled
mess and her hair was a wild flurry of tangles. Still, she was more beautiful
to him than any other woman he'd ever seen.
Too
bad they could never be together.
She saw him watching
her and left her uncle's side. Her walk was a bit unsteady in those heels, with
pieces of gravel and clumped mud dotting the pavement. John hurried to
her to keep her from twisting her ankle.
She placed her hand on
his chest and looked up at him, her dark-blue eyes glowing with gratitude. "Thank
you."
He
shrugged. "No problem."
"I'm taking
Uncle Charles home, but I was hoping I could come over later, when he's
resting. Maybe tonight?"
John
shook his head. "It's not a good idea."
"No,
what's not a good idea is you avoiding me."
He
let out a long sigh of regret. 'You and I can never work."
"We
were working fine a few hours ago."
"That
was sex."
A
slow smile warmed her mouth. "Not quite, but we were getting there."
He wanted to kiss her so bad it was making
him shake. "Brooke, please don't make this more difficult than it has to be."
He
wasn't sure if he had the strength to walk away right now, much less to do it
again if she hunted him down.
She went on tiptoe to
place a kiss on his lips. She patted his cheek in a placating gesture.
"I'm coming over to your house
tonight."
"Fine,
then I won't be there."
"Fine,"
she countered. "Then I'll simply break in and wait for you until you
comeback. I just want you to know that I plan to wait for yon in
bed. Naked.”
Four
Naked.
Brooke.
John
made a quick stop at home to secure his weapon, then avoided his house for the
rest of the day. He went to a buddy's apartment for a nap, but
that beautiful image of naked Brooke was in his dreams, haunting
him, leaving him unable to rest. Her threat to wait for him had left him
sweating, his dick hard.
He swore he could
still feel her skin against his palms, the slickness of her arousal on his
fingertips. The scent of her was in his head, refusing to
leave.
That
was the problem with forbidden fruit: once you tasted it, you always wanted
another bite.
All
the blood that fuelled rational thought must have gone to his groin, because by
late evening, he found himself walking through his front door.
It was unlocked, the way he'd left it. He knew it had been tempting
fate, but when it came to Brooke, he was unable to resist temptation.
Besides, it probably wasn't going to
matter, anyway. She was just thankful he'd helped save her uncle. Once she got over the shock and fear of the night,
once her adrenaline was no longer running hot, she'd calm down and see reason.
She
was too smart to tangle herself up with him when she was thinking straight.
Exhausted from lack
of sleep and a constant state of arousal, John headed straight for bed. He
wasn't sure if he'd actually sleep, but it was worth a shot.
He
walked into his bedroom holding his breath, praying she wasn't there even as he
hoped she was.
It
was dark. He couldn't see, but he swore he could smell the sweet scent of her
perfume and the womanly warmth of her skin.
It
made his mouth water for just one more taste of her lips, though he had to
admit he had been dreaming about tasking a lot more than simply her mouth. Just the
idea of going down on her was enough to make
him hard for a week.
"Brooke?"
he whispered, calling himself ten kinds of fool for allowing himself to have
even one sliver of hope she'd be here.
Her
voice was soft in the darkness, rich with promise. "Right in front of
you."
The click of the lamp
seemed as loud as a shot in the quiet of the room, light flared, bathing
Brooke, showing John just why he'd spent so many sleepless nights
fantasizing about her.
She was perfect. Naked,
just as she'd promised. Stretched out on his bed, propped up on his pillows, burrowing her way into his brain so deep he'd
never be able to get this one single moment of perfection out of his mind.
Not that he'd try.
Her
skin glowed with health. She wasn't very tall, but her proportions were
perfect, her limbs sleek and shaped with feminine strength. Her strawberry-blonde hair
fell over her slim shoulders, curling slightly at the ends. It was just long enough to caress the tops of her breasts in a
way that made John jealous. Her dark-pink
nipples were tight, reaching out towards him. The slim curve of her waist
flared out to womanly hips and a
flat, smooth belly. The hair between her thighs was a darker blonde, and John
wanted nothing more than to see if
it was as soft as it looked.
She
was still wearing all her jewellery, including a dainty ring around one toe.
Silver hoops dangled from her ears and a flash of light caught
the ring in her navel.
Too
damn sexy. Too damn young.
"I
can't do this," he said, more in an effort to convince himself.
She
slid from the bed, all sinuous grace and confidence. She didn't try to hide
herself from him. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
Maybe if she covered
up he'd have some hope of walking away without her making any mistakes she'd regret
later.
Brooke got closer, and John tried to turn
away and run. He really did. But it was a lost cause. He could no more have
turned his back on her now than he could have last night, when she came to him
afraid and angry.
She'd
needed him and he'd been there. He was afraid that the same would be true
tonight, only the need would be different.
"Sure
you can. I'll show you how." She slid her hands under his T-shirt, pushing
it up until she could press her naked breasts against his ribs.
The
soft heat of her skin sank into him, forcing a groan of pleasure from his
chest.
He hadn't intended to
help her, but somehow, his shirt was off now. She couldn't have gotten it off without
his cooperation, could she?
John
couldn't think straight, and he sure as hell wasn't up to any logic puzzles
right now. Standing up on his own was about as much as he could
reasonably expect of himself at this point.
"Why
are you doing this?" he asked.
Her fingers dug into
his chest, her nails biting in just enough to make his nerve endings dance.
''Because I want you," she said. "Because you want me,
too. We're going to be so good together. You'll see."
Oh,
he had no doubt about that. They'd be hot. Explosive. "But what about
after?"
She
gave him a smile only a real woman could wear. It was full of confidence and
the hint of a challenge. "You're not going to have to worn1
about that for a long time. It's going to be a while until I'm finished with you.
At least a few days."
Days?
Lord, have mercy. He wouldn't survive.
John
grabbed her bare arms, thinking that if he could rip her away, he might have a
chance of talking some sense into her, but as soon as his skin
met hers, he forgot everything but the feel of her under his palms.
He'd touched plenty of women in his life,
but never one quite so soft and smooth and warm as Brooke. He had no idea how she did it.
Her
hands moved up over his shoulders around to the back of his head. Her fingers
speared through his hair, cupping the back of his skull. She
tugged on his head, trying to pull him down for a kiss.
John resisted, knowing
that if his mouth touched hers again, he'd be just as lost as he had been in
the car. Hell, armed kidnappers had been coming for her then and her kiss had
nearly made him forget the danger. Without any other
life-threatening events going down, he was a goner for sure.
"Afraid?"
she asked, daring him with a half-smile.
"Hell,
yes. If I kiss you, I'm going to fuck you."
"That
was kinda what I was going for here. I thought I was being fairly
obvious."
John closed his eyes,
blocking out the sight of her mouth. It didn't help. He could still smell her.
He could still feel her fingers warm against his scalp,
pulling him down.
He stood there,
frozen, unable to let her do this. His body shook with the effort of remaining
still, but he managed to use every bit of his military training to hang
tough.
And then she kissed
him. Her warm lips pressed against his collarbone, the side of his neck. Her
hot little tongue
swept out over his skin, making him shiver. With each movement of her mouth,
John lost a bit more of his good
intentions. His heart was pounding, slamming wave after wave of flaming blood
through his veins. He was hard, thick and eager for her. Hell, he had been all
day. It took a monumental amount of will power to keep from pinning her
down on the bed and mounting her like a rutting animal. As soon as her teeth grazed his flesh, closing against him
enough to leave a wicked sting, he knew he had lost.
Surrender. That was the only course of
action left. Sex with Brooke was no longer a question, it was a mission.
"You
win," he whispered as he dipped his head and took her mouth in a kiss.
He
could feel her smile of victory shaping her lips, but he didn't care. He was
too lost in the taste of her, the slippery glide of her tongue. She kissed him back with
abandon, sucking at his tongue and nipping his bottom lip with her teeth.
Every
sweet sting drove him crazier, until the only thought going through his head
was how he could get his jeans off without taking his hands from
her body. The slim lines of her back felt too good under his palms
to let go. He gripped her hips, hoping he could push her away enough to shed
his clothes, but he couldn't seem to do it. Instead, he pulled
her closer, grinding his erection against her belly.
Brooke
let out a sweet moan of need, and her fingers went to his fly. She squeezed her
hand between their bodies and rubbed him through the denim.
It wasn't enough. He
wanted to feel her hands on him, pumping him nice and slow. Of course, he would
probably blow his load the second she wrapped those pretty fingers around him.
Too
many years and too many wet dreams had done nothing to prepare him for this
moment.
She tugged at the
button, releasing it, then eased the zipper over his cock. She pushed his jeans
and boxers down enough to give her room to work, then took a hold
of him, gripping him tight but not moving.
John
sucked in a long breath, hoping it would help him hold back.
"You're close, aren't you?" she
asked. He could hear satisfaction in her voice. "I could go down on my knees right now and suck you off in no time flat,
I bet."
His
mouth went dry and his throat closed up. Words were not going to happen for
him. Not now. Actions were much better.
He may have let her
win the battle and convince him to sleep with her, but she sure as hell wasn't
going to win the war. She thought she had the upper hand. She
thought that because he was a man and easy to turn on that she could call the shots.
She
was wrong.
John
backed her up until she hit the edge of the bed, then kept pushing. She toppled
back, landing in a delicious sprawl of slim arms and legs.
He followed her,
crawling on to the bed, straddling her, keeping her pinned. She inched back
towards the headboard, smiling, her eyes dark with passion, her
breasts jiggling with each sinuous movement.
John stared at the motion, as entranced as
any red-blooded man would be by the sight of naked breasts, though he had to
admit that hers were possibly the finest he'd ever seen. Smooth, firm, jutting
just enough to convince him she was all
woman. All his, at least for tonight.
She'd moved back far
enough to make room for what he intended, so he pressed her shoulders down on the
bed with his body. Beneath him, she was sleek and warm, with womanly curves
that mated exactly with the harsher planes of his body. Her breasts
pressed into his chest and he could feel the hard buds of her nipples
beckoning him to touch and tease. His hand eased down her flank, his fingers
curling into her flesh, staking a claim on every inch as he went.
He
pushed himself up, watching as she stared at the powerful moment of his arms
and shoulders, her eyes dilating. She liked what she saw, which
worked for him. Whatever got her off - he was all for it.
Brooke wriggled and
arched to bring her breasts closer to him. John knew how to take a hint. He
bent down
and sucked one nipple into his mouth. Her skin tasted of woman and the salty
sheen of lust. Under his tongue, her nipple
tightened as he suckled her. His fingers fanned over her other breast, gently pinching her nipple between two fingers.
Brooke let out a
keening cry and her whole body went taut, nearly vibrating. Under him, her body
writhed and
her legs parted enough to allow his thigh to press between them. John's leg
muscles clenched and the iron hardness of
his thigh ground against the softness between hers, making Brooke gasp.
Her eyes opened,
heavy-lidded and sparking with eager passion. She looked as if she wanted to
say something, but her month worked incoherently, letting nothing more than a
soft moan past her lips.
Her soft body
squirmed under his. With each supple movement of her body, John's erection
became painful. Without remorse, he forced her to rub her mound
against him. He knew he was going too fast, but, by God, she would be
hot and ready for him if it killed him.
John was pretty sure it
might do just that.
He kissed and licked
her breasts, as he stroked his hands over her body, keeping her on the edge,
strung tight with need. He could feel her wetness soaking into
his jeans, and knowing he could do that to her nearly blew the top
of his head off. His hand slid down her pale stomach and he parted the tight
curls with his lingers and delved between slick, petal soft folds
of skin. She was wet. Hot. Ready.
John
forgot to breathe. A wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him to pull in
a strangled breath.
He
carefully pushed one finger inside Brooke, the narrow path eased by her
arousal. She moaned, a deep, husky sound that vibrated through her
entire body, tickling his fingertip.
She was tight, but her body accepted the
invasion. John pulled back and slid a second finger alongside the first. She
tensed and he bent his head down to her straining nipples, suckling on her to
keep her flying high. He wasn't a huge man,
but he wasn't small, either. The fit was going to be tight even after his
fingers worked to stretch her and make her ready to take him.
Sweat beaded on
John's forehead and slid down the groove of his spine. All he wanted was to
spread her thighs and finish it. But that's not what John wanted for
Brooke. He wanted her melting with pleasure, screaming out with
it. Preferably his name.
The thought pushed
him that much closer to the edge. His body drew tighter, more insistent. He
needed release,
but not as much as he needed to taste her.
He pushed her thighs
wide. The scent of her desire was on his hands, in the air between them, making
him drunk and dizzy from wanting to be inside her.
With almost feral
intensity, her lowered his mouth to her sensitive flesh, parted the folds with
his thumbs and found the knot of her clitoris. He wanted her
panting and senseless with pleasure when he entered her. He wanted her
writhing beneath him, clawing at his back, exploding until she milked every
last drop of semen from his body.
Brooke moved as if she was going to sit
up. Ruthlessly, John pushed her down and wrapped his hands around her thighs to hold her legs high and open
- completely at his mercy.
He was only going to
have this one time with her, and he was determined to get out of it everything
he'd ever fanaticized about out. She wasn't going to rob him
of one single pleasure, including making her come with his mouth.
His tongue moved,
flicking over her. She held her breath. Her body was flushed pink and her
nipples were tight, distended and glistening from his mouth.
John's fingers curled around her thighs, leaving slight indentations. Maybe he
was holding onto her too hard, but he couldn't find the room in his brain to
give a fuck. If she didn't like it, she
could push him away.
Her
breathy gasping sighs started to rise in pitch, becoming more intense. John
knew she was close and he smiled against her sweet, hot flesh even as he
pleasured her. She tasted so good, he almost didn't want it to
end. If it weren't for the demanding throbbing of his cock, he could have loved
her like this for hours, savouring every lick of his tongue over her
silken flesh.
The
room fell silent, then Brooke let out a husky, deep moan that came all the way
from her toes. Her fingers clenched in his hair and her
shoulders came up off the mattress. She let out cry after cry of pleasure, each
one making John feel like a god.
Watching
her come left John on the edge of release, quivering, barely able to keep
himself under control. While Brooke was still dazed, her breath
coming in gulps, John shucked his jeans and rolled on a condom.
He knelt between her
spread thighs. Her skin was flushed, swollen and shiny from his mouth. He
stared, memorizing the stunning sight of her, knowing he'd be
seeing it in his dreams for years to come.
John
covered her body with his own, kissing his way up her neck, over her cheek to
her mouth, trying to convey to her the jumbled mess of need
swirling in his gut. The foremost of which was the need to be inside her.
Brooke responded eagerly, her tongue lunging into his mouth, sharing the taste
of her still lingering on his tongue.
Her
body moved beneath him, twisting and squirming to bring them closer together.
Her hands pulled at his buttocks, urging him forwards to meet
her open, waiting flesh.
Sweat
slid down John's ribs as he resisted the urge to plunge fully into her. With
small rocking motions that would ease him in without hurting her, John slowly
slid into her.
His
hips pulled back and Brooke's fingernails dug into his shoulder.
"More," she breathed.
Hell,
yes, there'd be more.
As he surged forwards, he
lifted his head and watched her face as he filled her. Her slick passion eased his path and soon he found a slow, easy rhythm
that had them both on the edge in a matter of minutes. John felt his climax building at the base of his
cock, but he held back a moment longer.
"Look
at me," he demanded, his voice harsh.
Brooke
managed to raise her lids slightly, catching John's gaze.
"I
want to see your eyes when you come, when I come inside you."
Five
Brooke
was lost. She was dying inside, so close to the edge of another orgasm she knew
it would kill her if he didn't give her what she needed soon.
He stretched her in a
delicious way no other man ever had. He filled her up, leaving none of the hollowness
behind she was used to feeling when she slept with a man. It was more than just
physical, though it was definitely that. John was everything she'd
ever wanted. Everything she needed.
She stared up into his face. He was so
roughly handsome. His jaw was set, clenched hard as he moved over her. Sweat slid down his temple. His skin
was flushed, the cords in his neck strung tight, his muscles bunched in a powerful display.
He
shifted his hips, moving so he hit that perfect spot and Brooke's world
exploded into shards of pleasure. Her body clenched involuntarily, milking his erection,
and a second later, she felt him swell and throb
inside her as he came.
A rough moan rumbled
from his chest, vibrating her nipples, sending her higher for one last peak
before she settled slowly back to reality.
He collapsed on top
of her, but she revelled in his weight, in the feel of his racing heart
pounding against her. She held on to him tightly, refusing to let him go.
"If
you don't let me go, the condom's going to leak."
The thought didn't
bother her nearly as much as it should have. She didn't mind the idea of having
his baby. Part of her liked it. But she couldn't trap him
like that. He was too honourable to walk away from her if she got pregnant, and
she didn't want him out of obligation.
Brooke relaxed her
hold and John rolled off her. He got up, went into the bathroom, took care of
the condom, then came back a minute later.
She
watched him move, enjoying the powerful slide of his muscles under his skin.
Even though she'd just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life, her body
began to heat as she watched him, wanting more.
He gave her a dark
smile. 'You keep looking at me like that and neither one of us is going to get
any sleep."
"I'm
not tired."
He
pulled the blankets up over her. "No? I figured with all the excitement
last night, you'd be worn out."
"I slept some
today." Suddenly, she was feeling insecure, like she didn't know what to
do next. Part of her wanted to get up and leave so she wouldn't do
anything to mess up tonight, but the rest of her wanted to stay
and make sure he knew she wanted this night to be the first of many.
He
lay on his side, his head propped on his hand. He wasn't touching her. Maybe he
wanted her to leave.
"What's
going through your head, huh? Did I do something wrong? Hurt you?"
"No."
His mouth tightened
with anger and he flopped back on to the pillow. "I knew it. You're
already regretting it, aren't you? Shit."
He moved to get up, but
Brooke grabbed his arm before he could leave. "I don't want you to ever
think that. I don't regret a thing. Except
maybe what you're going to say next."
"And
what's that?"
"That
you want me to leave.”
"I don't want it.
I just know it's for the best."
"Why?
Because of our age difference?”
"Yeah,
that's part of it."
"Well, that's
not enough for me. I’ve loved you for too long to let something that shallow bother
me." As she said the words aloud, they felt good. Right. She did
love him, though the revelation surprised her almost as much as it
did him.
"Loved?”
he asked, going completely still. "You had a crush on me. You're old
enough now to know the difference.”
Tm
glad you give me at least that much credit. I do know the difference, and I
stand by what I said."
'You
can't love me,” he said, incredulous.
"I think about
you every day. Whenever something good happens to me, I have to fight the need
to pick up the phone and call you. Whenever something bad
happens, I have to keep myself from driving over here and
throwing myself into your arms. No matter how many men I date, how many I sleep
with, none of them compare to you.”
"That's because
you've got some idealized version of me in your head. When you were a kid, you
saw me as some kind of hero and your imagination filled in the
gaps the way you wanted."
She
let out a scoffing laugh. "So, you're not honourable and selfless? You
haven't risked your life countless times for people you don't even know? You didn't protect
the man I love like a father for years, giving
up your own life to take care of a quirky old man? You didn't turn away the
awkward advances of a young woman for her own good?"
His mouth opened then closed again. She
knew he'd done those things. And more. Probably more than she'd ever know.
She
wasn't going to give up on him. This was too important to her. "Maybe we
haven't spent enough time together to decide we want to get
married, but I know I've spent enough time with you to want to spend more.
Why give up something that might be really good because you're afraid?"
"I'm
not afraid for myself, I'm afraid for you.y
She went up on to her
knees and pressed her hand over his heart. "And that, in a nutshell, is
why I love you."
This could not be happening. John had no idea
how to handle something like this. She loved him? She
had to be wrong. Mixed up.
But
she looked certain. Her gaze was steady and unwavering, making him hope for
things he had no right hoping for.
A
future. With Brooke. It seemed too good to be true.
"We
can't rush it," he told her. "You need time to think about
this."
I’ve
been thinking about it for six years. I’mdone thinking. It's time to act."
She was still naked.
Gloriously flushed and glowing from his loving. He couldn't think straight when
she was naked.
He
got off the bed and tossed her his robe, hoping she'd take the hint.
She slid the fabric over
her arms, wrapping it around herself and bringing it to her nose as if she
could smell him in the cloth.
And
just like that, John was hard again.
He
pulled his jeans on, not taking the time to find where his underwear had
landed. "We should go out. Somewhere public." Where he wouldn't feel
quite so tempted to lay her down and make love to her again. And
again.
This
was supposed to be a one-time thing. He'd only let himself think about doing it
once.
Brooke was offering
more. What he saw in her eyes was a promise of a lifetime. The two of them together,
for ever.
John
had never even let himself think about something so tempting, not even in the
depths of his deepest
dreams. A life with someone as sweet and smart and courageous as Brooke was
more than he had any right to ask for.
"I don't want to leave," she
said. "I don't want to go anywhere where you can blow me off again and pretend I don't exist."
Pretend she didn't exist?
Was she nuts?
Outrage pounded
through him. He crossed to the bed and wrapped his hands around her arms. They were slim and delicate in
his grip, reminding him to be gentle. "I've been trying for a long time to
get you out of my head. It never once
worked."
"Then
why fight it? Why not give us a chance?"
"A
chance for what?"
"A
life together. Happiness. Maybe even marriage one day down the road.
Babies."
Oh,
God. The images she put in his head were too tempting. He could see them
together so easily, making their lives together. Creating a home
and a family. Just the thought of her having his baby was enough
to drive him to his knees and make him shake with need. "Why are you doing
this to me?"
"Doing
what?"
"Tempting
me like this. Making me want things I know I shouldn't have."
"If
not you, then who?" she asked. "Who should I give my life to? I sure
as hell haven't found anyone more deserving."
John had never been a
possessive man, but he felt that in him now - a dark, secret need to slam his
fists into any man who dared to touch her.
"I
can see it in your face," she said. "You don't like the idea of me
being with another man."
"No.
I don't."
A
sweet smile warmed her mouth. "Then stop pushing me away. Give us a
chance. Maybe it won't work, but maybe it will. Maybe well be really
happy together."
John
shook his head. "How can you be so sure?"
"How
can you not?"
He had no answers. All
the reasons he'd given himself over the years - the reasons why he should stay away from her - seemed stupid and petty now. She
wasn't a child. She was a strong, brave woman. One who clearly knew what she
wanted.
"You
seem so sure of this," he said.
She slid her finger
over his cheek and tapped him on the nose. "I am sure, because you, John
Augustine, are mine. You always have been."
John
blinked in surprise. That was not an answer he had expected. "Yours?"
"Yes.
You're mine and I'm keeping you."
A warm sense of
satisfaction swelled up inside of him. His future opened up, glowing bright for
the first time since he'd had to leave the military. He had a new
mission in life now. Making Brooke happy and building a life with
her would be his greatest achievement ever.
He gave her a smile,
holding back nothing. Not anymore. From now on he was going to let himself love
her. No more denying either of them anything. "I've never been a
kept man before."
"Don't
worry," she said. 'You'll get used to it."
About
that, John had no doubt.
Russian Roulette
A Red Letter Days story Rachel
Caine
The hardest thing about the
situation- it was easier thinking of it that way, as the situation instead
of being taken prisoner - was that Lucia Garza knew she'd screwed up. She'd
made the choices, and she'd brought this on
herself. It hadn't been a huge mistake, nothing that would have even been
noticed by non-professionals’ she'd
gotten too comfortable in her cover, forgotten to check her tail and she'd been
seen talking to the wrong person.
Once. Even then, it could have been missed.
One
mistake. One time.
It
only took one mistake to get you dead and in an unmarked grave’ one mistake to
earn you an anonymous star on a wall back at Langley.
What bugged her most was that they hadn't
hurt her. Hadn't questioned her. Hadn't done anything, yet, except ask her to come quietly, brought her to an
upstairs room of a very secure building, and left her to think about
things. It wasn't even an uncomfortable room, apart from having no windows and
a steel door with a code key lock. There
were a couple of armchairs, a sofa, a coffee table. No reading material, which was unfortunate, and no coffee or tea, which was
even more unfortunate, but all in all, not the most unpleasant captivity she'd ever experienced.
That
was what bothered her most.
Lucia sat in one of
the armchairs, legs crossed, relaxed. They'd caught her early this morning, but
at least she'd been dressed - a bonus, because she typically slept
in the raw - and she knew she looked well put together. A sharp designer pantsuit, a
silk shirt the colour of Baltic amber, a delicate gold cross necklace. Designer
shoes with lethally thin heels. It helped that she had the looks to sell the
package’ Lucia had no particular pride in
that, but she understood it was an asset, and she cultivated it religiously.
She was, by nature, an early riser, which was why she'd been taken
prisoner looking as if she might be on her way to a magazine photo shoot,
instead of - as they'd likely expected - terrified, messy and unprepared.
They'd
taken all her weapons, except the shoes, but she wasn't especially worried. Not
about that, at least. Her problems were not going to be
solved by shooting her way out.
There was a slight, metallic clunk, and
the air pressure in the room changed, ever so slightly, as the far steel door swung open. The first man through was a
guard, who did a thorough, professional job of checking behind the door
and scanning the room, paying special attention to her. When he was convinced all was well, he took up a post, looking as if he
was prepared to kill to eliminate any hint of a threat. He wasn't the type to
have doubts or recriminations. It would be a straight line, eyes to trigger,
with no interference from whatever
morals he might theoretically possess.
Lucia
didn't move.
The
next man through the door was tall, thin, with a pale face and a shock of
thick, dark, unruly hair. He had cultivated a moustache and goatee.
Stock villain styling or not, Lucia had to admit that it looked good on
him.
He
was wearing an expensively tailored black suit, a creamy white shirt that
looked, to her expert eye, to be Egyptian cotton, and a very expensive
tie. The shoes were Italian. Handmade. He crossed the room with a
decisive stride, hazel eyes fixed on her, lips curled into a warm smile of
welcome.
He
extended a hand to her. "Gregory Valentin Ivanovich," he said. He had
nice hands, well cared for, with buffed, clean nails. She shook, because there was no
point in refusing, and he sank into the armchair across from her. "I'm delighted to meet you, Miss—?"
"Smith,"
she said. It wasn't even close to her cover name, but they were well past all that
now in any case. It was all games now. "Mary
Smith."
Gregory Valentin Ivanovich - somehow, she
had no doubt that was his real name - clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Oh, dovogoi. that
won't do. Your name is Lucia Garza, and you are in the employ of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United
States of America."
She
didn't react by so much as a flicker.
"Finding
out who you are is nothing, the work of a computer expert on his coffee break. I’mnot
here because of who you are, my dear. I've been employed to find out what you know,"
he said, and leaned forwards, elbows on knees, looking very
earnest. Very honest. "You are a lovely woman. I would very much like
to keep this civilized. May we?"
"Of
course," Lucia said. This part of the role play was all scripted, all
predictable. Her mind was racing on, examining possibilities.
Ivanovich was, no doubt, armed, but the guard was too far away, and although
she was a good shot, the fact was that the time it would take
her to kill Ivanovich would allow the guard to take her
down, one way or the other. No help there. Take him hostage? Possible, but she
was sure they had contingencies. Ivanovich was too relaxed. Too
sure of himself. And then there was the problem of the door, and the fact that
she could be completely certain they were being closely monitored.
Lucia
sat back and smiled. "Since we're being so civilized, may we have
tea?"
"Ah!
Excellent idea. I shall have some brought in." He made no gesture, gave no
orders. The guard didn't move. Proof positive - not that she needed it
- that someone was watching and listening to every word. "What
brings you to Prague, Miss Anna Luisa Ortiz, office manager of Halwell
Industries?”
"I
came to open an office,” she said. "I've been obtaining
real-estate licences, setting up utilities, buying equipment
and supplies. As I'm sure you know.”
"And
along the way, you have been seeing a man named Marko Czerny. A known
terrorist."
"I
met a man in a bar. That's not a crime.”
The far door opened, and the guard
performed a due diligence check of the woman earning the tea set, and then he
carried out the same check on the tray, cups, saucers, milk and sugar. The
woman serving the tea was plain, heavyset,
with dark square-cut hair and a bland, forgettable look. Probably one of their
better agents. She set out the tea
things on the table and turned to go, without a word.
"Shall I pour?” Ivanovich
asked, before the woman had reached the door. Lucia nodded. Her instincts were telling her that this was the moment, the one
glimmer of confusion in their ranks she was likely to get, but she also
knew that it was a setup. The woman was an agent, not some hapless secretary
thrust into the middle of things - she was
moving at a deliberately slow pace, giving Lucia time to make a move. They
wanted to test her capabilities.
She
sat quietly while Ivanovich poured tea and handed it over in an eggshell-thin
porcelain cup and saucer. Beautiful china. Probably left over
from some previous dictator's regime.
As they sipped their
oh-so-civilized tea, the woman exited the room, the door sealed again with a
thickly metallic sound, and Lucia revised her opinion of Gregory
Valentin Ivanovich. He's cool. He's very cool, to sit
here and sip tea and wait for me to try to kill him. She
didn't like that. She'd have preferred someone less ... competent.
'You
met a man at a bar," Ivanovich said, taking up the questions again.
"How did it happen?"
She gave him a
blinding smile, with all the charm she could muster. "How do such things
usually happen? I was sitting alone. He asked if he could buy me
a drink. It happens."
"What
were you drinking?”
"White
wine.”
"And
what was he drinking?”
"I
have no idea. Why? Is it important?"
Ivanovich
shrugged. "Perhaps it isn't. And this man, how did he give his name?”
"Paolo Tranconi." The man
sitting across from her stared steadily, not a flicker of emotion on his face that wasn't preplanned, designed to evoke a
response. Lucia allowed herself a smile - a long, slow, promising one. "I'm more interested in
talking about you, Gregory Valentin Ivanovich. You seem very ... interesting.”
"Do I?" A
measured, empty response, although she'd seen the hint of appreciation in his
eyes when he'd first taken a look at her. Ivanovich wasn't
the type to be played, even if it did amuse him. "Did you pay
Marko
Czerny - forgive me, Paolo Tranconi - to procure black market nuclear
material on behalf of Iran?"
She
laughed. "I don't work for Iran."
"I
know you don't. That wasn't my question.”
"No. I did not
pay Marko Czerny - or Paolo Tranconi - to procure black market nuclear material
on behalf of Iran. Or, in fact, any nation or group. Is
that clear enough?"
Gregory Ivanovich sipped his drink, then
carefully put the cup and saucer aside. She felt the gravity in the room shift, and put her empty teacup aside as
well.
He stood up, walked to
her, and - without even a flash of warning in his expression or body language -slapped her so hard her head snapped to one side,
and her ears set up a loud, high ringing. Lucia's first emotion was stunned amazement, but that melted
like frost before the fast-following burn of fury.
She sat up straight
and faced him, determined to let him see none of her discomfort. "That the
best you've got, Gregory?" she asked, in the same pleasant tone as before,
though her heart was starting to pound as her body woke up
to its very real danger. The body was always the problem in situations such as
this. It was hard-wired to take control, and she couldn't allow that to happen.
"No,"
he said. "I assure you it is not."
And then he hit her, closed fist. It was a
starburst of red and white, blanking her out for a few precious seconds’ she felt herself tumbling from her
chair, and barely had the presence of mind to put out her hands to break the fall. Time slipped away, as she
struggled to push aside the fog. She felt herself being picked up, carried
from the room, and those few seconds of confusion cost her dearly. By the time
she had shaken it off, she was on her face
on a stone floor, and someone was tying her hands and ankles. Someone who was not Ivanovich. He stood within her blurry field of
vision, watching with those implacable hazel eyes.
"I'm
going to kill you," she mumbled, through what felt like a broken jaw.
"No doubt you'll
try. I’mcertainly going to give you ample reasons," he assured her, and
looked past her to whoever was tying her hands. "Make
sure she's secure, then take her clothes."
She'd known that was
coming, but she still felt the primal, bitter shock of it when a knife hissed
through the back and arms of her jacket and shirt, sliced her bra
straps, and slit her pants from waist down to ankles. Her underwear followed.
The reasons were twofold: first, to leave her disoriented and naked, which was always a plus in interrogation’ second, even if by
some miracle she burst free of her bonds, killed Ivanovich and his men, and escaped, she would have to
escape naked, in a Prague winter, unless she was able to strip the bodies of
those she took down.
Which
she would do, given a fraction of a chance. Not that they were likely to
give her that fraction of a chance. They knew who she was, and they
didn't seem to be in the habit of making mistakes.
It
only takes one, she told herself. You made one. They will make one.
The
floor was freezing, and Lucia felt her body heat leaving her in a river,
soaking into the cold stones. She was already shivering. Ivanovich wouldn't let
her freeze to death, but he would certainly let her suffer intensely. It would do
half his work for him. Torture was a sweat-intensive business, and those who
were good at it knew how to let fear,
weariness and pain work in their favour.
Lucia rose into a
kneeling position. It exposed her nudity to Ivanovich's absolutely level gaze,
but that was less important now than preserving
body heat. Anger would keep her warm, for a while, but anger would fade, and fear would draw blood into the
core of the body, to protect the vital organs.
She
needed to make the most of her slender advantages while she still could.
"Leave
us," Ivanovich said to his aide, the faceless man who'd so efficiently
stripped her. She still hadn't caught a glimpse of the man's face,
other than a blurred profile’ nothing special, like the woman who'd brought the tea. A
professional spy, almost certainly. He left without a backwards glance,
shutting a thick old steel door behind him.
She heard the sound of locks engaging. The hinges of the door were on the outside. Of course.
Ivanovich's voice
turned gentle. "Lucia, there is no need for this. All you need to do is
honestly answer a single, vital question: where is Marko
Czerny?"
"I have no idea
what you're talking about." In fact, of course, she did. Marko Czerny was
in an unmarked grave, below a fresh pour of concrete in a warehouse development
on the outskirts of Prague. She'd taken care
of him herself, stripped the body, and buried him. No point, these days, in the
old precautions of destroying the face or taking the hands so that the
body wouldn't be identified. DNA had rendered all that moot. So she'd simply ensured that Marko Czerny had disappeared without
a trace, and by the time he might be
discovered, it would be a matter for archaeologists to puzzle over.
"My
employers," Ivanovich said, "would very much like to know the
whereabouts of Marko Czerny. He has quite a lot of their
money, and they are not people who flinch from using harsh methods to recover what they've lost.
Therefore, since they are paying me, their methods and priorities must be mine.
Are we understood, dorogoi?'
"How
about you?" Lucia asked. "Do you flinch?"
"Not
noticeably. But I would truly hate to see such beauty wasted
unnecessarily." He seemed to mean it, but then she didn't kid
herself that Gregory Ivanovich ever told the whole truth. He was a master liar.
It
took one to know one.
She was starting to
really shiver now, uncontrollable spasms as her body tried to generate more
heat to replace what was swiftly bleeding
away in the frigid air. She could actually see wisps of escaping heat rising from her skin into the icy stillness.
Ivanovich
suddenly crouched down, putting them on a level, and stared directly into her
eyes. That move was a shock, one that almost made her flinch
- and she imagined she did that as rarely as Ivanovich himself.
They seemed professionally well matched. "Listen to me," he said,
very softly. "I can help you. Let me help you. I am a businessman, not a
barbarian. You give me what I need, my clients are content, you go on
your way. Your people need never know you told me a word. We can make this a
private business,
quickly
finished. I would prefer it to be so."
Of
course he would. Money for nothing. “Why is Marko Czerny so
important?”
"I
told you, my clients have lost a great deal of capital—”
Lucia
smiled. "I wasn't born yesterday, Gregory Ivanovich."
He considered her for a long moment, then
cocked his head slightly as if puzzled. "No, I see that,” he said. "Marko Czerny had, on his person,
something that my employers want back. If you killed him and put him somewhere secure to avoid detection, then all
you need do is give me the location so I can retrieve what my employers wish to have. If you have it -
well, that will be a slightly different conversation, but I'm certain we can come to an arrangement.”
There hadn't been
anything on Czerny that could fit what Ivanovich was talking about. Nothing in
his pockets, only a wallet with a few bills and coins, a
false ID ... not even a cell phone. Granted, she hadn't performed
a cavity search - that had seemed over the top, all things considered - but she
was relatively sure that she'd found everything Czerny had been earning. Which
was nothing.
That was bad news. If whatever Marko was
supposed to have been carrying were missing, Ivanovich would have no choice but to assume she had it. And she didn't have it.
Which meant that if
she told the truth, he'd assume she was lying. If she lied, she'd have nothing
to back it up and, once again, that would lead to more questions. Painful ones.
All
in all, not the most wonderful position to be put in, with a man whom she
already knew to be a serious professional about his work.
One
who didn't flinch.
Lucia decided to try
honesty. "I killed him,” she said. "He's buried under the
new warehouse development near the airport. I can show you a grid
reference so you don't waste time looking. But he had nothing
on him when I put him down, or when I disposed of him. I checked. Whatever
you're looking for, it isn't there, I don't have it and I can't give it to
you."
For
a moment he didn't move’ she saw his mind race, saw him consider all the
possibilities. Discard each one as not feasible. Finally, he said, "I
hope, for your sake, that you are lying to me, zolotoi. It will be most
unfortunate if you're not. I think you know that already.”
"Yes," she
said. "That's why I just told you the truth. I can't give you what you
want because I don't have it, and I have no idea where it is, whatever if is.
So there's no reason to hurt me, Gregory. I know you're not a
sadist. There's no benefit in this for you, just brutality. And failure, in the
end. Which isn't optimal for you, is it?”
"No. But in any
case, knowing that I am going to fail only means that it is even more important
I make a good
showing of trying to reach my goal. You understand this.” He looked
away from her, the first sign she'd seen of real emotion, even if it was only
the avoidance of it. "Sometimes the choice isn't mine. Or yours. Lucia, I am sorry. Prepare yourself. We'll
begin soon, I will of course have the unfortunate Marko
exhumed, but if what we're looking for isn't
buried with him, you and I will be getting to know each other far too well."
"No offence," Lucia said,
shivering hard now, teeth chattering, "but I really hope I never have to
know you at all. I don't even like what I
know about you so far."
"No
offence taken." Ivanovich rose to his feet and walked to the door. It
opened for him without a visible signal. Electronic? She
didn't know, and it was hard to think about it now, cold and afraid as she was.
The fear was
mounting, the sense of nightmarish helplessness. There's nothing with Marko,
she thought. He'll be back. And when he comes ...
When
he comes, I'll have to be ready.
To
endure. To survive.
To
not become that anonymous, tragic, star on the wall.
Only Gregory didn't come back. She sat
alone in the dark, cold and getting colder, until her world narrowed to the torturous business
of survival. Lucia was, by nature, a neat, orderly person, and kneeling in a
filthy basement room, tied and helpless and
naked, was difficult.
She focused on her
breathing, her heartbeat, achieving a kind of meditative calm as she tried to
ignore the pain of her cold, cold flesh.
After a while the burning sensation faded, replaced by a blessed numbness that she knew, on an intellectual level, wasn't an
improvement. It meant the nerves had given up their fight. Frostbite was setting in. She tried working
her numbed fingers, moving to the limited extent her bonds allowed, but she knew it wouldn't really
help. Already, she felt drugged and slowed by the harsh conditions.
She
might have fallen asleep for a while. Time ceased to have any observable
meaning.
With
no warning the door spilled open in a shocking blaze of light, and she almost
toppled over as adrenaline slammed through her body, temporarily blocking the
insidious slide of cold. The light blinded her, and she blinked away shadows
and halos. By the time her eyes adjusted, she saw that there was only one man who'd come inside. He locked the door behind
him. The harsh overhead light stayed on, and in its glow Lucia could see that
her skin had taken on a pale, cold tinge, like something left for dead.
The
man who'd entered wasn't Gregory. This man was a professional, but of another
type altogether. He had a normal sort of face, heavy jawline, deep-set eyes
-but there was something about his expression that made Lucia's breath come
quicker. This man was empty. Empty of everything. He was the sort of man employed to do the dirtiest jobs, because there would
be little consequence to it’ he'd wash the blood from his hands, hum a
little tune and sit down to dinner without a qualm.
This
man, unlike Ivanovich, was a true sociopath.
She tried a smile. It
went nowhere. He stared at her as if she were of no more significance to him
than the stone floor or the walls.
"I will ask
some questions,” he said. ''Some of them will not matter. You will
answer them all or I will hurt you. Do you understand?”
"Yes," she
said. Her teeth were chattering. She tried to stop it, to stop this minor show
of weakness, but she knew that ultimately it wasn't going to
matter. She might as well be weak now. Might as well let the tears that burned
in her eyes fall. Because this man would not stop, not until he was called off
by his superiors.
"Then
we will begin."
He hurt her, and he
hurt her a lot, but never to the point of compromising her ability to survive.
Soft tissue damage, delivered with medical, methodical
efficiency. She was not too proud to scream, to cry, to beg
him to stop.
She
answered all of his questions. Some of them- most of them- she lied.
By the end of it, she was
lying on her side, gasping for breath, weeping in helpless, silent convulsions.
She hated showing weakness, but she also
knew that there was no point in being brave. It meant nothing to him, and it was no shame to her.
He never spoke a word to her. At the end,
he threw something over her - a blanket, a cheap microfibre fleece throw that covered her in blessed warmth.
Lucia curled up beneath it, shivering, beaten, unable to order her
thoughts until the warmth eased some of the pain from her body.
Then, she began to wonder why. Why send
the man in to soften her up? Gregory must have known she was telling him the truth. There was no point to
this. Was this his due diligence? Or something else?
She
had the instinct that something was wrong.
It was difficult, but she
forced herself up to her hands and knees awkwardly, and began a methodical shuffle around the room, inching in a square,
searching for anything at all that might be of any use.
In the far corner,
behind a broken shelf, she found a jagged piece of glass - not large, and not
as sharp as she'd
have preferred, but better than she'd expected to find.
Lucia rolled herself back in the blanket
and began to carefully, carefully saw at the bonds that held her hands together. It was very difficult. Her fingers
were numb and awkward, and she lost count of how many times she dropped the
tiny piece of glass and had to conduct a weary search for it. Pieces of it
flaked away. She was terrified that it would completely disintegrate before it
could serve its purpose.
She
was starting to feel the ropes giving way when the door opened again, the lights
blazed on, and Gregory Valentin Ivanovich came inside.
Alone.
Lucia froze. She
looked up at him, and saw actual emotion flicker across his face: surprise. He
looked at her for a long moment, started to speak, stopped and
shook his head. "Someone brought you a blanket," he said.
"Ah. That's good."
He didn't
know.
"We
found the unfortunate Marko exactly where you said we would," he
continued. "And as you
predicted, there was nothing of interest on his
body. Which brings us back to the same problem, Lushenka - I have no other suspects, no other clues. And
my employers will not accept failure . . ." His voice trailed off
as the implications of the blanket, and whatever was showing in her expression,
began to become clear to him.
Ivanovich suddenly
crouched down, reached out and pulled the blanket away from her, revealing the cuts and bruises, the
damage done.
He looked at her for
a long moment, and she saw muscles tightening in his face, in his shoulders. No
mistaking what that was. Surprise, and fury. He was not quite good
enough to mask it. Or he didn't care to, at this moment.
Gregory put the blanket back around her
with surprising gentleness. "I did not authorize this," he said. "You understand.”
"Doesn't matter
to me whether you did or not," she said. Her voice sounded rusty, damaged,
exhausted. "It doesn't make it all go away."
"I know."
He reached out and eased dark, sweaty hair back from her face, and the warm,
gentle touch of his fingers was almost worse than the torture before. She couldn't
afford to trust him, not for an instant. "I assure you, I will find out who took matters into their own hands in my
absence."
"Management
problems," she said. "How boring. Do you think I care about your
discipline problems?"
"Lucia."
He leaned closer, eyes intent now. Alight with utter sincerity, or a brilliant
approximation of it. "Please. Give me what I need and, I swear to you, I will see
that you walk out of here, alive and free. My word
on it."
"Because
you're such a gentleman." She almost laughed, but she was too tired, too
wounded. "Gregory. Don't bother. I'm not some scared little
comrade, and I know how this works. Don't good cop/bad cop me."
'I’mnot," he said.
"I am employed, my lovely one, and the more I discover of my employers,
the less I like the work. The team is
subcontracted. I now begin to suspect some work directly for my employers, and
not for me. I also begin to suspect that perhaps I am seen as ...
replaceable. I want us both to survive this. That is the truth."
It might even
actually be the truth, Lucia realized. Which meant she really didn't
understand the full extent of things yet. "What do you
know?" she whispered.
Gregory
said, "I know that what they're seeking are the codes to a lockbox. In the
lockbox is something very deadly, which may or may not be this nuclear material that
was described to me. Do you have these codes?"
She
shook her head. It was all starting to become surreal now. She knew what
Ivanovich was talking about’ it was the thing she'd been sent to
Prague to stop: Marko Czerny, terrorist and supplier of terrorists, had been
rumoured to possess a supply of weaponized haemorrhagic feyer. Marburg,
possibly. Maybe even Ebola. In any case, deadly dangerous stuff.
The prototype for a worldwide epidemic of shocking
proportions,
intended for the hands of fanatics who believed their faith would protect them.
She'd
disrupted the sale, but the buyers still wanted the merchandise. Desperately.
'You're
on the wrong side,” she told Gregory. "You know that."
A
faint twitch of his lips, not quite a smile. "I am on the side of money,
as I always am. But you do tempt me to virtue, zolotoi”
"I don't have
any codes," she said. "So let's get on with it. Bring in the second
team again’ he was good at his job. All this talking is boring, and
I'm cold. A little pain will warm me up."
He touched her
cheek. Warm, gentle, a lover's touch. "You're not a stranger to me,
Lucia," he said. "I've studied you for a long time,
you know. Such strength and beauty. Such skill. It distresses me that you've been
caught up in this. We are professionals."
"Well,
you can always just let me go," she said. "But wait. You won't.
Because we are professionals."
"Exactly. I
can't," he admitted. "Not unless I intend to put a gun to my own head
in the process. And as much as I enjoy you, my dear, I enjoy my own
life more." His voice grew softer. "You're freezing."
Her teeth were
chattering again, and Lucia couldn't stop shivering, even huddled under the
blanket. She didn't
answer. Gregon'rose, stripped off his black leather jacket, and draped it
around her shoulders. It was heavy,
animal-warm, andit smelled richly of his skin and cologne.
"Thanks," she whispered. She
hated herself for it. Every courtesy she accepted, every act of kindness, was another thing she'd regret later when he
turned on her. It was how the game was played. She was a fool to think
otherwise.
Lucia tested her
bonds, and felt a strand of rope part with a sudden snap. She froze, hoping he
hadn't heard, but Gregory was pacing now, body language tense
and agitated.
"There's no
purpose to this," he said. "You won't tell me, even if you know, and
to be honest, I doubt you know. And killing you serves no good purpose, either.
There must be another way."
"Let
me go," she said.
1
can't."
"Then
help me."
"I did!” he
snapped. 'You're still alive. Still breathing, if not breathing comfortably.
Believe me, my Lucia, much worse could have been done to you
already." He paced more, still agitated. She pulled on her bonds again, and distinctly
felt the ropes loosen. One more good pull...
Gregory made a
decision of some kind. He altered course towards her, reached down and pulled
her up to her feet. She staggered, uncertain of her balance’
she'd lost feeling in her legs hours before. Gregory held her steady. This is
it, she thought, in a moment of cold clarity. He's going to kill me to save me.
Wonderful.
While
he was distracted, she tensed the muscles in her arms and shoulders, and pulled.
The
rope around her wrists parted and, in the same motion, she brought the thin
shard of glass up, arcing towards Gregory's eyes. Under normal
circumstances, she'd never have missed, but she was cold and slow,
aching, and Gregory had felt the muscles tensing and jerked his head back. Not
much, just enough.
The
glass dug a bloody furrow along his high cheekbone.
Gregory
slapped the sharp edge out of her hand and shoved her down, off balance’ she
fell on his black leather jacket and pushed herself up
immediately, trying to get up, snatch at whatever advantage she'd gained...
She
froze at the sound of a round being chambered, and then Gregory's gun pressed
hard against the side of her head. He was breathing hard, and
his hazel eyes were narrow and hot. Blood was sliding down his cheek. She'd
stopped trembling. He'd just begun.
It took him a long moment
to master himself enough to say, "Dorogoi, you must still have
fight left in you, if you can do that. Good.
You will need it." Then he took the gun away from her head, reached behind
his back, and came out with a
short-bladed knife - wickedly sharp. He sliced through the bonds on her ankles. "Up. Get up."
She
stared at him, confused, convinced for a second that this was merely another
manoeuvre from a clever opponent. But he held out his hand to her, and there
was, in that moment, some connection forged between them, strong as iron.
She
took his fingers and let him lift her to her feet. His arms steadied her and,
for a moment, one moment, she let herself collapse against his
warm, solid body. His breath left him in a slow, regretful sigh as he
combed his fingers gently through her hair. "The lockbox was
destroyed," he whispered, lips close to her ear. "I found it. I put
it, and its contents, through a commercial incinerator. It's a heap of slag
that will never be identified, much less found. The codes are meaningless. Tell
me where to find them."
"I don't know.
I never did." That was, in fact, the truth. She'd killed Czerny because
she knew for a fact that the only place the codes existed was in
his head, and that the lockbox - wherever he'd hidden it -couldn't
be opened without the codes or the contents would be destroyed. It had been the
best of a set of bad choices. "Kill me or let me go,
Gregory."
He'd already turned
against his employers - a deadly position to be in, with these people. She
hoped he'd covered his tracks sufficiently. It was extremely dangerous to tell
her what he'd done, and she automatically assumed he was lying. But
if he was telling the truth ... "Why?"
He knew what she was
asking. "Perhaps even I flinch, from time to time," he said.
''Perhaps you do, as well."
Gregory
Valentin Ivanovich was Russian, through and through - cold, controlled,
perfectly professional, but also emotional, when something touched him
through that reserve. Somehow, she had touched him. And, to be truthful, he
had touched her, too - there was something illogically comforting about being
held by him.
She
turned her head, and they were suddenly looking at each other from the distance
of mere inches, their faces intimately close.
He
kissed her. She gasped, surprised by the sudden, bright warmth of his mouth
seeking hers, surprised by the promise of a connection she didn't
think either of them had looked for, or truly wanted. Complications.
There were always complications to seeing each other as merely ...human.
He
was a very good kisser. Even exhausted, weary and in pain as she was,
she felt a whisper of something inside. If things were different...
But
they weren't different. They were, in fact, just getting more dangerous.
"You
can't let me go," she said. She still tasted him on her lips, warm and
musky sweet, and she wanted to taste him again, deeply. She could
see that same light in his eyes, that need for connection in the cold, hard
world that both of them shared. "Gregory, they'll kill you if you don't
deliver. You said so."
"They'll
kill you no matter what I do," he said. "I am a brilliant
liar, zolotoi. but I can't seem to lie well to you.
So when I tell you that I cannot see you hurt any longer, you may take that as
the truth. There is no point to it. I've walked away many times,
but this time- no. I won't let them have you."
She
swallowed and nodded. "Then what?"
"You
escape," he said. "But you will need to be fast, and ruthless. Do you
understand me?"
She
nodded. She put her arms through the sleeves of his jacket, and wrapped the
blanket around her waist as best she could.
He handed her his
gun. She gripped the warm weight of it reflexively, startled, and looked into
his eyes again.
He pulled her hand forwards, positioned
the gun where he wanted it, and said, "Shoot." His voice was soft, husky and gentle.
She didn't hesitate.
The
noise of the shot was deafening in the empty room, and the kick of the pistol
rocked through Lucia's body and woke agony in damaged muscles.
Gregory was still
standing. His eyes remained open, but they were vague, unfocused, and he put a
hand over the small hole in his side. Blood was starting to
show on his expensive white shirt.
He reached behind his back and pulled out
another handgun - a match for the one she had in her hand. He didn't raise it. Instead, he leaned forwards,
put his lips close to her ear, and whispered, "Very good. Now, run for
your life."
He
staggered and collapsed to his knees.
She
didn't have time to say she was sorry’ it was illogical to even think about it.
She slammed her shoulders against the wall to one side of the
door just as it opened. She fired, not waiting to see who was on the
other side’ no one here, beyond Gregory, had been her friend or ally. It was
the plain woman, the one who'd brought the tea about a century ago.
Lucia shot, killing her in a messy red spray. The woman stayed standing for a
moment, staring blankly, and then her eyes turned up, whites showing, and she
went down.
Lucia
jumped over the woman's body and kept running. Bullets followed her, from a
guard station down
the hall’ she engaged in
broken-field running - or, more accurately, stumbling, considering the devastatingly
numb conditions of her legs and feet. She was trying to avoid presenting a
clear target, and as she passed doorways she yanked them open
behind her to cover her trail. It worked. The air was shattering from the noise
of the guns barking behind her, but she got nothing worse than a graze.
She
hit the end of the hall, and an exit door, and stumbled out into the ice-cold
Prague night - into a chill that took away what little breath she
had left in a ragged plume of white. Stars glittered overhead. Beyond
the door was a shattered landscape of wreckage - a building that had either
been brought down, or fallen of its own accord. Bricks and metal and
timber, all tangled and heaped. Lucia looked around quickly, but
the other options were worse - open ground, bright lights, no traffic or
streets within sight. No other standing buildings close enough to serve
as cover.
It was the best cover
she could hope for, but as she ran forwards she lost the blanket on a ragged
edge of rebar, and her feet began to bleed from the sharp bite
of masonry and metal.
None of that
mattered. It was her only hope, and small wounds could be endured. Had to
be endured. Her breath came fast and broken as she clambered over the
piles of bricks and twisted metal, and there was only one thought
left to her: survive.
Bullets flew over her
head, and sparked on concrete near her body. She risked a glance back. A man
had come out of the door with a rifle, and he was sighting down on her back.
She
heard the flat snap of a shot and waited for the end.
Instead,
she clearly saw the snipers body fall.
Gregory.
He came out of the door, put another bullet in the back of
the sniper's head, and looked up towards her, where she was
silhouetted by the starlight, staring back.
It seemed to last a
long time, that stare, although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds
at most. He wouldn't have risked it.
Gregory lifted his gun and began firing
methodically, carefully, bullets ringing off the metal and stone around her.
Missing
her.
She wished she could
have said something to him. Something like thank you. She could see that
half his shirt was soaked with blood now, black in the moonlight.
She
didn't know how he would survive this night. He'd broken so many rules, and was
still breaking them.
She
didn't know how she would survive, either. Only that she would.
She
saved her breath, turned, and ran as the rest of his team boiled out of the
warehouse behind him. The last she saw, as she crested the rubble
and began to descend the other side, was Gregory holding up his hand to halt their
progress, and then collapsing. Some gathered around him.
Others
came after her.
She
ran hard, for her life.
It was a long, terrible night, a surreal blur of
pain, cold, confusion, and - when she was finally spotted by the local police - embarrassment, because she'd
completely forgotten her state of nakedness. Gregory's leather coat was all
that saved her from being completely nude. The police - not unreasonably -
assumed she had been attacked, and
took her to the hospital, where her injuries were treated. She half expected Gregory
to pop out of the shadows at any turn, for the nightmare to begin again, but
there was no sign of him, or any of his team. No doubt they'd be monitoring the
hospitals and police frequencies, though. She knew
she didn't have much time.
She
called her section chief from the emergency room before she allowed them to
start treating her.
Ten
minutes later, two black sedans pulled up outside the hospital's entrance, and
six men got out - two she knew, including her section chief, Danny Miller. He was young
for his position, not much older than her, but Danny had a streak of useful
ruthlessness that made her seem tame.
He
looked her over in her hospital gown for the space of about two seconds,
"Clothes are in the car. Can you walk?"
Shock had set in, and she
wasn't sure she could, really, but pride made her stand. She took Gregory's black
leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders, and walked under her own power
out of the hospital, in the tight company of the other agents. Danny stayed to talk to
the doctors and police. It only took a few seconds.
She slid into the back
seat of the sedan. Danny Miller got in next to her, and two of the others took
the front. The rest went to the second car.
"How
bad are you?" Danny asked.
“I’ll
live," she said. "Some of the cuts are pretty deep. I'll need
stitches."
He turned and looked her in the face. His
brown eyes were bleak and unreadable. "No," he said. "How bad are you, Lucia?"
She
was still shaking. Couldn't stop shaking. She thought about Gregory, collapsed
on the open ground, left behind, left to be pulled apart by
either his own team, or his employers.
His
choice. She felt sick.
"I
don't know," she said. "I think I'm pretty bad."
He nodded.
"That's what I thought." He leaned forwards and tapped the driver on
the shoulder. "Airport."
"Danny-"
"You're
going home," he said. 'You're of no use to me right now. Get your head
together. Get healed. Then we’ll see."
Going home. That seemed .
.. unreal. Like someone else's fantasy, not her own. She couldn't remember what home was. What it was like.
She
was so cold.
She
wondered if she would ever seen Gregory Valentin Ivanovich again, and if so, if
they would kiss, or kill each other. Or both.
Onboard the agency's private jet, Lucia
wrapped his black leather jacket more firmly around her shoulders and closed her eyes
against the throb of the engines. She buried her hands in the pockets, and for
the first time felt the crisp rustle of
paper against her fingers.
She
pulled out a blank white card, on which was written a phone number. No name.
Nothing to indicate what it was, or why it was there. She smiled
He'd called her zolotoi.
Russians didn't use the same endearments as Americans; it wasn't my
sweet or honey. It meant gold.
He'd
been calling her my treasure.
"Until
later, my enemy," she whispered, in Russian. "Until later."
She
hoped that was true.
VeriSEAL
Marliss Melton
One
Dr Libby Granger, Professor of English
Literature, moved down the dark, echoing hallway towards her office, grateful for the quiet. Winter break had
begun three hours ago when the last student in Victorian Lit. relinquished her exam. The corridor, usually jammed
with college students, stood dim and empty, as someone had extinguished the lights in anticipation of the holiday.
Libby
was the last professor to leave. Why hurry home when her older brother Daren
was out at sea this Christmas? As executive officer of the USS Monterey,
he had obligations that his only living relative had to live
with.
As she turned the
corner to her office, her breath caught to see a dark shape standing by her
door. "Who's there?” she called, hoping wildly
that her brother had come ashore earlier than expected.
But then the silhouette
detached itself from the wall and, with disappointment, she recognized her visitor
as the graduate assistant from the history department. "Mr Kimball,"
she said, reaching for her keys. "What are you doing
here?"
"Waiting
for you."
The
unexpected answer had her searching his face for a motive, but in the gloomy
hallway, she couldn't read his expression. She knew that he was
young and handsome, a favourite among the coeds, who discussed
him with giggles and rolling eyes. According to his introduction to the staff
that fall, he had been a Navy SEAL.
"What can I do
for you?" The realization that they were alone in a dark, locked building
stitched through her thoughts, drawing her in tightly.
"I
was wondering if you had a copy of the faculty handbook."
His bland request mocked
her overzealous imagination. "Of course,” she murmured, fumbling
for her keys.
What else would a
man like Kimball want with her, anyway? As the lock gave, she groped for the
light switch, only to leave the lights off as an afterthought. Halogen lighting
was anything but complimentary to a woman her age- not that she was old at
thirty-four, but she was certainly older than he was.
The cold grey light pouring through
her office window would suffice. Depositing test booklets on her desk, she crossed to her bookshelf to locate the
handbook, all the while aware that Mr Kimball was storing at her.
What was his impression? She was slim, with unruly
auburn hair she kept pinned in a loose knot, held with bobby pins she could never keep track of. Thick but stylish glasses
concealed her best feature: moss-green
eyes identical to her older brother's, only he had twenty-twenty vision.
"Here
you are," she said, handing him the booklet, expecting him to leave.
Instead, he moved
right past her, towards the window, to take advantage of the muted sunlight.
Snow flurries bumped into the windowpane as he flipped
through the pages.
"Can I help you
find something?" Her lack of contact with the opposite sex was so telling.
Here she was, alone in the building with the best-looking single young
man on campus and she couldn't wait to get rid of him.
"I'll
find it," he said, in no apparent hurry to leave.
Turning
towards her desk, Libby began to pack her briefcase with ungraded exams and her
grade book. All the while, she studied him covertly, waiting
awkwardly for him to finish.
Kimball
was an inch or so taller than her brother who stood an inch over six feet.
Broad shoulders and a trim waist gave testament to his military training. His
light-brown hair had grown out of the flat-top he'd first arrived in. A crooked nose suggested it had once been broken. With
full lips and smouldering grey eyes,
she could see why the co-eds were so taken with him.
He reminded her of
Heathcliff, she decided, from Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. There
was something
brooding and unpredictable about him, something that kept a woman breathless.
Glancing up suddenly,
he caught her studying him. "Thank you," he said as she flushed
self-consciously. He closed the book, stepped closer, and
handed it back, brushing her fingers with his in the trade off.
Libby's
ears began to ring - from alarm or sexual awareness? It had been so long, she'd
forgotten how to flirt. His cologne, rakish and subtle, stole
into her nostrils.
"You're
very pretty behind those glasses," he remarked, shocking her into silence.
Pleasure bubbled in her
breast like a geyser, moving up her neck to heat into her cheeks. "Green
eyes," he added, on an inscrutable
note. "Of course."
Was
he flirting with her? Befuddlement kept her paralysed.
"But
not much to say," he added, flashing strong but crowded teeth as he smiled
at her reticence.
Libby
pushed the glasses higher on her freckled nose and broke away. "Have a
good vacation, Mr Kimball," she managed, moving pointedly
towards the door.
With his smile still
in place, he followed her out. "I will. You do the same." He raked
her with a lingering look then walked away.
Libby suffered sudden
ambivalence. What was she doing dismissing a man who'd actually paid her a compliment? Not only was he virile and
intelligent, he was a former Navy SEAL. "MrRimball!" she called.
Halfway
down the hall, he turned back, his smile returning. "Call me Bruce,"
he invited rather smugly.
"Bruce," she
repeated, half-regretting her impulse. What if he laughed at her presumption or
called her an old maid? "Are you ...
heading anywhere for Christmas?"
"No."
His eyes seemed to gleam as he waited patiently for her to continue.
"Me
neither," she said with an awkward shrug. She grappled wildly for words to
suggest they should get together.
Abruptly,
he retraced his footsteps. The soles of his shoes barely squeaked on the
marbled floor as he approached. Libby held her ground as her
former wariness resurfaced. His cologne floated out to meet her as
he stopped about a yard away.
"Would
you like to go out?" he asked, sparing her the humility of asking.
Excitement shimmered
through her. "Oh. You mean to dinner, or ...?"
"A
movie," he corrected, still smiling.
"That
would be nice," she agreed, both elated and terrified.
"OK.
I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven."
She
blinked. They hadn't even discussed what they would like to see. "Pick me
up where?" she asked in confusion.
"At
your house." His gaze dropped briefly to her lips then he turned and
walked away a second time. The shadows began to envelope him.
"Wait,"
called Libby. "You don't know where I live!"
Without
a backwards glance, he rounded the corner to the stairwell and disappeared.
With a worried sigh, she gripped the door
jam. What have I gotten myself into? He hadn't exactly taken her thoughts
into consideration. But then she couldn't afford to be choosy if she wanted an
honest-to-God date in this calendar year. Her brother would be pleased to learn
she hadn't spent the holidays completely alone.
Maybe
Bruce was the prince she'd been holding out for.
Four months later
Libby approached the modest office
building on leaden feet. It was her brother who'd convinced her to come here.
At first she'd resisted. After all, why look a gift horse in the mouth? She'd
seen substantial evidence proving Bruce a war hero. She had
traced the scar on his shoulder, sustained while saving a fallen teammate. He'd let her
hold his Bronze Star, issued by the Commander-in-Chief himself. But somewhere in the back of her mind lurked a certain cynicism.
If Bruce was so young, so brave, so decorated, then what was he doing going out
with her?
The
sign on the office door read VERISEAL. According to her brother, it was staffed
by members of the military who maintained the Naval Special
Warfare Archives. Not only did they perform background checks on phonies
claiming to be Navy SEALs, but they publicly denounced them on their "Wall
of Shame".
Hauling the heavy door open, Libby edged
into an empty waiting room and stood there, uncommitted. The scent of fresh coffee and the cosy seating
area drew her one step deeper. Suddenly, a closed door opened and a man poked his head and shoulders
out. "Can I help you?" he asked, looking surprised.
"I...
I don't have an appointment," she stammered. "You must be busy."
He let the door fall
shut behind him. Shorter than Bruce and more darkly complexioned, he was nonetheless
fit and clean shaven. "Not presently," he countered with a rueful
smile. That smile, paired with his dark-as-night eyes made him suddenly
appealing. As they flickered over her, she was certain he'd noticed
every detail from her practical teaching shoes to the way she clutched her
purse ready to flee.
"What
can I do for you?" he repeated.
Libby drew a deep
breath. "Well, I've come to check up on a ... a
colleague," she finished, wondering why she didn't just say boyfriend. "He
says he was a decorated Navy SEAL, and I'm sure he's telling the truth, but—" She laughed to conceal her awkwardness. But
sometimes I'm not so sure.
"Ma'am,
for every real Navy SEAL there are 350 men who claim to be one," the man
pointed out.
"That's
what my brother said," she admitted. But Bruce was the real deal. He had
to be.
"Commander
Todd Lawson."
Seeing the stranger's hand extended, Libby
took it. The tempered strength of his warm fingers brought her sharply to the present. He smelled of soap and
ironing starch. His white collared shirt had been loosened at the neck, his tie discarded. He
looked rumpled and approachable.
"Elizabeth
Granger," she replied. He had to be older than he looked with a title like
Commander.
"What
do you do, Miss Granger?" he asked with interest.
She
realized she could see her reflection in his dark eyes. "I teach British
literature at the college."
"Doctor
Granger?" he amended, surprised.
She
acknowledged her degree with a shrug. "Yes, well, I'm book smart but not
always practical."
Her
comment drew a quizzical look. "And your colleague? He also teaches?"
"Oh,
no. He's a graduate assistant in the history department." A younger
man.
"I
see. Have a seat, doctor,” he invited. "I'm going to grab my
laptop.” In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, his
stealth reminding her of Bruce's.
Libby
settled into a wingback chair and waited.
She
was glad now that she had come. Soon her doubts and worries would be gone. She
would deepen her relationship with Bruce and, by the time Daren pulled in port, who
knew what kind of news she'd have to share?
As Todd Lawson
re-emerged, she flushed at the direction of her thoughts, not that he could
possibly know them. He placed the laptop on the coffee table then
lowered his lean, compact frame on to the settee next to her. With a glance in her
direction, he opened up the computer and toggled a key. "Let's start with your colleague's name,” he suggested.
"Kimball,”
she supplied, suddenly uneasy that Bruce might discover what she'd done.
"Bruce Kimball. Will he know I've been here?” she
added anxiously.
"Not
unless you tell him,” Lawson said.
Aware
of his sidelong glance, she bit her lower lip and nodded.
"Has
Bruce Kimball told you the number of his BUD/s graduating class?”
"Yes. Class
232." Twisting her hands in her lap, she watched Todd Lawson enter the
information in his laptop. His features were unremarkable, but
pleasant to look at, she decided. Certainly, his straight nose had
never been broken. Those dark eyes, rimmed with even darker lashes, were
mesmerizing, really.
He
turned them on her now. "Has Kimball told you something that made you
doubt his authenticity?”
"Well,
I'd like to know if he really earned a Bronze Star,” she answered
honestly.
"What
has he told you?”
"That
he saved a teammate's life in Fallujah,” she cited, "about a
year ago." She'd heard the story half a dozen times, each
version more elaborate than the last, making her wonder how much Bruce recalled
of the event or whether he had possibly just made it up.
Lawson's
brow furrowed as he listened intently.
"He
was shot in the shoulder,” she added. "And that's why he quit
the Teams.”
"The
marines have safeguarded Fallujah for the past several years,” the
commander commented carefully. "I don't recall any SEALs
operating there recently.”
"Maybe
it was somewhere else,” she decided, unwilling to accept his
implication. "Maybe I'm remembering wrong.”
Lawson looked back
at his laptop, which had stopped clicking and processing. His face hardened as
he skimmed
the information available to him and Libby's stomach clenched. When he looked
up to intercept her gaze, she knew the news
was troubling. "We have a problem,” he informed her gravely.
"What?"
she breathed, bracing herself.
"Bruce
Kimball of Class 232 died in a helicopter crash over the Hindu Kush in
2007."
Libby’s mouth went
dry. The blood rushed from her face to her thudding heart, leaving her
light-headed. "What?" she cried.
"That's
what the archives say," he added, gently. "They wouldn't be wrong
about this."
"But
they have to be wrong," she insisted. "Bruce was injured. Maybe they
just thought he was dead."
There was pity in his
dark gaze as he turned his attention once more to his laptop, typed a few more words,
then turned it so that she could see the scanned image of an obituary:
"Navy SEAL Bruce Kimball one of six to perish in helicopter
crash."
Libby sucked in a
sharp breath and the room seemed to spin. "This isn't right," she
insisted. "Maybe there are two Bruce Kimballs."
"Not in class
232," Commander Lawson assured her. He clicked a button taking him to a
related link. "Or in any other graduating class," he
added on a measured note.
A
chill breeze blew through Libby's mind. She stared at the VeriSEAL
representative, struck dumb by his certainty, her tongue in
knots. Apparently, her magic carpet ride was over. It ended right here.
Lawson's gaze
flicked to the fist she held against her abdomen. "Is Bruce Kimball more
than a colleague, Dr Granger?" he asked gently.
Visions of Bruce
undressing her, whispering his intentions, brought heat flooding back into her
face. "He's
my boyfriend," she admitted, chagrined. How could he have lied to her - to
everyone so cavalierly? "Was my
boyfriend," she amended, feeling nauseated. Why would he have gone to such
great lengths, even taken someone
else's name?
Lawson's
hand, both a comfort and a distraction, touched her shoulder briefly.
"Let's not make any assumptions just yet," he advised.
"I need to do more research."
"I don't understand," she
lamented, thinking back over the last four months with Bruce. Their romance had been sporadic, unpredictable, yet so
intoxicating. "I've seen his Bronze Star." It was one of the first things
he'd shown her.
"You
can buy them on eBay for twenty dollars," Lawson pointed out.
She
didn't want to hear that. "But he has the scar on his shoulder," she
persisted, recalling how she'd often traced it as a reminder of his
heroism. "I have to go," she exclaimed, reaching blindly for her
purse.
He
put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her from rising. "Have some coffee
first," he recommended with a worried look. "You
shouldn't leave like this."
She
sank back down, deflated. He was right, of course. She'd be a liability on the
road.
"Cream
or sugar?"
The
mundane question steadied her. "Both, please," she replied, and he
rose to fetch a cup.
She rubbed her forehead with trembling
fingers. Thank heavens she'd acted on her brother's advice and double-checked Bruce's story. But who would have
predicted he'd stolen a dead man's identity. Why? Had the Navy SEAL story been
his ticket into graduate school? Or did he use it to pick up women? God knew, she'd
believed his lies so willingly. How pathetic that she'd been so desperate for
Mr Right, she could no longer discern Mr
Wrong.
"Here
you go." Lawson stood before her holding out a steaming cup.
She
took it gratefully, blinking back the tears that blinded her.
"Don't be so
hard on yourself, doctor." Lawson's deep voice held the power to soothe.
''Posers can be very convincing. They've found their way into
positions of prestige, even senators* seats. Most of the time, people
accept their stories blindly. You, at least, had the sense to check
first."
Unable
to look at him, she took a bracing sip of her coffee.
"With
your permission," he added, "I'd like to find out who Bruce Kimball
really is."
Her heartbeat
accelerated. "You mean investigate him?" she asked, picturing Bruce
hauled off in handcuffs.
"Yes,"
he said.
"So
you'll tell the police?"
"VeriSEAL
works with the FBI," he clarified.
“I’mconfused,"
she admitted, recalling his title. "Are you military or civilian?"
"I'm
a reservist," he clarified, "with SEAL Team 17."
"You're
a Navy SEAL?"
"Part-time."
His dark eyes glinted at her astonishment, but there was no boasting, Libby
noted. No recounting acts of heroism. His demeanour was humble,
even modest.
I
should have come to VeriSEAL four months ago, she thought. "Go ahead.
Investigate him," she agreed, her heart heavy with
bitterness. "I hope he goes to jail for lying," she added thickly.
"If he's assumed a dead man's
identity then he might. A federal grand jury could indict him under Title 18," Lawson assured her. "But if his
name is really Bruce Kimball, and all he's done is lie about being a Navy SEAL,
there's no law against that. I can list his name on the "Wall of
Shame". The college might dismiss him,
but he won't go to jail for lying."
Appalled,
Libby placed her cup on the table. "How is it not against the law to
impersonate a Navy SEAL?"
'Talk is just
talk," he explained. "Unless you've forged military documents,
display medals or insignia in public, you can lie all you want. And
even those crimes carry just a six-month sentence." He sent her an apologetic
grimace. Obviously the limits of the law did not please him.
"So,
what do I do?" she asked, reeling. "How do I talk to him, knowing
he's lied to me?"
His
expression sobered as his gaze rested on her. "You're better off
pretending we never had this conversation," he told her gravely.
She
gave an incredulous laugh. "What?" How could she possibly treat Bruce
the same, knowing everything he'd ever said had been a lie?
"Elizabeth—"The sound of her first name focused
her thoughts abruptly. "May I call you Elizabeth?"
The question made
her sharply aware of herself as a woman, him as a man. "My friends call me
Libby," she
admitted, as unexpected pleasure simmered inside her.
"libby."
His dark gaze enjoined her cooperation. "You need to know that posers
sometimes react violently when they're called on the carpet.”
It was all too easy to
envision Bruce blowing up at being called a liar. "So I pretend I don't
know," she finished, breaking into a
clammy sweat. "I don't know if I can do this," she added fearfully.
“I’ve never been a good liar,
Commander Lawson."
"Todd,"
he insisted, his dark eyes captivating.
Her
chest seemed to expand. "Todd," she acknowledged, with a tiny smile.
He
slipped deft fingers into his shirt pocket and withdrew a business card.
"Take this."
As
their fingers brushed, an electrical current tingled up her arm.
"Keep my number
close," he instructed. "If you feel endangered in any way, at any
time, I want you to call me," he added
encouragingly.
"Thank
you," she murmured, wondering if he took this kind of care with all his
clients.
"I
also need your number," he reminded her, taking his cell phone off his
hip. "So I can tell you what I've learned," he added.
His tone was steady, impersonal.
He's
just doing his job, she decided, disappointed. She watched his deft fingers
enter her number among his contacts. "Forty-eight hours,"
he assured her, putting his phone away. His gaze returned to hers. "I promise
you'll hear from me then."
She dreaded the
intervening hours when she would have to face Bruce and not betray her
knowledge. With a heavy heart, she reached for her purse and stood.
"Thank you," she murmured, for pulling the wool from my eyes. Suddenly she saw Bruce
Kimball in a whole new light, and the vision was both bewildering and scary.
Todd
trailed her to the door, reaching around her to push it open on to a balmy
April afternoon. "Be careful," he cautioned.
She
glanced up at him, snared by his midnight gaze. "You, too," she
answered, then looked away, chagrined. Why would he need to
be careful? "Goodbye." Beating a quick retreat, she headed to the
parking lot.
Sitting in her sun-warmed
car, she lingered a moment, allowing tears of self-pity to brim in her eyes. Daren would be outraged to hear that Bruce had
turned out to be a fraud. Herself, she was crushed. For a few brief
months, she'd believed she had found the one. Only, this fairy tale had been
written backwards. Her prince turned out to
be a frog.
Two
Aside from the chilling fact
that Bruce Kimball was living in a dead man's shoes, he appeared, on the surface
of things, to be an upstanding citizen. From his records at the DMV to his
social security number, Bruce appeared perfectly legit. Only he hadn't paid
taxes since 2007, when he was buried in his hometown of
Little Rock, Arkansas. Who, then, was the Bruce Kimball impersonating him?
Todd
was determined to find that out before the forty-eight hours was up. He didn't
want to have to call Libby Granger without any answers. He didn't
know why, but he wanted to make a good impression on her.
"So we dig a
little deeper," recommended Special Agent Belli, the FBI's contribution to
VeriSEAL. Todd and Belli had worked together in previous cases. But there'd never
been a case as perplexing as this one. They'd
been following paper trails since yesterday, hoping one of them led back to
Kimball's true identity.
Their present effort
had them standing in the rental office that leased Bruce Kimball's condo - the property7
he'd listed as his address. "Here's the lease agreement," said the
office lady, sliding it across her desk to conceal the fact that her fingers were
shaking. Todd had sensed her nervousness from the moment Belli flashed his badge.
Skimming the stapled
pages, he noted, to his surprise, that there were two designated renters - Mark
Earnest and Bruce Kimball. He flipped to the last page where both men
had signed the lease. Bruce Kimball had a room-mate?
"Could
you identify both these men?" Todd asked the woman.
Her
right eyelid twitched. "Of course."
"In a
line-up?" he pressed watching with interest as she blanched, glancing back
and forth between them.
"I
don't know that I’ve actually ever seen Mark Earnest," she admitted.
"Bruce Kimball didn't have a rental history. Earnest did,
so we used his."
"I
see. We'll take a copy of this," Todd informed her, handing it back to be
photocopied.
"You
wanna bet they're one in the same?" Belli murmured as she moved away.
On their way out of
the office, Todd glanced at his watch. He couldn't wait to talk to Libby
Granger. But first he needed to follow his only lead and hope that it
took him somewhere.
Libby's
office door swung open without warning. Startled, she looked up from her
monitor, dismayed to see Bruce filling the threshold, his posture defiant. Well,
hello, liar.
"Why
haven't you returned my calls?" he demanded irately. "I called you
six times last night."
She
had always admired his fashion sense but today the silver shirt and matching
tie struck her as
overblown.
She found she preferred Commander Lawson's rumpled look. "I'm sorry. Did
you call?" she
answered.
He
huffed his incredulity, "Of course I called. I always call. I wanted to
tell you that the USS Monterey is
pulling
into port a week early. I saw it on the news last night."
"Really?”
Well, that was good news. She was relieved to hear her brother would come home
sooner than previously thought. She needed him now more than ever.
"That's wonderful.”
"I
knew you'd be happy to hear it,” he commented. A smile curled the
edges of his mouth.
"Yes,
I am. Thank you.” She refocused her attention
on her monitor, praying he would take her cue that she
was busy and go away.
Only
he didn't. He stood there watching her. “What are you doing?"
he finally asked.
"Writing
my exams.”
''Exams
are two weeks out,” he said in a neutral voice.
The voice made her
nervous. He'd already sensed a change in her attitude. "Yes, well, I don't
want to have to do it when my brother gets back,” she
hurriedly explained.
Wariness spiked as he
stepped into her office, moving around behind her. She searched her peripheral vision,
wondering what he was doing - checking her work? Suddenly, her screen went dark
and the computer
hummed a descending scale. She realized Bruce had powered it off. "What
did you do?” she protested.
"I just lost my work."
Heavy hands settled on
her shoulders. She flinched then cringed as he slid them lower to palm her breasts.
His voice sounded seductively in her ear as leaned over, cloaking her in his
scent. "All work and no play makes Libs a dull girl,”
he canted. The sing-song voice sent a shudder up her spine.
He spun her chair around abruptly and
reached for her hands. "Come on. Let's get out of here." With a forcefulness she used to find intoxicating, he
tried to pull her to her feet.
"And
go where?” She grabbed the arms of the chair, resisting.
"On
a road trip.”
Her
imagination shot into overdrive. "Why?"
"To see your
favourite lighthouse, silly,” he retorted. "I was going to
surprise you but apparently I can't keep a secret."
Oh.
really? It took all of her will power to let the comment pass.
"I never told you my favourite lighthouse,” she
realized suddenly.
He gave a dark chuckle.
"You didn't have to, Libs. I know you better than you know yourself.”
His possessive gaze dropped to her neckline.
She
wondered if he could see her heart palpitating under her thin sweater.
''Cape
Hatteras is your favourite,” he announced.
She mentally
recoiled. How did he know that? Between her framed watercolours and the
lighthouse figurines on her mantle, it could be any one of a dozen.
"I'm
right, aren't I?" He smiled like a Cheshire cat.
"You're
always right,” she agreed, pretending admiration.
"OK,
so let's go." He gestured to the door.
Libby glanced at the clock on her wall.
Todd Lawson would be calling her cell this afternoon. She had spent the last two days thinking about him,
recollecting the calm, low timbre of his voice. What would he advise her
to do? To behave with Bruce as she always had? That meant behaving
submissively, allowing him to whisk her
anywhere his heart desired.
"OK,
fine," she agreed, hiding her reluctance. "Let me get my purse."
"I
can't believe it," Todd muttered, skimming the records he'd found in
VeriSEAL's archives.
"What?"
Belli prompted. They sat back to back in Todd's miniscule office, with Todd
buried in his archives and Belli working on a laptop plugged into the
FBI's mainframe.
"Mark
Earnest was an active duty lieutenant in the US Navy."
"No
shit," Belli exclaimed.
'There's
more. He enrolled in BUD/s in August of '07. After the fourth week, he dropped
upon request and was sent back to his assigned ship, the USS Monterey.."
"Don't
tell me he was in the same BUD/s class as the real Bruce Rimball."
"Yes,
he was. Class 232," Todd confirmed. "Only Earnest rang the bell and
Kimball graduated.” He drummed his fingers on the top of his desk.
"I need to call Coronado," he determined.
Five minutes later,
he ended a conversation with a Navy SEAL instructor. "We're on to
something,” he told his partner. He could feel the certainty building inside
him, along with a rising uneasiness. "Kimball and Earnest were room-mates at BUD/s. According to their instructor,
they even looked alike.”
"So jealousy's
the motivation,” Belli deduced, scraping the silvery bristles on his
five o'clock shadow. It was only 2 p.m.
"He
would have had access to Rimball's belongings,” Todd continued,
thinking out loud. "He must have stolen Rimball's military
ID, which he used later to impersonate him."
"Makes
sense,” Belli agreed.
'Yeah
but there's something else,” Todd intuited. "Something we're
not seeing."
They
shared a long, thoughtful look. Then Todd glanced at his watch. His time was
up. He owed Libby Granger a phone call, only he couldn't bring
himself to call her when he didn't know the full story yet. "Follow his
career path," he instructed, swivelling back around. "What did he do
after he dropped upon request?" Libby Granger deserved better
than a shot in the dark.
"Well,
well," Belli commented, fifteen minutes later, "would you look at
this?"
Todd
swung around and squinted at the document on Belli's screen. He realized he was
looking at a DDG-214 - Mark Earnest's military discharge papers.
Belli pointed a
beefy finger at a line near the top. "Check it out. He was dishonourably
discharged from the navy."
The
news yanked Todd's scalp tight. "When was this?"
"Ten
months ago."
A
month before Bruce Kimball had been Interviewed by the college. “What'd
he do to get kicked out?"
Belli
hit a button that forwarded him to another page. "He was
court-martialled."
Worse
and worse, thought Todd. "What for?"
"Attacking a
senior officer. Says here, 'Lt Mark Earnest and Lt Cmdr Daren Granger engaged
in a verbal altercation that later exploded into violence. Granger
allegedly announced at muster that Earnest had returned to the ship
from BUD/s, having dropped on request. Claiming he had been publically
humiliated, Earnest
attacked Granger with a steak knife while dining in the officers' mess.
Granger, who is skilled in hapkido. defended himself and stabbed Earnest in the
shoulder. Earnest was court-martialled and discharged. Witnesses testified on Granger's behalf and he was absolved
of any wrongdoing.”
Granger.
Todd felt suddenly like a trapdoor had opened up under his feet. Jesus. "Check
to see if Granger is related to Elizabeth Granger,” he ordered,
hoarsely. "I've got to make a phone call."
Libby's
cell phone chimed the theme song from Monty Python.
Kicking herself for not
turning it off, she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, out the front window of
Bruce's Jeep, praying he couldn't hear it,
what with the top off the Jeep and the wind howling in their ears. He loved driving that way, making her hair slip
from its knot and whip wildly around her face. But his sharp sidelong glance assured her he'd heard it, anyway.
Feigning
puzzlement, she dug in her purse and pulled out her phone. Sure enough, Todd
Lawson was calling her. Adrenaline mixed with pleasure and burning
curiosity goaded her to take the call, but she didn't dare, not with Bruce
listening in.
"Who
is it?" he demanded.
"My
brother," she lied, naming the first male acquaintance to jump into her
thoughts. "The ship must be close enough to shore for
his cell to work.”
That
same enigmatic smile curled Bruce's lips. "Go ahead," he said.
"Call him back."
"No,
it's too hard to talk when the top's down,” she replied, stuffing
her phone out of sight. "I'll try him later.” Turning
her face away, she pretended interest in the passing scenery.
Two
minutes later, Bruce exited the highway to find a gas station.
Wind-chapped, with
her hair in disarray, Libby slipped into the convenience store to return
Lawson's call. Forprivacy, she locked herself in the ladies' room.
He answered on the
first ring. "Where are you?" he asked in the same deep voice she'd
found so soothing, only this time it was tinged with urgency.
"I'm
with Bruce,” she admitted. "I didn't want to go with him, but I
thought he'd be suspicious if I didn't.”
“Go
where?” Todd asked.
"To
the Cape Hatteras lighthouse."
A
heavy pause followed. "Are you there now?"
"No,
we just left the college. We're about to take the expressway off Interstate
64." She stared wide-eyed at her wind-blown reflection.
"Why? What did you find out?"
"Listen,
I want you to distance yourself from him."
His
phone was breaking up. She wasn't certain she had heard him right. "What
did you say?"
"His
real name is Mark Earnest. He attempted SEAL training in 2007 but he dropped
upon request after—”
His voice cut off suddenly.
"Are
you still there?” she asked, reaching for the sink as the floor
seemed to shift.
"He
went back into the regular navy, serving aboard the USS Monterey." Todd's
voice came to her distinctly this time.
"Monterey?
That's my brother's ship,” she said with
surprise.
'Yes.
Earnest worked with your brother.”
"My
brother knows Bruce - I mean, Mark?” The name change was confusing,
"He's
been seeing you for the wrong reasons, Libby."
The
words echoed unpleasantly in her mind. "What do you mean? What
reasons?"
"Just
try to get— Call me back when you—”
Frustrated that his
voice was cutting in and out, Libby glanced at the bars on her phone. Maybe the
problem was on her end. A sharp knock at the door startled her, and the phone
clattered to the floor, its battery falling out. "Just a
minute!” she called, scrambling to put it back together.
"Hurry
up, Libs. We don't have all day.”
It
was Bruce - make that Mark. He sounded edgy.
“I’mcoming,"
she called, her voice strained. She felt as if she were standing on shifting
sands. Everything she'd assumed to be true about him had proven a total fabrication.
With trembling
fingers, she put her phone back together and dropped it in her purse. Exiting
the bathroom, she stumbled headlong into Bruce - Mark - a man
who'd supposedly worked alongside her brother yet had never
admitted to it.
"Something
wrong?” he asked. With a lock of hair falling over one eye, he
seemed so impossibly young and handsome. He was all veneer and no
substance, she realized, a strange man with an even stranger agenda.
Thank God she had learned all this before he could mess up her life any more
than he already had.
"I
don't know,” she said, thinking of Todd's advice. "I'm not
feeling too well. I think we should go back.”
"After
we've come this far?” he said incredulously. "Not likely."
And with the same determination he'd demonstrated in her office, he seized her
elbow and marched her back outside to his Jeep.
Libby cast an
uncomfortable glance around them, but no one seemed to notice her reticence as
Mark trundled
her into his Jeep and took off.
She
figured she might as well get this road trip over with. The sooner they saw the
lighthouse, the sooner he would take her home, the sooner she'd be done with him.
"Can't this Crown
Victoria go any faster?” Todd complained, wiping his clammy palms on
his jeans. For reasons he couldn't explain, he'd started sweating bullets over
Libby Granger's safety.
On
cue, Belli floored it. They screamed down the interstate at ninety miles an
hour, flashing blue lights to warn adjacent drivers. "What makes you so sure Mark
Earnest wants vengeance?" Belli asked. "Maybe he just likes Granger's sister."
"Right, so he tells
her he's a Navy SEAL," Todd mocked. "Lie to the woman. She'll never
know the difference."
"Maybe
he's delusional," Belli argued.
"No.
He knows exactly what he's doing," Todd refuted. "Everything he's
done to this point has been for a reason. He moved to the area, morphed into Bruce
Kimball, and went to school near the sister of the man who ruined his career. He's been circling her like a shark." Closing
in for the kill.
Belli
sent him a startled glance. "You got something for this girl?" he
asked.
Todd looked sharply
out the window. Libby Granger's eyes had reminded him of a pond, hidden in a
still, deep wood. "Maybe," he admitted, thinking he would love to
explore those woods.
"No shit," the agent marvelled.
"I thought you were a confirmed bachelor. What are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?"
"Forty,"
Todd said, shortly.
"You
look good," Belli admitted, impressed.
"Yeah, well, I
don't smoke and I work out. You should try it," Todd retorted, toying with
his cell phone. He redialled Libby's number, but she didn't answer.
Fuck, he thought, his gut
churning.
Wasn't
this just the way of the world? He'd finally come across a woman he could fall
in love with and a psychopath had already beat him to her.
"Aw, shit, I forgot my
camera," Mark Earnest exclaimed at the base of the lighthouse. It loomed
over them, jutting into the sky like a giant phallus. He liked the
powerful statement that it made, like a big "fuck you". Its
bold barber stripes raped the soft blue sky. "I'll be right back," he
promised, chucking Libs under the chin as he raced back to the
Jeep.
Of
course, he'd left the camera on purpose, so he'd have an excuse to run back and
check her cell phone. Not that it really mattered that her brother
was calling her. There was no way in hell Daren Granger could ever guess who
his sister's boyfriend really was, not unless he saw a picture. He wouldn't
learn the truth till it was too late.
The
stiff breeze caught the driver's door, jerking it open. Mark groped behind his
seat, grabbing the camera first then dragging Libby's purse
nearer. Finding her phone, he powered it on and waited impatiently
for her missed calls to pop up.
There
were three of them, all from the same number.
If
this was Daren calling, he was certainly persistent. With his curiosity peaked,
Mark hit reply and called the number back,
"Libby,"
said an urgent male voice. "Where are you? Did you get away?"
With
a jab of his thumb, Mark silenced the voice, powered off the phone and dropped
it thoughtfully back in her purse.
Had
that been Daren's voice? It hadn't sounded like him. And why would he be telling
Libby to get away?
No
one could possibly know of his intentions.
But she'd been
nervous, he recalled. She'd been feigning a headache, asking to be returned
home. Someone had clearly been filling her with doubts.
Denial
ripped through Mark like shrapnel. Who and how, when he'd been so careful to
cover his tracks? The only person who knew he'd changed his name was Sheila, the
woman at the rental agency. He'd paid her
extra to keep her quiet.
Maybe Libby had done it inadvertently.
Maybe she'd taken a picture of Bruce with her cell phone and forwarded it to Daren, who'd recognized him.
Either
way, the seeds of his revenge had been disturbed. He couldn't risk earning out
his plot as planned, in case someone were going to interfere.
Turning from the
Jeep, Mark Earnest glared across the parking lot to where Libby stood in the
shadow of the lighthouse, gripping herself against the blustery
chill. Already he'd sensed a change in her, a distancing that made him suspect.
Between
the phone call and her cool, new demeanour, it became apparent that he needed
to move up his timeline. This was not how he'd planned her
demise. His gaze slid up the elegant striped shaft of the lighthouse. But there
was beauty in the drama he envisioned- not to mention poetic justice.
What
was the saying he so enjoyed? Ah, yes. There was more than one way to skin a
cat.
"I don't think I can make it," Libby protested,
eying the endless spiral staircase. Over the course of her lifetime, she'd climbed these wrought-iron steps
several times, but today her knees trembled weakly and her legs felt leaden. She couldn't shake the cold
foreboding that sat like a lump of ice in the pit of her stomach.
"Sure you can.
FH be right behind you." Bruce's - or rather, Mark's - smooth assurance
left no room for argument.
Surely, with other
visitors touring the lighthouse, he wouldn't try something violent, she
reasoned. But
Todd
Lawson's warning to distance herself echoed like a death knell in her mind.
Ahandful of sightseers
passed them on their way down. Libby made eye contact, but propriety kept her from speaking her fears. What could she say that
wouldn't make her sound like a lunatic. Save me? They would think
she'd lost her mind.
Yet the closer they
came to the wind howling at the exit to the balcony, the more Libby's agitation
stirred. "It sounds too windy," she pointed out.
"Oh,
come on, Libs. Those other people did it. Well just take a couple of pictures
and head down."
He
steered her out the door ahead of him, on to the elevated metal platform, 200
feet off the ground. The wind buffeted her, and she staggered
against him. Throwing an arm over her shoulders, he drew her away
from a visiting couple and towards the other side of the tower. "Check out
the view, Libs." The wind snatched his voice into the sky.
She'd seen the view before.
As a child she'd sat up here for hours, hoping to glimpse the legendary ghost
ship of Diamond Shoals. Today the volatile sky, the craggy treetops and the
fitful ocean, a thousand yards distant, struck her as hostile. All she
wanted was to head back down.
"Stand right
here," said Mark, abandoning her at the railing. She seized the cold
wrought iron to steady herself. "Let's
take some pictures for your brother," he suggested, fiddling with his
lens. "Smile, Libs."
Considering
his words, she sent him a strained smile. He snapped off several shots then
slipped his camera back into its casing and looped the strap over his head. As
he moved towards her again, a dark glitter entered his eyes.
She searched for the second couple, only to realize they had just left.
"Poor
Libs," Mark commented, pinning her between the railing and his breadth.
Powerful fingers caught her chin and angled her face upwards. "You don't
have a clue, do you?"
"About what?" Her apprehension
abruptly resurfaced. Given the cruel strength in his fingers, he struck her as
suddenly ruthless and unpredictable.
"You think lighthouses are so
romantic. You think I brought you here because I love you," he
accused, mocking her naivety.
Words
that should have hurt her sat like a bitter pill on her tongue. "That's
not true," she retorted. "I know more than you
think." Instinct urged her to reveal what she knew, to limit his sense of
power.
"Oh,
really?" he derided, his mouth curling with scorn. "Tell me then,
Libs. Tell me why I brought you here." He gloated over her helplessness as
he gripped her arm.
"Let
me go," she pleaded, unable to break away from him.
"Tell
me why first, if you're so smart."
"Because
of my brother," she guessed.
His
nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. “What about your
brother?"
"I
know you knew him and you never told me," she admitted, praying someone
else would join them and bear witness to his bullying. "I also
know your name is really Mark Earnest," she added, tossing it out,
praying the truth would
sober him to reality. "I know you're not a Navy SEAL."
"Shut up!" he
snarled, shaking with sudden violence. "You don't know any more than your
brother knew." His eyes narrowed into slits of rage as he
pressed her back against the railing. "He discredited me in front
of the entire ship's crew," he hissed on a note that raised goose bumps.
"He told every sailor at muster that Td washed out of
BUD/s."
A vein bulged on Mark's forehead.
"That was none of their fucking business! The instructors had it out for
me, OK? I could have made it. I could've gone back and made it, no problem, if
your brother hadn't pissed me off. The son
of a bitch ruined my whole fucking life!"
"I'm
sure he didn't mean to discredit you," she reasoned, terrified of his
instability7.
"Oh,
yes, he did," he insisted. "He tubbed my face in it, Libs. He goaded
me so that I'd get kicked out and never have the chance to go back."
Releasing one arm, he caught her face
again, forcing her to hold his wild, reckless gaze. "Sweet Libs. Daren loves you so much. You were all he ever
talked about." Glittering eyes roamed her face, taking in the disgust
and terror she couldn't hide from him. "I'll send him the pictures. He'll
know I did this. I want him to know he fucked with the wrong guy." With
that warning, he snatched her off her feet and set her on the railing.
"No!"
Libby threw her arms around him, fighting to keep her weight inside the
balcony. "Stop! Please," she cried as he steadily
prised her fingers loose. "Bruce! Mark! Don't do this!"
"Don't
fight me," he crooned on a strangely soothing note. "Just let go, Libs,
Let go."
"Hold
it right there!"
Mark's head swivelled. Rage contorted his
features as two men appeared on either side of the tower bearing pistols
pointed at his chest. With a cry of relief, Libby recognized Todd Lawson. Oh,
thank you, God, she silently prayed. Thank
God!
''FBI!" shouted
the second man. In a glance, she noted he was swarthier and stouter than Todd.
It was Todd's
dark gaze she clung to like a lifeline. Save me! she silently begged him, her
throat too closed with fear to make a
sound.
"Put the woman
down and back away slowly," he commanded. There was an authority in his
voice, a focus
that stirred her admiration, causing her heart to thunder with hope.
He
would save her, he would!
"The charade's
over, Mr Earnest." Todd's black trench coat flapped against his thighs as
he drew nearer. "Put the woman down," he repeated,
calmly, "and we'll end it here."
Her
terror was just beginning to subside when Mark turned his glittering gaze on her
and smiled.
To
Libby's horror, she realized exactly what he intended.
"No!"
she screamed as he jumped over the railing and into thin air, dragging her down
in his wake.
Three
Todd lunged for the rail,
reaching for Libby as she fell with a hoarse scream. His extended fingers
brushed her clothing but closed over nothing. Too late! Suddenly,
with a cry, she stopped falling. She had caught the lip
of a wrought-iron skirt on the outside of the lighthouse. She clung to it,
momentarily, her hands white-knuckled as she dangled in the air,
Mark Earnest hanging on her waist like a heavy anchor.
"Hold on!"
Todd cried. Without a thought for his own safety, he hurtled the railing,
dropped to a knee on the narrow outer ledge, and reached for her.
Don't let go!
Libby's
face was a reflection of stark horror.
He
lunged for her, managing to seize her wrist like a manacle. In the next
instant, her fingers slipped. Todd's grip tightened reflexively, but the tremendous weight
tugging at him was too much. He groaned, knowing
he could not sustain it.
A
triumphant smirk split Earnest's face. The bastard knew he'd won.
"Belli,
shoot him!" Todd roared, confident of his friend's marksmanship.
Crack!
Belli fired and Earnest twitched, but did not let go.
Libby's cry of terror swelled in Todd's brain. "Again!” he
shouted and Belli, shifting to his right, fired another shot. With a strangled
cry, Earnest let go, and dropped.
Without his weight,
Libby seemed suddenly as light as a feather. Confidently, Todd pulled her up
next to him. As she clutched the railing, he swung out around her,
cradling her from behind to prevent an accidental slip. Together
they dragged themselves upright. Then Belli took over, drawing Libby to safety over
the railing. With his adrenaline receding, Todd clambered after her.
Libby, enfolded in
Belli's arms, turned to look at Todd. He realized she had lost her glasses in
the tumble. As he stepped forwards, Belli immediately
relinquished her.
Todd escorted her
into the shelter where they collapsed on the grooved flooring, their backs to
the tower wall. Opening his trench coat, he invited her to join him
inside it to ward off the chill that left her shuddering. She fell against him. With a
silent groan, he revelled in her softness and scent. "It's over," he reassured her.
To his dismay, she buried her face in his
chest and burst into quiet sobs. "Shhh," he soothed, running a hand
up and down her spine as she shuddered against him.
She
lifted her tear-streaked face to look at him. "You risked your life to
save me," she marvelled.
Satisfaction
surged through him. "I'd do it again, if I had to," he admitted
gruffly.
With a cry of
gratitude, she kissed him, right on the mouth, her lips ice cold but
exquisitely soft. "Thank you!" she breathed, and her eyes glimmered
with admiration.
No
one had ever shown him gratitude like that, he thought, wanting nothing more
than to warm those lips up.
He couldn't have been
more pleased when she kissed him again, this time with even more fervour. She was just beginning to warm up in his embrace when
she made a sound of need in her throat and parted her lips invitingly.
She
needed confirmation, he realized - confirmation that she was still flesh and
blood, not dead like the body lying in a twisted heap at the base of
the lighthouse. Call him an opportunist, but Todd was pleased to give
her all the confirmation she needed.
All
she had to do was ask.
As a piercing nautical whistle signalled
its arrival in port, sailors aboard the USS Monterey scurried to secure
the CG-61 to its berthing. Squinting against the sun, Libby sought the familiar
figure of her older brother standing on the bridge in his dress whites. As the
executive officer, he was easy to spot, standing adjacent to the captain, on a
deck five full storeys above the marina where Libby stood waving her flag. Sunlight glanced off the ripples of the Elizabeth
River, the conduit to Norfolk Naval Base, homeport of the US Atlantic Fleet. With the sky a flawless blue,
it was a perfect day for a homecoming.
"There he is!"
she cried, pointing Daren out to Todd as she leaned lovingly against him.
Fluttering her flag with patriotic fervour, she managed to catch Daren's eye a
moment later. From a distance, she could see
his gaze narrow under the brim of his cap. He studied Todd for a critical
moment then inclined his head in a
gesture of acceptance and thanks.
To think he might
have looked down from the bridge and seen a familiar but unwelcome face
gloating up at him.
Libby
shuddered. Daren had been horrified to hear that Mark Earnest, the lieutenant
he'd seen ousted from the navy, had plotted an elaborate scheme to avenge himself.
A thorough search of Earnest's condo had revealed chilling evidence that he'd
intended to murder Libby today, when the USS Monterey pulled into Norfolk.
Only,
thanks to Todd, Earnest's deceit had been exposed, his plans foiled. Tipping
her head back, Libby regarded her prince. To think that a Navy
SEAL could seem so deceptively ordinary, she marveled - not too tall,
not too handsome, except in the eye of the beholder.
She had learned since
Earnest's demise that there were less than 2,500 active duty SEALs in the
service, and only 325 reservists like Todd, It made sense that the
most heroic men in the world would also be the most rare.
Mark Earnest might
have looked like a Navy SEAL, but he could never have become one, regardless of
how many times he might have attempted BUD/s. His instructors had noted
character flaws in him -arrogance and narcissism. They would have
ensured his failure, every time.
To be a SEAL, you
had to be a team player. You had to be humble, open to the idea that there was
always more
to learn. Evidently, you also had to be an extraordinary lover, Libby mused,
with a slow, satisfied smile.
Shoot to Thrill
Charlene Teglia
One
Gabe was used to the truism that no plan survives contact
with the enemy. But no plan surviving contact with
a hostage, that was new.
"Houston, we have
a problem,” he transmitted. He uploaded the digital photo he'd
snapped of the slender dark-eyed, light-haired woman who
wasn't supposed to be there, and waited for identification.
It didn't take long
for the satellite uplink to give him what he needed. Name: Dr Miranda Gray.
Missing from
an international volunteer relief organization for a month. The doctor
specialized in nasty viruses. If she'd been
grabbed for her expertise that would explain her presence at his target, a
suspected bioterrorism site held by
a radical terrorist group deep in Central America.
He didn't have to wonder
if she'd cooperated. The way she'd just rendered her guard unconscious as he watched said it all. Dr Gray had an interesting
bedside manner. The guard outweighed her by probably eighty pounds and had the
advantage of both reach and height on her. Her knowledge of anatomy more than compensated.
"You're
not supposed to take on the bad guys," Gabe muttered, more to himself than
to the woman he had under surveillance from his vantage
point outside the building. "That's my job." More specifically, his current
job was to destroy the target. The doctor's presence threw a very large monkey wrench
into the works.
He'd have to extract her first, get them both a safe distance away before
triggering detonation, and do it all
without alerting unfriendlies to his presence.
Gabe
was running through possible approaches when the doctor's actions demanded his
full attention. What was she doing? Running from the now unconscious guard, almost
frantic but with hands that stayed rock
steady, she seemed to be measuring out and mixing something in a beaker. It
looked like charcoal
and...
"Tell me that
isn't what I think it is," he hissed. Was she insane? If that was black
powder, stirring it wrong could blow her sky-high. He hoped to
God she wouldn't sneeze.
Conclusion: Dr Gray
knew exactly what her captors had in mind, and she was hell-bent on stopping
them. Getting out alive didn't appear to be part of her plan, either. Then
again, the very careful way she mixed the ingredients told him she wasn't
suicidal. Just desperate and determined.
Gabe
abandoned his careful planning and raced into action.
Miranda focused on the task at hand with fierce
concentration. It was just lab work. She was used to that. She had to be precise and careful, follow
protocol. The rules were the rules, whether you were dealing with vaccine samples or blood work. Or mixing
gunpowder a step ahead of the goons who were likely planning to dispose of her sometime in the very near future.
She'd been safe as
long as they needed her. She wasn't safe now. As the days slipped by, she'd
given up the slim hope that some embassy official, or reporter or
former co-worker was campaigning for her rescue.
She'd probably been
given up for dead. She might even be dead before the night ended. But it'd be
on her terms.
Her
terms did not include surviving just so she could live with the guilt of
countless deaths on her conscience. Deaths she could prevent if she
was fast enough, strong enough, brave enough. Careful enough.
Monks had killed
themselves mixing gunpowder by hand like she was doing. If she blew herself up before
she finished her task, it'd be for nothing. So she was going to be very, very
careful.
A
noise behind her made her body freeze while her heart accelerated and her mind
raced ahead. Somebody was suspicious, coming to check in, maybe coming
to get some entertainment before killing her. Rage instead of fear
nearly choked her. She wasn't finished, the bastards weren't going to win, not
when she was so close. Fire was all she needed. The black
powder would make sure all the samples were destroyed before the fire
could be put out. She would start the fire now and hope for the best if that
was all she had time for.
"Please don't
drop that," an American male voice said behind her. There was a trace of
the South in it, a hint of Texas. "Don't be afraid. I didn't mean to scare you.
My name is Gabriel Everest and I've been sent here
to rescue you."
There was a moment of
silence, and then Miranda realized he was waiting for her to make the next move.
He could probably smell the acrid gunpowder over the must and metal and
antiseptic odours that permeated the lab and didn't want to startle her into doing
something they'd both regret.
"I'm
not finished," she said without turning around. She felt his gaze on her
back and wanted to draw her shoulders in as if she could make herself a smaller target.
But stopping her task might mean not finishing,
so
she resisted the urge. She was going to do this.
"That's
OK," Gabriel said, keeping his voice calm and level, soothing. "It's
OK to just let it go, gently, and step back. I’m here. I’ll
help you.”
"You
can help me start the fire," Miranda said and finished her job. She began
to pour the powder around the lab, concentrating on the samples stored away in their
sealed cases. She didn't look at Gabriel. He
wasn't trying to stop her, so he wasn't important right now. Looking at him
would mean taking her eyes off the job at hand, breaking focus. You didn't
break focus in the middle of an operation, in the middle of surgery. People died if you did that. People
would die if she didn't burn it all.
"Dr
Gray. Miranda," Gabriel said. "Can I call you Miranda?"
"If I'm alive an
hour from now, you can call me anything you want to," Miranda said
absently. But her full name sunk in. He knew
who she was. None of them knew; they just called her la doctora. And sometimes laperra. "You really are
here to rescue me."
"And
to make sure the biologicals here don't get used as weapons."
"That
would be smart," Miranda said. "The tire has to get all of it."
She turned to look at him for the first time, and was glad she'd waited. The impact of
him rocked her back on her heels. Not just the visuals, but the way he tilled the room with his presence. An
air of command and an undercurrent of something waiting to be unleashed.
Since
the total effect of the man overwhelmed her, Miranda broke him down into
smaller pieces. She noted the square jaw, the watchful grey eyes,
the dark hair worn in a crew cut that looked regulation. Broad shoulders. Fatigues
designed to help camouflage him in this jungle setting but did nothing to
disguise the powerful body they covered.
Hands that looked very capable gripped a weapon she couldn't begin to identify, but it looked lethal and probably had a
loud bang.
They
sent GI Joe to rescue Dr Barbie, Miranda thought. She hoped he had his Jeep
handy, or some other kind of getaway machine.
"What
are you burning, exactly?"
Miranda
blinked and snapped back to the present moment. "Anthrax."
"Anthrax?"
Gabriel reached out, caught her wrist, and pulled her to his side in what
seemed more a reflex than a planned action. "Live?"
"Sealed
in the cases."
She saw him scan the
cases and register the fact that there were a lot of them. She was pretty sure
if he hadn't been in the middle of rescuing
her, he would have said something that took four letters to spell. But his Southern upbringing wouldn't let him say it in
front of a lady.
"Fire
will destroy it," Miranda assured him.
He
nodded. "Medical advice?"
"Don't
breathe any in, and don't get any on you."
His
mouth twitched but he didn't smile. "Right. How'd they get it?"
"This is
Guatemala,” Miranda said, fighting the urge to scream. They needed
to start the fire and run like hell, before they got caught. "It
crops up naturally from time to time here. They found it when some guerillas
got sick. Then they had to kidnap somebody—”
"You,"
Gabriel interrupted.
"Me, yes. I could
treat the victims, identify the plague and vaccinate the healthy, while the
others cultivated enough to annihilate civilization."
"I
don't suppose I could talk you into waiting to blow this place to smithereens?”
Miranda shook her
head. "This can't get out. They have to be stopped. And they're going to
move tomorrow.”
"OK,
then let's clean house. How fast can you run?"
Miranda
thought of being caught in the fire, or worse, inhaling the lethal spores. She
shuddered. "Fast." Adrenaline would give her a boost and
she'd burn every reserve her body had if that's what it took.
"All right.
Here we go." Gabriel pulled something out of his jacket and slapped it on the
counter to pin the centre of the lab. He grabbed her and pulled her to the
doorway, glued to his side. He checked the hallway. When he found it clear, he
brought them both into the hall and reached down with his free hand to retrieve
something from his boot. A remote trigger to get the fire started,
Miranda guessed. But before he could activate it, two guards rounded the corner
and they found themselves face to face with the bad guys for a silent,
heart-stopping, eternal moment.
Then somebody
shouted and the guards brought their guns up. Gabriel was already moving,
pulling her to one side so his body shielded hers. He pushed her down while his
hand came up with a weapon in it. He was faster than the guards and he didn't
miss. Miranda was still trying to figure out what had just happened when
he hauled her back on to her feet and dragged her into a run. He reached for
the detonator again. This time he wasn't interrupted. She heard
the distinctive crackling sound of fire erupting in the lab.
They raced down the
corridor together, footsteps accompanied by staccato bangs as gunpowder went up
and glass specimen cases shattered. Gabriel burst through the door a beat ahead
of her. Miranda stayed on his heels, the heat from the blaze they'd unleashed pushing
at her back like a giant hand.
The night air felt damp and cool in
contrast. Miranda sucked it deep into grateful lungs and ran faster. They made
it out of the clearing and into the jungle before the whole building went up
with a whooshing sound.
Two
Miranda
flopped on to her back like a fish, too spent to care what creatures might be
on the jungle floor
with her. Besides, if it
weren't safe, Gabriel wouldn't have let them stop here. So she let herself rest
despite the
adrenaline that urged her exhausted form to keep going.
She'd
sprinted before. She'd just never tried to sprint for more than a mile, and
sustaining that impossible pace probably meant her body was
going to present her with one hell of a bill in the morning.
But,
thankfully, one group of lunatics wouldn't be able to cause swaths of horrible
deaths now, and that was something. Although most of the band of radicals who'd held
her hadn't been in the building that just burned
down. Which meant she was going to have to get up again.
"How
much of a head start do we have on them?" Miranda managed to ask.
"Not
enough." Gabriel finished his study of their surroundings, slid something
back into what she thought of as his "Bat belt" and
reached down to take her hand. His fingers closed over hers, warm and strong and comforting,
despite the fact that he was only tmng to get her back up on to her cramping
legs. "The plan was to light up the
target from a nice, safe distance. Since we jumped the gun, we'll have to evade
pursuit, get to the extraction point
and wait for pickup."
"Right."
Miranda let him pull her to her feet. That put her closer to him than the usual
rules of personal space dictated. Not that she minded. He was bigger, faster
and stronger than she was, and he was keeping her safe from bad guys. She had
to fight the impulse to move even closer, as if that would make her safer. "Do you do this sort of thing often?"
"It's
not just a job. It's an adventure."
He delivered the
military recruiting motto deadpan. The unexpected humour startled a laugh from
her. It sounded a little dry and rusty, but she hadn't had much to laugh about
lately. It felt surprisingly good. "Thanks."
"For
helping you commit arson?"
"That,
too. But I meant, thanks for the laugh. It's been a while." She realized
her hand was still in his and belatedly tugged it free. "And thanks for
getting me out of there. I didn't expect to be rescued."
"You can thank
me for that when you're safely on your way home," Gabriel said.
"Right now we're in the middle of nowhere being chased by armed,
angry men. This is a rescue in progress."
"Still. Thank
you." Miranda wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, shivering.
"I'd run out of time. And if you hadn't come for me, they
would have caught me trying to burn the lab before I got the job done.
You saved a lot of lives by showing up. Not just mine."
"Let's
get you all the way saved." He turned and led the way. Miranda scrambled
to follow, wondering how long it had been since he'd gotten the
appreciation he deserved for doing a thankless job. It was clearly something
he was uncomfortable with.
Then again, how often did
her patients or their families appreciate her efforts? No matter what
she did, some cases were hopeless. Some
jobs you did because it was what you were good at and they needed doing. And some days, knowing you'd done your best was
all you had to cling to before falling asleep and waking
up
to do it all over again.
Miranda stumbled on a rut and refocused
her mind on the present. Staying on her feet and staying alert took all her concentration as minutes blurred
into aeons. Finally Gabriel waved her forwards.
"Through
there is a small cave. We can hole up and rest."
"Rest
would be good."
Miranda
crawled through dense greenery into the rough shelter. Gabriel settled beside
her, handed her some kind of snack bar and began to munch
one himself. She gnawed hers and shook her head at the taste. "Makes
hospital food seem like ambrosia.”
'Your
body needs the fuel. Eat your vegetables, doc,"
"Are
there vegetables in this?" Miranda did her best to chew and swallow
without tasting. Her body did need the fuel, and hopefully the bar contained
some metabolic magic to offset the stores she'd burned.
"All
the essential nutrients. You could live on these. Not that I recommend
it."
They finished their
meal in silence. Gabriel offered her a canteen of water. She drank a lot less
than she wanted, mindful of the fact that supplies were limited.
Dinner over, Gabriel spread out a thin, foil space blanket
he'd unfolded from his pocket and arranged it so there was room for them to lie
on it and cover themselves. He stretched out and patted the
area beside him. "Come on. Sleep if you can. Rest if you can't."
"I could
probably sleep standing up," Miranda admitted. She crawled into the
makeshift bed with him. It pretty much filled the tiny cave, so it wasn't like
she had anywhere else to go, anyway. Even if he had had a spare
blanket, there wasn't enough room for separate bedrolls. Shetried to keep a
little space between their bodies by settling on her side with her
back to him. He flipped the cover over her without a word.
The silence stretched
out. Despite her exhaustion, Miranda couldn't make her mind stop racing. The
close call she'd had with those guards. If they'd caught her . . . if she
hadn't managed to get away before their plans were in motion
and she no longer had any strategic value . . . Nightmare scenarios rolled through
her head as she shuddered.
"All
right over there?"
"F-fine." Miranda forced the
word out, then shook her head and abruptly flipped over, facing Gabriel. "Actually, no. I'm not all right. I'm
jittering like a junkie going cold turkey, my body feels like lead and my brain
keeps replaying the worst parts of the last few weeks plus bonus extras of what
might have been." She sucked in
a breath, expelled it and reached to take off her shirt before she thought
better of it. She peeled it up and over her head, then unfastened her pants and
began wiggling out of them.
"What
are you doing?"
"Getting
naked."
"That's
not a good idea."
"It's
the best one I've got." Miranda finished pulling her feet free of
entangling cloth and pressed her nude self up against his
fully dressed form. "We've both had a lousy day. Tomorrow might be worse.
If they
catch me, they're not just going to
shoot me. They're going to have fun with me first. I can either lie awake for the rest of the night
thinking about that, or I can give myself something a lot more enjoyable to
focus on."
Gabriel's arms closed around her in a move
that might have been intended to hold her still. "You don't have to have sex with me to distract yourself. We
can talk."
She
shook her head. "I don't want to talk. I need to do something. Think of it
as stress relief. Or a bonus for a job well done."
"Dr
Gray."
"Nice distancing technique,"
Miranda muttered. She groped for buttons and zipper, dealing with them with more brute force than dexterity. "My
name is Miranda. And I don't want to be professional or reasonable right now so you can save yourself the
effort of appealing to my title.”
"This
isn't happening."
'Yes, it is."
She finished unfastening and bared some skin to press hers against. Warm.
Human. "You want it, too."
"I
don't want you to do something you'll regret." But he didn't try to push
her away.
"I'm not going
to have regrets tomorrow. You can't tell me you have everything but condoms in
that Bat belt of yours."
"'Bat
belt'?" He let out a laugh, then sobered. "Miranda." He moved to
rest his forehead against hers, keeping his hands still.
"Did they hurt you?"
"Not like you
mean. Not while they needed me for their plans. But I knew everything would
change the minute
I became disposable. And, Gabriel, there were a lot of them." A shudder
racked her. "It would've gone on and on
forever before they killed me. If they killed me."
You're sure this is what
you want?"
She nodded.
"I'm sure." She could doubt a lot of things, but she knew to her
bones that she needed this, needed him.
He
blew out a breath. Then his mouth found hers and there wasn't any more talking
for a long time.
Afterwards, Gabe rested on
his back with Miranda sprawled across his chest, limp and spent. Her hair
spilled on to his shoulders. He smoothed it back, silky1 smooth
against the rough palm of his hand. His other hand stroked up and down her
spine, noting how easily he could feel her ribs. "Need to feed you something better than
MREs," he murmured.
"Uh-huh,"
she agreed in a husky voice. "Talk dirty to me. Tell me about Texan
food."
"Why
would I know about Texan food?"
She poked him. "Had a room-mate from
Texas. The accent's kind of unmistakable. And you're living proof that everything's bigger there. What part
are you from?"
He didn't try to fight the grin that
spread over his face at her words. "Austin. Good mnsic. Hot food. If yon
eat there, don't underestimate the little peppers."
"The
voice of experience.”
"Habaneros
aren't for everyone."
"Just
people who don't need that layer of skin inside their months," Miranda
agreed. "I'll skip the peppers. I just want a grilled steak so big it covers the
plate. And a baked potato. With everything on it. Cheese. Bacon. Sour cream. Butter."
"I think you
forgot chives," Gabe said, amused. He wanted to buy her dinner for the
sole pleasure of watching her sate herself with food the way she'd just sated
herself with him. That wiped the smile off his face. Somebody else would get to sit across from her and pick up the
tab. Somebody else would be there for Miranda
to turn to when she had other hungers to feed. She had a life to go back to,
and it wasn't one he could be part
of. She saved lives. He took them.
"Them, too. And
an entire cheesecake for dessert." She yawned and stretched like a sleepy
kitten, obviously undisturbed by the future she contemplated.
"What branch are you, anyway? Navy?"
"No.
The slogan just seemed appropriate. Used to be Green Beret."
"Used
to be?" Miranda raised her head to rest her chin on his chest. "Ah.
Delta Force."
"The
existence of Delta Force has never been officially acknowledged."
"Tell
that to somebody who hasn't been living in a banana republic."
"Speaking
of which, what are you doing in Guatemala?"
She laughed, a low, easy sound that
pleased him a lot more than it should have. "What's a nice girl like me doing in a place like this? Doctors are needed
everywhere, not just in American hospitals. Virologists are concerned about preventing a global pandemic. I
went where 1 was needed."
"Some
thanks you got for it."
"You’ve
significantly improved my experience." She patted his chest in
appreciation.
Her
sleepy voice and relaxed form were proof that she felt secure with him, but she
wouldn't truly be safe until he got her out. Gabe was all too aware
of the risks they still faced. His arms tightened around her as if muscle
alone could protect her. He realized what he was doing, and forced himself to
relax his hold.
So, small blonde
doctors with smart mouths and more guts than sense made him feel protective. He
could live with that.
He
should have suggested they get dressed again, put some space between them. But
that might make her tense up all over again, and she needed
rest. He also didn't want to let her go just yet. It wouldn't hurt to allow
her to sleep where she was. So he held her naked in his arms while her
breathing deepened and guarded her rest.
Miranda
woke up with a male body wrapped around hers and for a disorientated moment
couldn't remember what had happened. Then it all came back in a
rush. She must've made a sound, because Gabriel was suddenly awake,
gun in hand as he searched for the cause for her alarm.
The ability to go from a
dead sleep to ready for action was a trait soldiers and medical professionals shared, apparently. "At ease, soldier,”
she said, sitting up and stretching. She didn't miss the way his eyes went
to her chest and paused for a lingering moment before continuing up to meet
hers. "Sorry. I woke up and suddenly
remembered last night."
His face underwent
some subtle transformation from alert to impassive. As if not sure how welcome
her memories were. GI Joe needed reassurance from Barbie? The world was full of
wonders.
"I
don't have any regrets,” Miranda stated. "OK, I might regret
that I threw myself at you, but I figured you were too honourable to
make a move.”
She
reached for her clothes but didn't hurry. If he wanted to look, he was entitled
to look. After what he'd done for her, he could take pictures if he wanted. Something to
remember her by. The whimsical thought caused
an unexpected pang and Miranda realized she wanted him to remember her. Wanted
to be more than another grateful
female who'd fallen on her back for him. Although, technically, he'd been the
one on his back.
Thinking
like that was not going to help either of them, so she stifled the emotion,
stuffing it away in the compartment reserved for disruptive feelings that
threatened her ability7 to think clearly. Men like Gabriel had
missions. They did not have relationships.
She had a head start, but he dressed
faster. He had everything stowed neatly back in his Bat belt before she finished slipping on her shoes.
He handed her another
snack bar.
"Breakfast
of champion escapees,” Miranda murmured. 'Thanks. What's the plan
now?"
"Hide.
Run away. Get to the water and get on a boat.”
''Simple.
I like it." They weren't too far from the Pacific; it'd be a straight shot
up the coast past Mexico to the US. She preferred to gloss over complications,
like men with guns who'd try to stop them, and her lack of
a passport. "Will there be a boat waiting?"
He
nodded. "We'll get picked up. We just need to get there."
"It's
funny," she said after managing to chew a bite thoroughly enough to
swallow. 'There's been a little over ten years of peace here, after decades of
civil war. I never thought too much about how fragile peace can
be, how much work might go into keeping it. You'd think everybody would've had
enough of the lighting. It hasn't been long enough for people to have
forgotten."
Gabriel shrugged.
"Some hope to profit from it Some want revenge. Some just want to bring
down what others build up."
"I can't imagine
being willing to take all those lives." She stared at her feet, brooding
over the close call. A band of lunatics had been not just willing
but eager to start a plague, not caring how many innocent people would
die.
Gabriel
didn't answer. Miranda went back to eating in silence.
Three
Gabe waited out the day
with Miranda's proximity a constant distraction. She was close enough to touch
in their confined space and it took all his control to keep
his hands to himself. He had no business touching her.
Bad enough that he couldn't stop wanting to. Better to focus on the job. All he
had to do was get her on a boat without either of them getting caught
and then it"d be over. She'd go back to her life. He'd go on with his.
And then he could stop hoping for a repeat of last night, minus blowing up a
building together as fo replay.
Minutes and hours
stretched out interminably. When he judged it safe, he got them on the move.
The need for caution made progress slow. Every sound had him hyper-alert, but
no ambush came. Miranda moved more quietly than he expected and followed his
lead without question. She went still when he motioned her to stop, hid when he
indicated she should take cover, and stayed with him, mile after mile, without
a sound of complaint.
They made their way
to the coast without encountering anybody, and emerged from a mangrove swamp to
a black volcanic sand beach just after the sun set. The moon was a crescent
sliver in the sky, surrounded by pinpoints of stars. It wasn't as dark
as he'd like, but it could've been worse.
"Take
your shoes off after we wade out into the water," he said in a low voice.
Miranda nodded, her
bright head too easily visible even with minimal moonlight. "We're going
for a swim?"
"A
short one. You can swim, right?" If she couldn't, he could tow her but
that would slow them down.
“I’mnot
an expert, but yes."
"Good."
They were waist deep in the Pacific with
footwear discarded when there was a sharp burst of gunfire behind them. Gabe
felt the side of his arm burn as he grabbed Miranda and dived underwater. They
swam for the boat's location with an adrenaline-fuelled
burst of speed. He made sure she was pulled over the side first. Then he
followed, and the engine roared to life as the boat headed for the open sea.
"Your
arm," Miranda said, staring at it. "You got hit." She came
towards him and pushed the sleeve up, exposing his bicep. Her fingers explored the
wound, gentle but firm. "No bullet embedded. It looks like it grazed you."
"Just
a flesh wound," Gabriel said.
She
fussed until somebody handed her a first aid kit, then she applied antiseptic
that stung even more than salt water had, and wrapped the wound in
a bandage. "It's probably going to leave a scar."
"I
can live with that." It would be a constant reminder of how he'd gotten
it, which would make forgetting her a lot more difficult. But he'd rather be the
one wearing the memento of their adventure while she went home unscarred and unscathed.
"Looks
like you both got lucky," said Dale, the one who'd armed Miranda with
medical supplies. "Glad to see you safe, Dr Gray.
Nobody knew you were in that compound. If Gabe hadn't spotted you before giving
the go signal for the air strike, the building might've gone up with you
inside."
Miranda stared at
Gabe for an endless second and he knew she was remembering the first words he'd
said to her. How he told her he'd been sent to rescue her.
"Lucky," she echoed. Then she turned away.
He
told himself he was glad. Better for her to remember him as a liar.
The next few weeks were a blur. Miranda
told her story, gave as many details about the group who'd taken her
captive as she could, and wished she could roll back time to the day before her
view of the world changed. Since she couldn't go back, she
wanted desperately to go forwards. She returned home. Once she was clear to
return to work, she threw herself into it. The Chicago virology clinic that
employed her wasn't the same as being in the field, but working
stateside was still better than having too much time on her hands.
The
long hours and the fast pace suited her, but she needed to work harder on
getting over the man who'd probably already forgotten she existed.
And she really had to stop turning every time she heard a male voice with a
certain timbre, stop taking a second look whenever she saw a man whose height
and breadth looked familiar.
Even at home in her
solitary apartment, memories invaded in the form of dreams. "I'm not
obsessed," Miranda informed her reflection in the mirror after she'd
ducked into the bathroom and splashed herself with cold water. "I
just wanted to say goodbye."
She'd
thought she'd have a chance to thank Gabriel for completing his rescue, however
unplanned it had turned out to be (the idea gave her chills even now), but they
were never alone after they got on the boat. She
could almost believe he'd been avoiding her. Maybe he'd thought she'd throw
herself at him again and wanted to
spare them both the embarrassment.
Maybe
she would have. Maybe she owed him another thanks for preventing that. Still,
the sense of something
unfinished gnawed at her.
Miranda
made her way to her office, where she had a consultation scheduled that marked
her last appointment for the day. When she opened the door and saw a
military-style crew cut in a shade of dark walnut above broad shoulders
and a muscular back, she bit back a groan. She was seeing him in her patients
now.
Then
the man turned around, and grey eyes pierced her. She had to lean back against
the door to keep
herself upright.
"Gabriel."
His name slipped out in a tone that gave entirely too much away. She
straightened with an effort and made her way to her desk. Hiding
behind it might give her a chance to compose herself.
"Miranda.”
He nodded at her and took his seat across from her.
'You wanted to see me?
Professionally?” Oh, God, he hadn't been exposed to something exotic
and horrible, had he? But no, he looked healthy. Strong.
Virile. Miranda got a hold of herself with an effort and stopped there.
"1
wanted to see you. Personally.”
“Oh." Good. Because
she didn't sleep with her patients. Although technically she'd already made an
exception with him. Then again, she hadn't patched him up until after she'd
slept with him. "You could've called.
I left my number for you.” And she'd felt like a moony teenager
doing it. Hoping the boy would call, knowing
he probably wouldn't.
"I thought you
might feel more comfortable seeing me on neutral ground than having me call you
at home,” Gabriel said. "In case hearing
from me triggered any unpleasant associations.”
"Unpleasant. .
. Oh, you're wondering if I've developed posttraumatic stress problems?
Strangely, no. It turns out assaulting one of your captors and setting the building
on fire in which you were held captive is highly
therapeutic.”
"So
it doesn't disturb you to see me." He shifted and reached up to rub his
arm as if it twinged.
Her eyes followed the movement, and the
memory of his torn and bleeding flesh rushed back. "Does it still hurt?”
"No,
it's healed fine.”
"Oh. Good.” Could she
sound any more idiotic? "Gabriel, I'm glad you're here. I never got a
chance to thank you.”
He
gave her an unreadable look. "For what?"
"Getting
me out. Getting shot doing it.”
"I
lied to you, and I had sex with you when you were vulnerable.”
Miranda
couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth at the memory.
"You didn't exactly take advantage of me. You were just
too gentlemanly to fight me off. And you didn't exactly lie, you just
didn't tell me the whole truth.”
One
brow skated up. "That doesn't bother you?”
"Why should it?
Look, when you came to get me out of the lab, you didn't know me. You didn't
know what I was doing. You needed to get my
trust and cooperation. What were you supposed to do, say, 'By the way, you're
standing on my target. Would you get out so I can call in the air strike I have
scheduled'?"
His
lips twitched. "I wouldn't have dared. You were armed and dangerous. Not a
woman to mess with."
Miranda
spread her hands. 'You had to make a judgment call, I do the same thing in my
profession. You
said the right thing. You
did the right thing. You're a hero, so don't you dare sit there and tell me you
came to apologize for anything."
"I
didn't come to apologize.” Gabriel squared his shoulders and leaned
forwards slightly. "I came to see if I could take you to dinner.”
"Dinner?"
She stared at him.
"Steak
that covers the plate. Baked potato with everything on it. All the cheesecake
you can eat."
So
he remembered. "I'd like that.”
"Good.
I made reservations.”
Miranda
didn't try to stop the grin from widening. "That sure of yourself?”
"No, but I
figured if you turned me down I'd still need to eat. And if you said yes, I
wanted to have a table someplace decent.”
"Chicago
has many decent restaurants.” She dimpled at him, feeling as fizzy
and sparkly inside as if she'd been handed a glass of champagne.
"And
afterwards, maybe we could talk."
"What
about?”
Gabriel
shook his head. "First I have to ply you with food. I owe you a real
dinner."
He watched her eat with a look of
satisfaction in his eyes. Miranda savoured every bite, and did her best to demolish
a sliver of cheesecake when they finished, but it defeated her. The
conversation was light and casual through the meal, but afterwards, when he settled his
hand on her lower back to guide her through the restaurant and back outside,
she felt a sense of something building.
They
walked along the Lake Michigan shoreline, "Glad we don't have to outswim
any bullets tonight,” Miranda said. "I'm too
full. I'd sink.”
“I’d save you."
"You're
too full, too."
“I’d
find a way."
"You'd
have something in your Bat belt, I'm sure," Miranda agreed, but despite
their light words, the atmosphere between them thickened. The
suspense unnerved her, so she decided to be blunt. "You've wined
me and dined me and fed me cheesecake so divine I heard a choir of angels
singing when I took the first bite. Is this the point where you tell
me what you wanted to talk about?"
She
could almost feel his focus aimed at her. "This is the point where I
mention that I'm on leave and I'd like to spend some time with you."
"Oh."
That was more than she'd hoped for. "I thought maybe you only had time for
dinner."
"Sometimes it
might be just enough time for that," Gabriel said in a voice that sounded
carefully neutral. "Sometimes not even that; plans can get cancelled
without notice."
"I get emergency
calls, too, you know," Miranda said, trying not to put too much importance
on his inference to future events. "Believe me, I
understand how quickly plans can change.”
"I
tried not to call you," Gabriel said abruptly. "I tried to stay away.
I told myself it was better that way."
"Better
than what? One or both of us breaking a date sometime in the future?”
"Better
than complicating our lives.”
"Complications
aren't always bad,” Miranda pointed out. "I could date somebody
simple, but it wouldn't be fair.”
"Why
is that?"
''Because
I'd be thinking about you.” There. She'd said it. She waited to see what
he'd do.
He
slid his arms around her and drew her closer, until their bodies touched. He
bent his head towards hers. "We live very different
lives."
"Not
so different, really,” she said thoughtfully. "We're both
committed to something we believe in. In our own ways, we're both
trying to make the world a better place. Our jobs can be dangerous. They're
always demanding. Sometimes our best isn't good enough, and all we can do is keep
showing up to try again. Listen, are you trying to talk me into
dating you, or out of it?”
"I
want you to know who you're getting involved with.” His lips brushed
her temple as he spoke.
Miranda pressed closer and slid her palms
up his chest. "I ran from gun-toting goons through a swamp with you. I think we've got that covered.”
Gabriel let out a
short laugh and tightened his arms around her. "Most relationships don't
start with a trial by tire.”
"Think of it as
a shortcut. We got to see each other under extreme circumstances. I could have
had a hundred dates with you and not learned as much.”
"I learned a
lot about you," he said. "You're gutsy and determined and focused.
You keep your head and your sense of humour.”
"I know you're
trustworthy, loyal and brave,” Miranda said. "You have great
taste in restaurants and you remembered everything I said I wanted.”
"I
was paying very close attention,” Gabriel said. "I wanted to be
the one who got to feed you the dinner of your fantasies. If you have any other
fantasies you'd like fulfilled, I'm your man.”
Her man. The sound of
that gave her a ridiculous, giddy thrill. "I have this fantasy,”
she admitted to his shirt. "We walk hand in hand along the
shore. And then we go home and make love all night long. In the morning, we
look at each other over breakfast and just know we want to see each other
across the table twenty years from now.”
"I
knew that when I watched you try to eat an MRE across from me on the morning
after."
"Well,
that might be where my fantasy came from,” Miranda said. "I
didn't think you could be mine, but I wanted you.”
"Same
here." He feathered a kiss along the side of her cheek. Then he stepped
back and took her hand in his, fingers twined together and gave
her an intent look that stopped her breath. "Hand in hand along the shore.
Let's get started.”
Knowing
all the rest that waited for them, Miranda fell into step beside him.
The Angels of Punishment
A Special Forces of Heaven story Michele
Albert
"Well,
now, if it isn't my favourite celestial GI Joe. I wonder what brings you to my
neck of the woods?"
A
tall, black-clad figure, standing with his back to her, let out a most
un-celestial snort. "Hello, Prima."
"Ahadiel."
"I've
been tricked into a binding spell. Somehow, I doubt you're all that surprised
to find me here."
Prima emerged from the
protective shadows of her hiding place, next to a truck that was parked behind
the local Walmart, and walked towards him. Snow crunched beneath her boot
heels, sounding unnaturally loud, and she
glanced up at the dense blackness of the night sky. Nothing to see: only fat
snowflakes swirling in the jaundiced
glow of parking-lot lights.
"I'm no angel,
in any sense of the word." She stopped well outside the spell boundary.
"As it so happens, I'm a bit pressed for time and you're not exactly easy
to reach."
"But
a binding spell, Prima? Really?"
She
gave a shrug. "Really."
It
couldn't hold him indefinitely, of course, but she only needed to immobilize
him long enough to hear her out - and long enough for any lingering divine
wrath to cool down to non-apocalyptic levels.
"Pathetic,
such tricks. I expected better of you."
Ahadiel
turned, and Prima braced herself against even his fading, brittle brilliance.
The Children of Heaven were creatures of light, and their bone-white skin - so
unlike humankind's varying tones of earth and clay - was all the more striking
when combined with black hair and sky-blue eyes flecked with the colours of the sun.
She
shared that same pale skin and dark hair, but eyes were the mirrors of the soul
- or so she'd often heard in this place - and her grey eyes
served as a reminder that she and Ahadiel, despite outward similarities,
were worlds apart.
"Well,
you shouldn't have," she said. "We've been of use to each other in
the past, but I am what I am. I owe Heaven no loyalty."
"Nor
Hell?"
"Nor
Hell."
As she watched,
Ahadiel tested the spell boundary with a playful poke. His nails looked human
enough, if a little longer, sharper and darker in colour, but
she'd seen them in action. When fully extended, what they
could do to flesh and bone was terrifying in its finality.
Her
spell held, if barely, with a cantankerous crackling, and Ahadiel snatched his
hand back.
He
smiled, brow raised. "It's weakening."
"I know.”
Despite the threat edging his quiet taunt, she couldn't help smiling back. A
little. "But, as you'll have noticed, you are still
trapped."
Another un-celestial
snort. Ahadiel might be angry, but he wasn't threatened by her - a point he
soon made
very clear. He circled the perimeter of the boundary with a single nail
extended, sword-like. In his wake, he left
red, sparking trails of energy.
That
had to hurt, yet his only visible reaction was a slowly broadening grin. When
he'd completed his circuit, he said, "I made it
bleed."
He'd also made the
back service drive glow, and at 3 a.m. in a sleepy rural city, that would be
noticeable to anyone - or anything - in the vicinity.
Prima glanced upwards
again, all the while telling herself he wasn't showing off for her benefit and,
even if he were, she wasn't in the least impressed.
"Look, I know critical thinking skills
aren't one of your strengths, that you're all about the smiting, but let's not
attract any unwanted attention."
"As if a
summoning and a binding are low key." Ahadiel was still smiling. "If
you'd wanted to bask in the glory of my magnificent presence, all you had to do
was ask."
She might have
laughed, if she hadn't known that his arrogance was only partially feigned.
"I'm not here to flirt with you."
"If
you insist." He made a show of looking around him. "And where,
exactly, is 'here'?"
"Rhinelander, Wisconsin . .. and
don't you give me that look. I have a place here because it's pretty and the winters are long." She let out aloud
sigh, and the misty puff of breath curled skywards, mixing with the blowing snow. "None of which has anything to
do with why I summoned you."
"You
tricked me with a ruse of—"
"Not
that much of a ruse. I really do know about Raguel."
Immediately, she had
his full attention. Perhaps a little too much of his attention, because his
wings began to manifest. Warily, she watched as countless
filaments of light, snapping with power, unfurled from behind
him, hungry with a need to join, to expand, to take form - and to unleash their
power, in the blink of an eye, on some hapless target.
Angel wings were not
feathered, as humans imagined, but all those iridescent threads, looping back
into each other in their grid of electric-white intensity, could be considered
feather-shaped.
"And
how do you know of this?"
"I
was informed."
"By
whom?"
Prima
arched a brow. "Who do you think?"
"Nirgal."
When she nodded, he added flatly, "This matter is none of his
concern."
A
true demon and not a fallen angel, Nirgal acted as Hell's counterpart to Raguel
and his cohort of celestial enforcers. The humans had once
classified him, in their quaint tomes on demonology, as Lucifer's spy, the head honcho of
Hell's secret police. Crude and overly simplified, but accurate to a small
degree. Lucifer ruled over Hell, but only
through brute force and fear. Nirgal and his team of demons and allied Fallen
were charged with keeping the peace among their own kind, minimizing
interference in mortal affairs, and
holding off angelic aggressions. With Raguel on the celestial side and Nirgal
on the other, they maintained the critical balance in the politics of power
between Heaven, Hell and all related interstices. Or so was the general idea;
some millennia, that was easier said than done.
"There
are signs of ... trouble, which is why Nirgal sent me
to find you, no doubt assuming you would do the hunting and fighting while I
provide the intel, so to speak. He has good reason for believing Raguel knew about the situation
and attempted to intervene, and that's why he's now missing."
"And
the nature of this trouble?"
Right
now, she couldn't be more relieved that a boundary, no matter how weak,
remained between them. "You're not going to like
this."
"What
I do or do not like is irrelevant. Answer me."
"We work
together on this, Ahadiel, or else I keep the information to myself and you
find your brother -or not - on your own. Deal?"
"Angels
don't make deals. We intercede."
"Fine.
Shall we arrange a joint intercession then?"
"Not
until you answer my question."
She
had been instructed not to, in no uncertain terms. "And I can't do that.
Not until I have your word that you will cooperate with me and—"
"And,
by extension, those who are my enemies."
"But
I am not your enemy," she said, quietly. "I'm as neutral as it gets,
Ahadiel. Not a demon, not an angel, fallen or otherwise. Hell doesn't want me,
Heaven doesn't want me . . . I'm tolerated, no more, no less.
If I defy Nirgal, I'll be punished for it. I think you can understand my
reluctance to take that chance."
"Release
me, and I'll protect you."
Tempting
- very tempting - but still too risky. Sensing her spell had nearly exhausted
itself, however,
Prima
took a step back.
"There are only
seven of you Angels of Punishment,” she said, with a calmness she
didn't feel. "As the eldest and strongest, Raguel's the one who handles the major
troublemakers. Or did, anyway, and though you
don't know what's happened to him or where he is, you know you need to find
him, fast. Because something isn't
right, and lately you've been called down to this mundane little place far too
often. Haven't you?"
"Release
me," Ahadiel repeated.
"Without me and
what I know, you won't find him and a minor incident might become something
much, much worse."
"For
the last time, release me."
Words had power, his
especially so, the force of them lashing outwards. His wings filled the
boundary sphere, burning white, their edges
sparking and sizzling as he strained to break free.
She was only a Peri,
the child of fallen angels, and nowhere near as powerful as even the lowliest celestial,
much less one of Azrael's elite warriors. While she dared not give him the
answers he wanted, not without his binding promise in return, she
could still offer an olive branch of sorts and voluntarily turn him loose.
At this point, she
didn't have much to lose - and she had nothing else to give but her trust that
he wouldn't
incinerate her on the spot.
Prima closed her
eyes, then touched her mouth with her right hand, coloured with red ochre, and breathed into it.
Pressing that same hand against her heart, she whispered: "With this
breath, true of heart, thou art released."
A
sudden rush of wind whipped her hair into her face then ended with equal
abruptness on a soft hiss, like a last sigh leaving the body. When
Prima opened her eyes again, Ahadiel stood a hand's span away.
"Sumerian.
That's an old one." Each word brushed against her skin with a tangible
heat. "Simple, and most impressive."
"Thank
you." Taking a deep, steadying breath, she added, "You're ...
standing too close."
His smile
returned, dazzling, but hardly beatific. "Don't you trust me?"
While it didn't seem
as if he were itching to smite the ever-loving crap out of her, she couldn't
tell for certain. He'd behaved well enough the other times they'd
teamed up, but a handful of encounters over a thousand years
wasn't much to rely upon when it came to betting odds.
"I
have my failings, but rank stupidity isn't one of them. Now back off."
After a moment, recalling whom she was ordering around, she added,
"Please."
Instead, Ahadiel
moved even closer, his body brushing against hers, and cupped her face in his
hand. Startled, she froze.
"You
are very beautiful, very entertaining and very tempting," he said quietly,
the pad of his thumb
brushing along the curve of
her lower lip. "But I serve the will of Heaven. You would do well to
remember that, and never trick me again.”
"Never
is more than I can promise,” she managed to answer, wondering what
hidden motivations or intentions might explain his unusual - and
most unsettling - behaviour. "But “1 try to keep any future trickery
at responsible levels. How's that?”
"Most
generous of you." The caress - and it was a caress; no mistaking that -
persisted, with slightly more confidence. "Had another of my brothers responded to
your summons, it would not have gone well for
you.”
"I know.”
She
could hardly concentrate on what he was saying over the tiny - and thoroughly
astonished - voice in her head that kept repeating: This
isn't right. He's never acted like this before, never touched me like this, never
spoken like this...
"I
meant what I said. If you want to see me, just ask.”
His
touch both warmed and soothed, but with a static buzz of something darker at
its edges. So soft and mild, hardly noticeable at first. The longer the contact, however,
the more that fuzzy edge sharpened, the innocuous white noise becoming louder
and harsher. Those too weak to endure it were driven mad, to the point of clawing away at their skin to be rid of
it.
Touched by an angel...
not exactly a Hallmark kind of moment.
Fortunately, she was mostly immune - a
shared lineage had its advantages - but he;d rattled her enough that she'd failed to correct his assumption. She
hadn't been unwise enough to summon just any Angel of Punishment. She'd
summoned the only one she trusted.
"I'm sure you'd
rush right over, if you could find the time to squeeze me in between salting
cities and slaughtering firstborns.” Retreating to a
safer distance, scowling to hide this strange, unexpected alarm, she said,
"Would you power down those wings already? Again, I'm not your enemy. I'm
here to help.”
"I
don't need your help. I need answers.”
The unblinking,
birdlike intensity of his gaze didn't change, but the wing glare faded until
nothing remained
but that faint incandescence all celestials carried with them. Even that would
fade completely if he stayed long enough in
this place. While among their mortal charges, angels wore black for a reason: when
one glowed with all the allure of a liquor sign in a lonely one-horse town, one
needed to counteract that inconvenience as
much as possible.
His boots, pants and
shirt were black, as was the long woollen coat with its deep hood, which he
could pull down over his face. In contrast,
Prima wore jeans, winter boots in tan and black, a puffy cherry-red parka and a colourful Sherpa earflap hat over her
long hair. Not terribly glamorous, but she blended in with the other 8,000-plus inhabitants of Rhinelander.
With a body temperature somewhat higher than a human's, she preferred cool climates, and the cold didn't really bother
her. Celestials weren't affected by
either
heat or cold. If it weren't for the Day-Glo issue, Ahadiel would probably be
naked right now.
Avoiding that
particularly uncomfortable mental image - as well as his earlier demand - she
said, "It sounds like you were maybe a
little worried about me."
"I suppose you
could call it that." He moved off a short distance. "I'm guessing
Nirgal knows I like you well enough not to kill you if you yank me
around like some common Djinn."
"Nirgal
uses me because of what I am. My imprint is almost identical to that of a
human, which makes it more difficult for demons and the Fallen to
find me. Angels too, for that matter.”
Again,
she glanced at the sky - because "difficult” didn't equal
"impossible" - and by the time she looked down,
Ahadiel had again drawn closer.
'You
keep doing that." He frowned. ''Are you in danger?"
"Probably. I'm
not the bravest of the brave, but I've been careful. I haven't sensed anything
unusual, and there isn't exactly a high population of our kind in this
area. I mean, unless it turns out the Hodag really is a Hellbeast that's
somehow escaped my notice all these years."
"The
Hodag?" For a fraction of a second, Ahadiel's eyes went unfocused, then he
blinked and said, "The fur-covered creature seven feet long and thirty inches high,
with white curved horns, long tusks and sharp claws. A cross between a Komodo
dragon and a demonic pug. Multiple appearances in signs and statues. City mascot. Photographed in 1896 by Gene Shepard,
local businessman."
Prima arched a brow
at the stream-of-consciousness flow of words, as Ahadiel tapped into what she cheekily
called the "Spark", a collective residue of electromagnetic brain
impulses emitted by all living creatures. Within a scant second,
Ahadiel had filtered through the memories and consciousness of 8,000 co-mingled
Sparks in Rhinelander. Celestials heard and understood all human languages and
nonhuman verbalizations.
When someone prayed, the angels - and others - did indeed listen. They just
didn't always respond.
"A
hoax created by Shepard. It's a myth."
''Don't
say that around the locals," she warned. "They're very fond of their
beastie."
'Tour
penchant for finding humour in humourless situations is not helpful,
Prima." Ahadiel's frown deepened. "Nirgal is also counting
on the fact that my concern for you will compel me to protect you, with or
without an oath."
"He's been
known to play dirty, from time to time." She sighed. "The situation
is ... politically sensitive, and the danger
is to all of us."
With a shake of his
head, Ahadiel turned around slowly, taking in their surroundings. Not that
there was much
to see in the back of a Walmart, or anywhere else along this stretch of Lincoln
Street, which cut through the business
heart of the city. The traffic was all but non-existent at this time of night,
and nothing moved - unless one counted the sheets of steadily falling snow,
eddying back and forth in the wind.
"If
the danger is this severe, why summon me here?"
"The back lot
seemed safe. I didn't want to be near a residential area in case something went
wrong. I like the people here, and—"
"What
I meant was, why not a more populated area? It sounds as if I might need to
draw upon a reserve."
The Spark was more
than an amorphous, ephemeral database, like a super God-powered internet. The life energy emitted by
all living beings blanketed the planet, and, in a pinch, angels could draw upon
that force to augment their powers. Beings
of light, unlike beings of shadow, also operated more efficiently in full daylight. Ahadiel was hardly handicapped by
being yanked into a small city in the dead of night, but she knew better than him what kind of danger could be
coming their way.
She didn't like holding
back the truth, and considering his actions towards her tonight, she had more
reasons to trust him than not. Excluding her parents, she couldn't recall the
last time anyone had shown even the slightest concern for her
well-being.
Then,
decision made, she took a deep breath and said in a rush, "Helel has
escaped her punishment."
"OK...
that would explain Raguel's interest."
"Yes;
her punishment was his work."
"How
did she escape?"
"No idea, but she couldn't have
managed it alone. She had help, and that's the part where you come in. You need to find them."
"Who?"
"And... that's the
delicate part I mentioned earlier. I've given you what I can, but I need a
binding oath before I say more." Prima
hesitated, wishing he wouldn't always exercise that uncomfortable habit of moving too close. "I am sorry."
'You
have no cause to apologize."
He raised his hand,
and her breath caught, wondering if he would touch her again, and if he did,
what would she do in—
Ahadiel suddenly stiffened and snapped his
head back, focusing intently on some point over and above her shoulder.
His
wings manifested in the time it took her to blink.
Not
good. "What? Is there.. .what are you ...hey!"
She gasped, feeling
something cold and large rush past her as she was yanked rapidly - and not very
gently -
upwards. It happened so quickly that she had only an impression of a dark mass,
rows of sharp, needle-thin teeth and lots of
glowing eyes.
"What
was that?' Prima demanded. Only a brief, glancing contact, and she was
still shivering. "Besides just nasty!"
"It wasn't the
Hodag, that much is certain," Ahadiel said, tersely. "And you have
wings, Prima. Use them."
Belatedly,
she noted that she and Ahadiel were on the roof of the Walmart building,
standing knee-deep in snowdrifts. Well, Ahadiel was standing. Somehow, she'd ended up
in his arms, gathered against black wool
that smelled of wintry wind and wet snow.
According to her father -
who had cause to know such things - angels have a scent. Yet to her, Ahadiel
only ever smelled of wind, flavoured with sunlight or rain, and nothing of an
individual self. She'd often wondered if he
wouldn't have an individual scent of "self unless he became one of the
Fallen.
Realizing what she was
doing, Prima squeezed her eyes shut and repressed the urge to smack her head into Ahadiel's chest. Yes, being in his arms was
surprisingly . . . pleasant, but the reason she was snuggled up against rock-hard angel abs in the first place
was because some toothy, scary shadow-beast had just tried to smack her into orbit somewhere above Jupiter.
''Prima?"
Ahadiel, his voice sounding oddly tight. "Are you all right?”
"Of course. I'm in the arms of
angel." She looked up, summoning enough bravado to give him a wink. "How much safer could I be?"
"Not
as safe as you think, not when the creature attacks again and I need my hands
free."
"Do
you have any idea what that was?"
"Akerub."
"That
can't be." Although her pride wouldn't allow her to admit it, she'd had
second thoughts, if only for a moment or two, about that Hodag legend.
"They're celestial guardians; they wouldn't attack you."
"It wasn't
attacking me." He shifted, as if impatient. "Can you get down, or do
I drop you on your lovely, if occasionally treacherous, ass?"
She
blinked, taken aback by what passed, for him, as a compliment. "I don't—"
"Go.
Now." His muscles had gone rigid as stone. "Now would be good."
Eyes widening at the
warning, she let go of him at the same moment she released her wings, shooting skywards on currents of charged air, and once
again barely avoiding a cold, rushing mass of darkness.
Now
that she knew what it was - she had only seen a kerub once in her entire
existence - she could make out the vaguely canine shape, with its
long, snapping muzzle, wraith-like wings, and multitude of red, shining eyes.
She shuddered.
Azrael's creatures were always unsettling, although this one wasn't nearly as
terrifying as others.
Realizing it had missed its target, the
creature circled and dived towards Prima, instantly meeting the solid
resistance of Ahadiel's body. Angel and guardian beast impacted with
bone-crushing force, then careened, at
dizzying speed, downwards to the parked truck. The impact crushed the cab,
fractured the windshield safety
glass, and exploded all the tyres as the truck sank several inches into the
asphalt, leaving jagged cracks all
around it.
Wincing
at the sound of crunching metal, Prima called, "Thank you for that!"
Then, after a moment, she
added,
"Need any help?"
"No!
Stay right where you are!"
Snapping and snarling
sounds rose from the shadows by the mangled truck, followed by a flare of white-hot
energy.
"Up,
up," Ahadiel shouted. "Go up!"
Confused
by the conflicting orders, one coming rapidly after the other, Prima hesitated
- until she heard it coming again, with a low, grinding howl.
She pumped her wings, willing them to gather speed, and risked a glance behind
her.
An
expanse of primeval teeth and red eyes filled her view.
With a startled yelp,
she reversed, dropping fast, the light of her wings trailing behind her like a
shooting star. Fear rolled through her, then fury, and she turned,
fingers flexing as she extended her nails. Hers might not be as
deadly or come with archangel-enhanced powers, but they'd still rip flesh and
draw blood.
As
she braced herself for attack, an expanse of black rushed into view: Ahadiel,
placing himself again between her and the beast. His broad back and
flaring wings blocked out the sky.
"Stay
behind me," he ordered.
Wings
at full power and breadth, claws extended, he was as beautiful as he was
frightening. The thin, rapier-like lengths of his claws were now
pitch black in colour, except for their tips, which glowed with a blue-white heat.
As if considering
its options, the kerub stared at Ahadiel with its many eyes, ragged-edged wings
flapping as the wind buffeted it from side to side. When Prima moved, its eyes followed
her. All of them.
It was
after her, and with that alarming thought came another realization, this
one leaving her once more shaking with anger. "Can you kill
it?" she asked.
'Yes, but I
won't." The kerub darted to one side, almost too quickly for her to
follow, but Ahadiel had already moved to block it.
"Why
not?"
"It's being compelled.”
There was a hard edge to his voice. "A simple creature like this has no
chance against that kind of magic, and it
pisses me off to see it like this.”
"I'd
feel more sorry if it weren't trying to disembowel me.” Despite her
flip response, she was careful to keep Ahadiel between her and the increasingly
agitated creature. "What's the plan?”
"Avoid
disembowelment.”
"Ha-ha.”
She glared at the back of his head. “You do have a plan, right?"
'Yes.”
If
he'd planned to expand on that, the kerub didn't give him the chance. It
hurtled forwards, with that grinding shriek, and Ahadiel's entire
body braced for the impact. This time, he was prepared for the charge, and
his wings flared with the effort to hold his place. Prima drew back, hands and
nails still flexed in defence as Ahadiel wrestled with the
creature, trying to contain it within the boundaries of his own power.
He didn't
need her help, but she still hated feeling so helpless, unable to do little
more than wait and watch.
She
spared a quick glance at the city below, blanketed in white, the grids and
winding ribbons of its streets and avenues dotted with glowing
lamplights. Magical, in its own way, and far too open. With her and Ahadiel bouncing about
the sky like little points of light, the Rhinelander PD would be dealing with
calls about UFOs for the rest of the week.
Aliens would probably be blamed for the damage to the truck too.
She looked back at Ahadiel, just in time
to see, from the corner of her eye, another dark mass shooting downwards towards her. Prima shouted a warning.
Ahadiel jerked back, wings arching, barely managing to deflect the second kerub's attack while still
protecting himself from the first creature.
"New
plan." He wheeled, then swooped down, enveloping her in a shining circle
of light. "Hold on!"
Knowing what was coming, she clamped her
jaw tight, squeezed her eyes shut, and wrapped her arms around his neck so hard
she thought she heard something give.
Wind
blasted her, assaulting her ears and freezing her skin. Her scream, ripped away
and scattered to the forces surrounding her, could barely be heard: "IIIIII
haaaaaaate thiiiiis, yoooooouuuu baaaaastaaaaard!"
One second - assailed by torrents of ice and wind, caught in
total darkness. The next - four walls, a solid floor and dim, blinking lights. Prima staggered, arms flailing like an
upset chicken, when Ahadiel released her.
"You
do this on purpose, I know you do. You probably think it's funny!"
With an ignominious thump,
she bumped against the welcome solidity of a wall, then steadied herself, gulping air. She loathed interstice-hopping; not
only did it always make her feel like throwing up, it was utterly exhausting.
Ahadiel, of course, stood
calm and firm, arms folded across his chest, no wings in sight. His coat was torn, the left side of his chest shredded and
suspiciously darkened, and a lucky swipe of a kerub's claw had left four
ragged, red furrows down his right cheek. At the sight of his blood - more than
she'd ever seen before - her anger faded.
"You're
hurt," she said, taking an unsteady step towards him. To her humiliation,
her knees buckled, but he caught her before she fell. "You're hurt,"
she repeated, with a sigh, "and yet you're the one helping me."
"Don't
worry about it. I heal fast."
"That's not the
point. What's going on? Usually we do the chasing, not the running." While
the effects of travelling at full-throttle celestial speed were vicious, they
didn't last long. Feeling stronger already, she hastily pulled away from him. "And aerial fights! I can't even
remember the last time I did that ... I don't like being forced out into the open, not
one bit."
"Prima-"
"Once
upon a time, humans feared and worshipped us, and a little ruckus up in the sky
wasn't such a big deal. But that was before NASA and NORAD.
Before F-14S and RPGs. Before double-barrelled shotguns.” She
shuddered. "I hate those things. They hurt."
"Prima,
calm down.”
"I
am calm. I'm also angry.” After another glower in his direction, she
surveyed their surroundings. Bare concrete floor, industrial-type ceiling
lights and numerous large, panel-like cabinets with blinking electrical components
lining the walls. "Where are we?”
"In the control
building of a power substation. The residual ELM from the power lines will mask
my presence.”
How clever. Then
again, his sole reason for existing was to hunt and fight, so no doubt his bag
of tricks was significantly more expansive than hers.
"They
used you to find me.” She turned back to him. "I'd say someone
really, really doesn't want me passing on my information
to you.”
"Agreed."
With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall, then wiped the blood away from
his face with a sleeve, grimacing, ''Just missed an eye.
That would've slowed me down. Are you all right?"
'Yes.”
You
should have sensed the danger when I did. Maybe you've lived among humans for
too long. You're getting soft.”
You know me. Fm more a lover than a
fighter anyway.” At his frown, she added, "Honestly, I'm fine. Aside from the shock of hopping interstices,
anyway. My ears are still ringing.”
"Sorry.
I had to get you out of there fast, and that was the easiest option. You're
safe for now, so tell me what's going on.” As she opened her mouth
to remind him what she needed first, he held up his hand. You have
my sworn oath to protect and assist you, Prima. Through me, the will of Heaven
is yours to command.”
Wow. . . just like that. Too easy. There
had to be a catch. Not with Ahadiel himself, but she didn't trust Azrael's
intentions any more than she trusted Nirgal's.
"That's
certainly not something I hear every day."
He
regarded her for a moment, wiping again at the blood dripping down his face.
The cuts, she noticed, were already healing. "I've been ordered to this place for
however long it takes to find Raguel, and to do whatever necessary to make that
happen. I choose to help you, because I believe it will help me find my brother.”
Prima
stared at him. Celestials like Ahadiel did not possess free will; having the
ability to "choose" was not a power granted to them. Not usually, anyway.
Azrael was either being unusually generous or, more likely, was up to something. There were reasons he was considered the
most cunning of the archangels.
Ahadiel
slid down the wall and sat, legs raised and forearms draped across his knees.
His hands, loosely
clasped,
were badly scratched and torn.
"Sit."
He motioned at the floor beside him. "And talk.”
With
a shrug, Prima did as he ordered, since now wasn't the time to argue over his
more annoying personality quirks. She pulled off her hat, then removed the
parka and spread it on the ground. He might not care that the floor
needed a good mopping, but she did.
"As
I already mentioned, it started with Helel's escape."
Discussing the
punishment of disobedient angels was distasteful, partly because it hit a
little too close to home. He couldn't help what he was, but
sometimes she fantasized about finding a way to free him from his
existence, which was rooted in so much violence, pain and fear. He wouldn't see
himself in that light, of course, and so she kept such thoughts to herself.
The
furrows along his face were now only reddish scratches, although dark smears
remained where he'd wiped the blood away. "Her offences weren't as serious as
those of the others, but severe enough that she shouldn't have been able to escape."
"Nirgal suspects
Raguel might have been lured into a trap, and then used in some kind of ritual
to reverse her punishment." She paused. "Is that
even possible?"
Ahadiel didn't answer
right away. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, then rubbed them clean
on his coat. "Maybe, but few have the ability7 to perform a
ritual like that."
"Would
he ... would Raguel survive it?"
"I
think so; he's strong." He let out a long breath. "But I don't know
for sure."
Nothing
she could say would ease his fears that his brother had already been destroyed,
so there was no point in even trying.
"Do
you know who might have helped her?" Ahadiel asked.
"Not Lucifer or
Lilith, if that's what you're thinking. They have their own interests in this
place, but don't really care what goes on here. Or not as long
as the power balance isn't threatened to the point where it catches
the attention of an archangel. We'd all prefer to avoid that. I imagine you
would as well."
No
one - and especially lower-tier celestials like the Grigori, Galearii, ordinary
Djinn, or guardian spirits of any stripe - wanted to butt heads
with an archangel. Lucifer and Lilith, once archangels themselves, knew all too well the
importance of maintaining the balance, as they'd come out on the losing end the
last time they tried to tip the scales in
their favour.
"So
who does Nirgal think it was?"
Oh,
he was going to hate this part. A lot. "Harut and Maroth."
Ahadiel
shot to his feet, anger darkening his face. The space behind him began to
shimmer, and Prima scooted sideways to a safer distance, hoping
he'd be careful. One impulsive twitch in the wrong direction, and
he'd blow out every circuit breaker, line feeder, or transformer in the
substation, plunging the city -including St Mary's Hospital and the
area clinics - into a blackout.
Ahadiel
had been hunting Harut and Maroth for a very long time, and to have them
suddenly pop up now, involved in Raguel's disappearance, would infuriate him. Even
more galling was how these clever malcontents
had avoided their well-deserved punishment by making themselves useful to the
more powerful and influential
members of the demon clans. Lucifer and Lilith, and their respective
entourages, had also provided shelter and protection, simply because it amused
them to do so, as far as she could tell.
When
he moved away from the control panels, Prima breathed out with relief.
"What
would they want with Helel?"
"That's the big
question, isn't it?" Prima remained seated, watching as Ahadiel moved
restlessly up and down in the small space
between the equipment, his coat reflecting the blinking red and green lights.
"But maybe the better question to ask is - why bother with her to begin
with? I think we have the answer to that one: Helel is the fount of all
knowledge on angel breeding. She's a one-stop fertility clinic and geneticist.
Whether you wanted a baby angel, or the half-breed, monstrous surprise behind
Door Number Two, she's the one you'd go
see."
That
was another subject that cut a little too close to the bone, and she couldn't
help the bitterness in her voice. The mortals had gotten a lot wrong about angels, such
as their sexuality and the near complete lack of
female angels in their holy writings. It was this sort of ignorance and
disrespect that added fuel to the fire of
Lilith's contempt for humankind. And who could blame her? She'd been an
archangel, and then some nomadic
goatherds with issues turned her into a shrew and a whore.
The need for
celestial sexuality wasn't all that difficult to understand. Angels were
immortal, but not eternal, and their numbers were hardly legion. An angel could
be destroyed, especially those among the lower ranks, and when that happened, an archangel
ordered that a new one be created. If there were fewer female angels, it wasn't
because they were less efficient or awe-inspiring than the males, but because
new angels were so rarely needed.
Her own angelic mother
was absolutely terrifying. Granted, falling from grace hadn't done much to improve her disposition, but even before that
she'd excelled in the art of instilling the fear of God into mankind.
"I
don't understand," Ahadiel said at length. He continued to pace, and Prima
wished he would sit down. All that restless energy was distracting.
"This
is why you put up with me, isn't it? I provide the brains, you provide the
brawn."
That
stopped him in his tracks, and his angry frustration melted away, replaced with
an expression of mild amusement. "That would be one of
the reasons, yes."
She almost asked what
his other reasons might be then thought better of it. His sudden change of behaviour
towards her, coupled with what he'd told her about the nature of his mission in
this place, left her feeling more uneasy than ever.
Unattainable. He was
supposed to be unattainable, untouchable, unassailable. Safe.
"Prima?
Are you going to answer or not? Why did they target Helel?"
His question cut
across her thoughts, and she looked up, meeting his expectant, patient gaze.
Never mind the unease. If she were right about the reason for
these sudden changes in him, fear would be more appropriate. Fear for him, and anger - and sadness too,
because she realized he had no idea what was happening.
"Sure.
I'll answer you." It came out sharper than she'd intended. 'They're going
to breed a nephilim."
Ahadiel
stared at her. "Nephilim."
"Yes. You know,
those inconvenient little monsters resulting from the unholy sexual congress of
a human and
an angel."
"I know what
they are." His smile was sceptical, and he shook his head. "The
nephilim were destroyed a long time ago."
Some 25,000 years ago, which was well
before her time. She'd heard the stories, though, and they still gave her the shivers.
"Except that you, your brothers, and
Azrael's scary little pet missed a few stragglers,” she said.
"The nephilim gene still exists, and
with people moving around the world more freely than ever, it's not as rare as it
used to be. Every now and then, two carriers produce a very special baby. If
that special baby grows up and mates with
another one like it—"
"The
statistical odds of that happening are very small, even now.”
"It
happened just 2,000 years ago.” Again, before her time, but the
repercussions of that event, and a narrowly averted apocalypse,
were still fresh in the memories of everyone, humans included.
"A
fluke. That particular genetic mutation almost always produces female
offspring, which also tend to be highly mentally unstable.”
"Almost
always, yes.”As she spoke, Ahadiel again sat
on the floor beside her. He tended to frown a lot -she
had that effect on him, she supposed - but this time his ferocious expression
had nothing to do with her. After a moment, she added, "You
know what's out there. Why haven't you intervened?”
"I've
not been ordered to do so.” He raised a brow. "Why haven't
you?"
"Because I don't
want a blood-thirsty Angel of Punishment hunting down my ass,” she
retorted. "Mustn't upset the balance, right? That's crazy -
and stupid. You should kill them. All of them. Nip the problem
in the bud.”
"I
can't do that," he said, his tone equally terse.
The silence
continued, excruciatingly tense, before Ahadiel broke it. "So why are
Harut and Maroth interested in any of this? Or are they
creating chaos again just because they can?"
"They do have
a talent for chaos." And for eluding divine retribution, but she knew
better than to remind him of that. "What I believe, and I
think Nirgal shares my concern, is that they're trying to bring back their buddies."
"Not
possible. No." Again, Ahadiel shook his head, this time with more vehemence.
"Their offences were too extreme, and not even Raguel has
the power, under compulsion or otherwise, to release them. It would take the
intercession of an archangel, and there's no way that would happen.”
"Are
you sure?"
While
she didn't share his rock-solid faith and never had, it still hurt to see the
flash of doubt in his eyes. Yes, he was only a being forged to carry out a
divine will, but it angered her how the archangels showed so little
compassion for their living, breathing tools. She didn't particularly like
Lucifer, but she could understand some of the reasoning that had driven him to rebel.
When he didn't answer,
Prima added, more gently, "The archangels have been known to move in mysterious
ways, especially Azrael. It was only a matter of time before agitators like
Harut or Maroth found a human body strong enough to host a disembodied angel. They won't
need an archangel's intercession if they can
cheat their way out of the problem. Helel's just Plan B."
"I see."
Ahadiel fell silent as he considered the situation. "Why spend years
breeding unstable, difficult to manage children, when you
can create one the old-fashioned way."
"Exactly."
She sighed. "If they can do this, their comrades-in-chaos are going to
come back kinda cranky and not so inclined to play nice with the
humans. Lucifer will be furious, and he'll blame the demons for betraying him. Most
demons barely tolerate the Fallen and will use any excuses to break the truce.
Lilith will play both sides, as she usually
does. The archangels are going to have a hissy fit regardless, and what follows will be a mess only a prophet could
love."
He
leaned back, head resting against the wall. "We have to stop them."
"Yup" The
exhaustion, momentarily pushed aside, returned, and Prima gave in, briefly
closing her eyes. "Got plans?"
"It
was either Harut or Maroth who sent the kerubim. I'll go back to the site of
the attack to pick up their imprint, and then I'll track them."
"What
about me?"
"Can
you reverse the compulsion spell someone has set over the creatures?"
"Maybe.
It won't be easy, and, to be honest, if that's your plan, I'm going to need to
get some sleep. Interstitial travel wipes me out, and I'm so
tired right now 1 can hardly think straight. It doesn't help I haven't
slept well in days because of stress."
Ahadiel
didn't need sleep, but she needed time to recharge the mystical batteries, so
to speak. To humans, she might seem superhero strong; unfortunately,
she was less Dark Phoenix and more Buffy/Willow, with a side
of wings. Also, "Godspeed" might define his ability to tap into the
life forces washing over the planet, but hers was more comparable to a 56k
modem.
Prima expected he'd
make one of his typically arrogant comments about this. Instead, he said,
"Kerubim are night guardians; they'll be less powerful in daylight."
She
blinked, now feeling a little guilty for her bitchy thoughts. "And they'll
be easier for me to control.”
"All
right, then. We leave at dawn."
"Ahadiel,
you do realize Harut and Maroth will be expecting us."
'Yes."
He straightened his legs out along the floor, then stretched.
Prima tried not to stare,
failed miserably, then tried to put the kibosh on that sudden flare of desire,
and failed at that too. Great. A celestial detente, tens of thousands of years
in the making, was in peril, and all she
could think about was seducing an angel in a power substation.
How
classy.
"I’ll be more of
a hindrance than a help," she said, after a moment. "Maybe you should
forget about staying around here to save the kerubim, and just leave
me behind.”
"No." The
denial was instant; he hadn't even considered it. "That would leave you
unprotected, and one of them will kill you. We stay together.”
"They
outnumber you, even more so if Helel is with them. They'll separate us, and use
me against you."
He tipped his head
towards her, smiling. "Thank you for that tremendous vote of confidence in
my abilities."
Embarrassment heated
her cheeks. "I didn't mean it that way, and you know it. There might be another—”
He
silenced her by pressing a finger against her lips. "Goto sleep, Prima.
I'll keep you safe. I swear it."
When it came to resisting her attraction
to Ahadiel, she'd always found a kind of security in her belief that he was strong enough for both of them. So sure
of that strength, of his unshakable devotion to his duty, she'd rarely
considered how she might respond to him on a more intimate level, should such
an unlikely chance ever present
itself.
Now the impossible
had become possible, and out of all the reactions she had considered,
this overwhelming fear for him hadn't been one of them.
He hadn't removed his
finger, and her lips moved against it as she said, "Slippery slope,
Ahadiel. Look it up."
"As
I’ve told you before, I serve the will of Heaven." He lowered his hand,
hooked his finger in the collar of her turtleneck sweater,
and gave it a firm tug. "Come here. You're a soft, decadent, troublesome
woman, and while I'm no substitute for your goose-down pillows
and comforters, I'm more comfortable than a floor."
She
shouldn't, no matter how much she might want to. While he didn't realize yet
that he stood on a precipice, she recognized the danger signs.
Giving him even a little push over that edge would be a poor way to
repay him for the care he'd shown her in the past. It occurred to her,
abruptly, that her predicament wasn't accidental. Nirgal or Azrael were
playing games again. Ahadiel wasn't the only oblivious tool in this room.
With a sigh, she scooted forwards and let
him pull her against his chest and close his arms around her. To hell with it;
she'd simply have to rise to the occasion for once in her life and show
everyone she wasn't quite the weak outcast they thought.
With
his heat lulling her into relaxing, Prima gave a little sigh and closed her
eyes, smiling. She fell asleep almost immediately and, in the last
moment before slipping under, she wondered if she'd really felt a soft kiss on
the crown of her head.
Almost as instantly, she woke.
At first, slightly disorientated, she didn't understand what had pulled her
from sleep - and then she felt it: a light touch against her hip, slowly moving
upwards. No inappropriate liberties taken, only a light,
tentative contact.
Full awareness returned,
and she noted that she lay curled along Ahadiel's chest. He sat with his knees slightly raised, anchoring her against his body,
one hand on the small of her back while he explored the curves of her body with the other.
Prima forced herself
to remain still and breathe evenly, although she doubted she could fool him for
long. Curious - and, admittedly, more than a little turned on - she
wanted to see what else he'd do while he thought her lost in the oblivion of
sleep.
Dawn was almost upon
them. It could be he was trying, in his own awkward way, to wake her up, but
she doubted it. Ahadiel might be an innocent - in the way
only a being devoid of free will could be considered innocent
- but he wasn't naive.
What
to do? Fake sleep and ignore this ever happened? Or confront him and accept
whatever consequences might follow?
Consequences.
Even as her body
hummed with awareness under his touch, flushed with the heat of desire, she
couldn't forget that, for him, she literally embodied temptation.
For that reason alone she should know better than to let this continue.
It
was always about the balance: for every gain, a loss.
Ahadiel slid his
hands lower, more boldly this time, and he circled the curve of her hip,
fingers splayed along her bottom. When his touch strayed towards the juncture of
her thighs, her breath caught on a little gasp.
Prima
looked up to find Ahadiel watching her, a small smile playing at the corners of
his mouth.
"You
knew I was awake."
"True,"
he admitted. "I wanted to see if you would tell me to stop."
"And
if I had?"
"I'd
stop."
She
shifted upwards along his chest until they were eye to eye. "This is a bad
idea... and I think it's only
fair to tell you that I
have very little self-control. Comes with the genes, I imagine.” She
hated the breathless pitch of her voice; even to her own ears, she
sounded desperate. Weak. "I was counting on you to be the smart and strong
one here."
When he brought his
hands up to her face, brushing back her hair, she wondered if he'd heard a word
she'd just said. "Ahadiel, I think you—"
"Do
you fear change?"
His
voice sounded deeper, rougher than usual, and when his finger followed the line
of her jaw downwards along the curve of her throat, Prima went very
still.
A
flick of his finger, as if at an annoying insect, and his clawlike nail would
permanently take care of this problem and end her life. Goodbye, evil
temptress.
“I don't
know.” Her mouth felt dry. "Maybe. Do you?"
“I’ve
never been afraid of anything before.”
This close, she could see
the striated colours of his irises, the reflection of her face in his pupils.
"Fear has its advantages. It keeps you
from being stupid."
"Fear
can also hold you back," he pointed out. "This isn't what you think.
I want you to understand that I don't. . . It's not a need.
I only want to know why. Why does it happen? What it is about humans,
that my brothers and sisters willingly fall from grace to be
with them?"
"I'm not
human," she reminded him.
"You
live among them, as one of them. I don't."
His touch had grown
more confident, yet still felt oddly restless. It was as if once he'd started,
he wasn't sure how to proceed, but still couldn't stop himself.
"I'm more than
willing to help you flirt with the dark side, Ahadiel, but now's not really a good time for experimenting . . . and it's nearly
dawn. Maybe you've forgotten, but you've got a smiting or two on the schedule today."
"I
haven't forgotten." He made no move to release his hold on her, much less
get up and walk away. "I've thought of little else."
Prima sensed he was
trying to tell her something important, but didn't know how - and then the realization
hit with an uncomfortable clarity. What he'd just said about having never known
fear before, the admission that he'd been thinking of the
coming fight with two dangerous foes. It was so obvious she should
have seen it coming.
In a short while, if things went wrong,
one of them, or both of them, would be gone forever. What he couldn't find the
words for, what he wanted her to see, was his fear of loss. Especially a fear
of losing something he had yet to
experience.
"A little while
ago, you told me that Azrael had ordered you to do whatever was necessary to
find your brother. You chose to help me." She put a slight
emphasis on the word "chose". "Maybe you've made a few other
choices before that, and I'm not sure you—"
"I
know." He looked away from her, and briefly squeezed his eyes shut as he
tipped his head back against the wall. “I know”
In that moment, she hated
Azrael more than ever. Not that he'd give a damn about her feelings. He was the Angel of Death; everybody loathed him.
Prima
was trying to decide what to do next when Ahadiel decided for her and kissed
her. At first, she was too startled to respond. As he continued exploring her lips with
frank curiosity, she was surprised all over again:
he might be inexperienced, but he certainly knew how to kiss.
When he'd tapped into
the Spark, he'd apparently picked up a little something else besides an encyclopaedic
knowledge of the Hodag.
His
kisses gradually grew more insistent, impatient, and when his tongue touched
hers, the last shreds of her resistance and worry vanished, and she kissed him back.
Ahadiel made a purely male sound of appreciation,
and those restless hands closed firmly on her hips, pulling her hard against
him.
Still
not enough. Prima straddled his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, and
took his face in her hands. She guided his mouth first to that
sensitive little spot behind her ear, then urged him further downwards. His skin felt
hot and smooth in her hands. What she wanted, more than anything, was to feel all that inhumanly smooth, heated skin against
every inch of her own.
"I
like the way you smell," Ahadiel murmured against her throat, his breath
hot. "And taste."
Considering
that for thousands of years he'd done little else but hunt with a predatory single-mindedness,
his words should've scared her silly rather than excited her. That he'd just
slipped a hand beneath her sweater, fingers brushing along her abdomen, below
her breast, wasn't exactly helping her keep a clear head,
either.
“You
said you wanted to know why," Prima began, then stopped, taking a quick
breath as his thumb found her nipple. "Well... this is
why."
Ahadiel caressed her
breast, gauging her reactions, and she let her head fall back, eyes closing, as
the sensations washed over, tightening her need to an edge
that was almost painful. Then, impatient for more, she
grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it off, leaving her completely bare
to his gaze.
One
clear advantage of immortality: she never had to wear a bra.
When she arched her back,
invitingly, Ahadiel didn't hesitate. He slid the palms of his hands up along her belly, then covered her breasts, squeezing
lightly.
"Sometimes,
it starts out almost like hate," she whispered, watching him play with
her, drawing the tips of her breasts into sharp, tight peaks. When
he circled the pale centre with the tip of his nail, careful to leave no mark,
she nearly lost it. After a moment, she continued in a voice less steady than
before. "You resent humans, yet you want what they have,
even if it means you lose everything. They're temptation with a
capital T, and the sex—”
His kissed her
nipple, then teased it with his tongue. Pleasure rolled her under, with such
heated intensity she forgot for a moment where she was, what
was at stake, even why she'd wanted him to stop in the
first place.
It
wasn't fair, distracting her like this. Then again, he'd always been a fast
learner.
With
an effort, she gathered her scattered thoughts. "To an angel, sex is like
a drug. If you go there, you'll only want more. Once you've held in
your hands that power to create, you can't go back. Ever."
At
that, he glanced up. "Do you want me to stop?"
Absolutely not. To
her shame, she hoped he wouldn't. He was halfway down the wrong road already,
at the point where it would be as easy to go the rest of the
way as it would be to turn back.
Shag
an angel, save the world.
Too
bad it was wholly selfish and wrong - and probably playing right into Azrael's
plans. "Do you want to stop?"
"No."
"Maybe
I need to make my point more clearly."
She kissed him, hard, tongue plundering
his mouth as she pushed his shirt up so that nothing separated her skin from
his. Ahadiel rocked his hips in response, drawing a low groan from both of
them. She gave back what he'd given her in
pleasure, caressing his belly, teasing his nipples with her tongue. But when he
grabbed her hand and pulled it down over his groin, she broke off, leaning back
as she stared at him.
"You're
not human," Ahadiel said, after a moment.
To her surprise, his
breathing sounded a little faster than normal. Not nearly as uneven and rapid
as her own, but a small, and not entirely
nice, part of her was satisfied with the effect she had on him.
"No,
but I don't think that'll make much of a difference."
His gaze dropped to
her bare breasts, and she didn't need to know how to read minds to guess what
he wanted. Not when it was what she wanted as well. Then he looked up, head
cocked to one side, and murmured, "It's dawn."
The moment between
them vanished. One second, it was all heat and dangerous desire, but the
next... nothing. It was as if a giant fist of self-control had
closed over that flaring lust and need, and smothered it.
Prima
would've been much more impressed with the speed - and inhuman ease - at which
he'd switched his focus, if not for the fact that he'd left her
so sexually frustrated she wanted to smash something.
"Right,"
she said, reaching for her sweater. "Work to do. Guardians to rescue.
Heads to bust, and—"
"A
world to save," he finished.
She
eyed him with suspicion as she finished pulling on her coat and hat, taking in
the small smile, the arched brow. "Damn, son. I believe you
just made another joke. It's getting to be a habit."
In
response, Ahadiel held out his hand.
Prima
sighed. "Do we have to?" "We do."
This time, it felt as if she
- and the substation - were stretched and bulging like a soap bubble. Then the
bubble popped, and she and Ahadiel stood at the back of the Walmart again, by
the smashed truck, surrounded by cops on one side of the crime scene
tape and a small crowd of curious bystanders on the other.
It
was all she could do not to gasp, even as Ahadiel kept her on her feet. A
second of panicked disorientation, then the realization that there were no cops
screaming or shooting at her.
Ah,
the invisible thing! She liked this much more than angelic modes of
relocation. Being invisible was fun, and she couldn't do it nearly this well.
Ahadiel
squeezed her hand, but it was a warning not to let go.
Calmer
now, if still a little wobbly, she could hear what the cops were saying.
". . . hell if I know what
happened,” said a youngish cop built like a linebacker, his dark
hair military short. "Maybe it was aliens."
Prima laughed then
quickly muffled it with a hand over her mouth - but not quickly enough.
The
stocky cop looked back towards her. "You hear that?"
His
companion, a tall, thin man in his fifties, said, "What?"
"A
laugh."
The older cop shot the
younger one a sceptical look. "No. Now knock off the fuckin' alien talk.
You're spooking yourself.”
"I
swear I heard something! It sounded like a woman, laughing.”
Both cops stared at each
other, looking acutely uncomfortable. Then the older one scowled. "Fuckin’
stupid alien talk. Sure, you go ahead
and write that up and see how it works for you. Me, I want to put in the rest of my ten years and retire with full
benefits. I'm going with 'cause: undetermined1.”
'You
think blaming it on the Hodag would work better?” the younger cop
asked, grinning.
The
older cop rolled his eyes and turned away, just as Ahadiel tugged on her hand.
He motioned his head upwards. She nodded, releasing her wings. Still holding hands,
they flew to the roof of the Walmart. The earlier
footprints they'd left behind had been wiped away by four inches of new snow
and drifts.
"What
made you laugh?” he asked, pitching his voice low enough that only
she would hear.
"I’ll
explain later. Are you picking up any imprints?”
'Yes.” He
turned slightly, raising his head. He might have been scenting the air, but
more than likely he was sifting the Spark for any impression of the kerubim.
Visual, auditory .. . anything that could be relayed through the senses of
human, animal, bird or insect.
Several
minutes passed, then he abruptly stiffened, and let out a breath. "We're
too late. They've been
destroyed.”
"Oh, no. I'm so
sorry." Humans imagined kerubim as terrifying monsters, part human, part
lion and part eagle. But to a celestial, they were the equivalent of house
pets. "There was no reason to kill them."
"Remember
who we're dealing with," Ahadiel said, flatly.
"Can you take me to
the bodies? Maybe there's something we can pick up that'll help us find Helel
and the others."
"I don't think
they've left. We already know where they're headed, so if their plan was to
stop us, they'll do it here."
"We're
back to walking into an ambush, then?"
Ahadiel
shrugged. "Yes."
"This
doesn't bother you?"
"Not
really."
"Oh." She
wished she had even a smidgen of his strength- and confidence.
He squeezed her hand
again, and Prima turned as he leaned over to kiss her forehead. Briefly, she considered how nice it
would be to have a do-over; to go back to the substation, back to his arms,
back to making a different choice that might not end ... badly.
But that wasn't possible;
even if it had been, it would be the coward's way out, and the stakes were too high for her to retreat into wishful fantasies.
For better or for worse, by accident or by design, she and Ahadiel were a team.
"Stay
close to me. If there's any chance of trouble and I think I can't handle it, HI
get you out of there fast."
Wonderful. Jumping
interstices was better than dying, of course, but she didn't have to be
enthusiastic about it.
A sudden thought occurred
to her. “Wait. Ahadiel, if something goes wrong and you have to
choose between me or stopping Helel and the
others, I want you to promise me you'll stop them."
"Nothing
like that is going to happen."
"I know you’ll
do everything in your power to protect me, just as HI do everything I canto
stay alive. But stopping a war is more important." She
met his gaze. "Promise me."
"No."
Before
she could argue, his wings flashed, at full strength and breadth, and he shot
into the sky. She followed a moment later, hard pressed to
match his speed, but furious enough to try.
Below, one of the
cops glanced up, thinking he'd seen something move along the roof. But there
was nothing to see, only amass of grey, sullen clouds that
threatened to dump another couple of inches of snow before the day's end.
Ahadiel led her to a small clearing surrounded by dense
forest of mixed pine and hardwoods, deep in the heart of Wisconsin's North Woods. It had taken only a few minutes, at her
speed, and as they touched down, it
began to snow.
Prima found the
remains of the two kerubim almost immediately, and went to them as Ahadiel kept
watch.
It was quiet,
unnaturally so, and she could feel her hands shaking as she knelt over the two
dark, ashy stains in the snow. Wind, and more snow, would soon eliminate every
last trace. Whatever Spark they'd had, it was gone.
Yet,
she sensed something else: unfamiliar, but definitely something that did not
naturally belong to this place.
She backed away,
glancing at Ahadiel. "The compulsion spell didn't leave much of a residue.
It's so quiet, and I'm feeling like there's—"
"Come
to me," Ahadiel interrupted, tightly. "Now,"
She
wasted no time in doing exactly as he'd ordered. Her mouth had gone dry again.
"What?"
"We're
not alone. Something's here, but I can't see it."
Of course. You couldn't throw an ambush
party without both the ambushees and the ambusher. To her surprise, she wasn't as frightened as she'd
expected. Maybe because they'd anticipated a trap. Or maybe because she was just in shock and denial.
"A
cloaking charm? I'd sense it, even a small one."
He didn't answer. The
strange silence continued, surrounding them . . . and it seemed to have intensified.
Now, she couldn't even hear the wind in the trees.
"I
shouldn't have come here," she whispered. "I'm putting you in
danger."
"We
go up," Ahadiel said. "Stay at my back. Take my hand, and let me
drive."
Another
little attempt at humour - another first for him. The other times she'd watched
him engaged in a fight, he'd been absolutely silent from
start to finish.
Prima boosted her wings as much as she
could, but their silvery-grey luminance was nothing compared to the fiery breadth of Ahadiel's. She took his
hand, gripping it tightly. "Actually, I'm quite happy to let you drive."
"Ready?"
When she nodded, he flew upwards at blinding speed.
She
did not.
Before
his hand whipped out and beyond her, she knew what had happened. It was a
binding spell.
For a moment, she
recognized the irony of it - and then panic hit, full-bore. Ahadiel was already
on the return, and she opened her mouth to warn him off when something wrapped
itself tightly around her neck and dragged
her, struggling and choking for air, up into the thick branches of the old oak
behind her.
Smaller, sharper branches broke off, gouging her, others
slapped against her, dead leaves scouring at her skin. Then, abruptly, she came to a stop, dangling high off the ground.
She dug at the thing around her neck,
struggling to loosen it, as Ahadiel dropped down out of the sky, claws black
and extended, their tips burning white.
For
a split second, their eyes met, and then he was gone, knocked aside by another
angel.
She couldn't turn
enough to see what was happening, but the sound had returned, and over her own harsh
gasps, she heard the deafening crack of tree trunks shattering under impacts,
the shake and rumble of the earth as massive trees crashed to the
ground,
Finally, the thing
around her neck loosened a fraction, and Prima sucked in air, looking upwards.
A face - its bone-white skin surrounded by long black hair tossing,
serpent-like, in the wind - smiled down at her. The smile did not,
however, reach the black, red-flecked eyes.
Helel.
What was wrapped
around her neck, Prima realized with revulsion, was a hank of Helel's hair. The
fallen angel's wings flared upwards, alert, but they were dark, looking more
like the tattered remains of an old ball gown that had lost most of its
sparkling sequins than a once glorious lattice of power and light.
"Hello," said the Fallen.
"My, my . . . what a pretty Peri you are. Your mother and father must be
very proud."
Prima again tried to
pull away, to find Ahadiel. The sounds of a vicious fight were unmistakable:
shouts and grunts of pain, the whistling slash of Ahadiel's
claws, and more shaking and rumbling as uprooted trees, decades old, slammed into the
earth.
Then
something exploded; the blast buffeted her wildly about in a stinging shower of
wood splinters.
A man laughed, and Prima
looked down, blinking rapidly to clear the tears from her eyes. A handsome
angel stood below her, grinning. He wore jeans, a checkered flannel shirt and
hiking boots, and he had all of Helel's
colouring, right down to the dulled, shadow-black wings.
"That
one looks ripe for the picking.”
"The Peri's
mine, Maroth," Helel said, in a girlish voice. "You go help your
brother get rid of Azrael's dog."
A
scream ripped through the air, a bellow of pain and rage that raised the
hackles and filled Prima with such terror she thought for certain her heart would stop
beating.
Maroth took wing,
calling his brother's name, and Helel, looking perturbed, slowly reeled Prima
upwards with
her hair noose. Prima fought to stay conscious, even as the edges of her vision
rapidly darkened and blurred.
Summoning the last
of her strength, Prima grabbed at the nearest branch, then swung her body
upwards and slammed her feet into Helel's face.
The
angel staggered, knocked off balance, but only for a moment. The hair squeezed
around Prima's neck, strangling her, while Helel, sneering
and bleeding, watched.
"I
forgot." Helel's voice sounded as if it came from a great distance. The
earth shuddered, as something crashed close behind her, but Prima,
rapidly losing consciousness, barely felt it. "You're almost one of them,
so you fight like them. Like a dirty little animal.”
Angry and desperate,
Prima made a weak grab for the rope of hair above her, just as a blue-white
flash, arcing downwards, cut her free.
She
fell, struggling for air, into a pair of arms. Wings of pure light surrounded
her, and she looked up into Ahadiel’s face: bloodied, a raw gash
from temple to jaw, his mouth set in a grim line.
Again,
their eyes met, briefly, before he touched down, shoving her behind his back.
"A
binding,” she rasped, barely able to get the words out of her raw,
swollen throat. "I can't leave.”
"I know.”
Another quick glance around. Helel was
nowhere in sight, but Maroth and Harut were on either side of them, closing in. The latter was missing his right
arm.
"I
told you to go without me,” she said, in a harsh whisper.
"And
I told you no."
"Then we both
die for nothing! You can't—"
She broke off, with a strangled scream, as Helel suddenly materialized before her.
At
her scream, Ahadiel spun, claws slashing, but it was too late. Helel had
already moved out of range, her claws against Prima's neck. AhadieVs
eyes darted to Harut and Maroth, then back to Helel.
"Oh,
you can probably kill us all,” Helel said. "But not before I
take off her head. And if you do manage to kill us, you'll never find
Raguel. At least, not in time to do any good. Is that something you can live
with?”
"I
can live with it.” As Ahadiel gathered his muscles to attack, his
gaze flicked towards Prima. "And my brother would be able to
live with it too.”
He’d
made his choice; a good choice, if not the one she'd hoped for. Prima closed
her eyes, not wanting Helel to be the last thing she saw. At the
same moment a tremendous, crackling boom of an explosion knocked
her back.
A column of fire shot
upwards, then quickly faded. On her hands and knees, Prima scrambled towards the cover of a fallen tree, staring up at the
figure standing between her and Helel. A long, dark red coat, shadow-black wings, and then a rumbling, familiar
voice: 'You dare lay a hand on my daughter, you bitch?"
Her
father?
Another quick glance
showed Harut and Maroth backing away from an equally familiar, black-robed figure in front of them. Behind her, Ahadiel was
still poised to attack, ready to kill anything and everything in his way.
"Arioch and
Alussa. I failed to factor you into our plans. How embarrassing,”
Helel said, a trace of anger edging the amusement in her voice.
With that, she
disappeared, taking Harut and Maroth with her. Once they were gone, Prima felt
a light tingling, and then the sense of a thick weight lifting. The binding
spell was broken, leaving her alone with her
mother, her father and an Angel of Punishment on the verge of going Berserker.
"Ahadiel,
it's OK. They're here to help. Take it down a notch or two, please.”
He
stared hard at her, unblinking, as if he hadn't heard her. A violent shudder
took him, leaving him visibly shaking as he straightened, and then
dropped his arms to his sides. The claws retracted, dripping blood,
and his wings faded to a shimmer before disappearing.
Prima heaved a sigh of
relief, still trying to process this astonishing turn of events. Everything had
happened so fast, and she had to resist the
urge to squeeze her eyes open and shut a few times, just to be sure she
wasn't hallucinating.
"Mother,
Father ... I don't know what to say.”
"Hello
would be sufficient.”
"So would thank
you,” said her mother, giving Ahadiel a wide berth as she came
towards Prima. "And just so we're clear on this, we're not here
to help. Not me, anyway. I couldn't care less if this wretched place burns to
ashes. But no one,” she said, fiercely, as she cradled Prima's
scratched, bleeding face in her hands, "absolutely no one, harms my
precious child."
"I'm
OK. You got here in time.”
"Next
time, we might not,” her father said. "You should have come to
us for help.”
"I
would have, if it had been possible.” She caught Ahadiel's gaze.
"Are you all right?”
He
hadn't made any attempt to join her or her parents, and his only response to
her question was a terse nod.
Her
father, scowling, pushed past her and faced Ahadiel. “You. What are your
intentions towards my daughter?”
For the first time
in probably his entire existence, Ahadiel was at a loss for words. Finally, he
said, "None. I have none.”
"That's
good,” said her father, nodding.
"Make
sure you keep it that way,” added her mother.
This
was a thousand kinds of awkward - and no way was she making it even worse by
starting an argument. Ahadiel had the good sense to keep his mouth
shut as well.
Her mother kissed Prima
on the cheek, then joined her husband. "Savim." she said,
addressing Ahadiel by his formal title of
"Prince". "Because I appreciate the concern you've shown for my
child, I offer you this information.
Do with it as you will. Your brother is still alive, but you'll need to travel
deep into the territories of Hell to
find him. He is not here in this place."
"Thank
you," Ahadiel said, quietly.
“And
for my thanks, Sarim, I give you this." Her father pulled a shotgun
from inside his coat, and tossed it to Ahadiel, who caught
it with a faint look of surprise.
"I
am honoured, but I have no need of weapons.”
"Maybe, but you'll
make good use of these. Prima can explain." A box of shells followed the
shotgun, which Ahadiel also caught,
one-handed. Then her father turned to Prima and said, "Keep safe.”
Together, her parents
took to the sky, vanishing almost instantly. After a moment, Ahadiel came up beside
her, shotgun and shells in one hand. His gaze took in her dishevelled hair,
ripped clothing and scratched face. With his free hand, he
brushed back her hair and lightly touched her cheek.
“I’m
sorry,” he said.
"For
what? You did exactly as you promised. You win some; you lose some. I guess
you'll be sticking around for a while longer, then.”
He
nodded, stepping back. He frowned at the shotgun. "So those were your
parents: AriochandAlussa."
"Mmm-hmm.
I think Dad kind of likes you. You're both in the same line of business, sort
of.”
'Your
father works for a vengeance demon."
"I said, 'sort
of." She took a shell from the box. "Mother, on the other hand,
doesn't like men very much. Except for my father. The strong and
silent routine would be best around her."
She
rolled the shotgun shell between her thumb and forefinger then held it up,
smiling. "A magic bullet."
Ahadiel
took it back. "A whole box of magic bullets, to be precise. But for
what?"
"I have no idea.
Dad has good intentions, but his follow-thro ugh can be a bit shoddy. I suppose
we'll just have to shoot things and see what happens." With all
the excitement over- for now- she longed for a hot bath
and a long nap, but she didn't think there'd be much time for that for a long
while yet. "So ... what are you going to do?"
"Good
question." Ahadiel gave a loud sigh. "It seems I have a choice. I go
after Helel, Harut and Maroth, and try to stop them from starting
another war. Or I go after my brother."
"Azrael sent you here to find Raguel,
and to stay until you found him. Perhaps Azrael doesn't want you in the other fight."
"The
number of lives in the balance ... I don't know that I can
turn from that. If my brother were here, I believe he would
agree."
Prima took his hand, and
gave it a comforting squeeze. "An interesting thing about choices is how
you can sometimes choose more than one."
"Then
that's what I'll do."
"I thought so." After a quick
survey of their surroundings she said, "I don't think we're too far from
my place, and if you'll be here for a
while, you're going to need a place to stay."
He
smiled. "True."
“You
can stay with me if you'd like. Here, or wherever we end up."
I'd like that, thank you.
I'll be sleeping on the couch, though."
It
was her turn to smile. "But of course you will."
"Have
a little faith in me. Halfway, yes. All the way? We’ll see."
With
a laugh, Prima took to the sky. A moment later, Ahadiel followed.
Dark Force
A Black Ops novella Cheyenne
McCray
One
"You're not leaving me behind.”
Jaymie Taylor scowled at the big man as he glared at her with a look so dark he might as well have been a storm-shrouded
mountain. Her cheeks burned as her anger rose. "I'm part of this team and you will not leave
me behind.”
"Brick”
Sanders had earned his nickname. The formidable black ops mercenary, former
Navy SEAL, was as unmovable and as unforgiving as a
fifty-foot-thick wall when he set his mind to something.
As far as Jaymie was
concerned Brick could shove his attitude right up his cinder blocks. All walls
had at least one weakness and she'd find his if it was the last
thing she did.
His hard-cut, bronzed features were
anything but handsome. He might not be what most women would consider especially good-looking ... but she had
to admit he had sex appeal to the max that saturated her to the bone
when she was near him.
Brick had an
incredible body to go along with all of that sex appeal. When he wasn't
looking, she enjoyed watching him prepare for and execute each
objective, or kick back with the rest of the team when they took a
break.
"If s not a Dark
Force mission.” Brick's voice rumbled like rocks in a landslide.
"This is personal. I decide who goes.”
His
biceps were impressive as he folded his arms, as was his well-defined chest
that stretched his sleeveless T-shirt. His black fatigues were a
little loose, but they couldn't hide his powerful thighs and tight ass.
She'd
wanted him since the moment she heard his voice - even though he'd been arguing
with
"Thunder” Hansen that she
couldn't be on the team. Thunder, of course, won the argument and Brick had taken another long look at her before storming
away. She'd smiled to herself as she'd thought about taking that man to
bed.
Jeez,
she had to stop this train of thought. The desire that she felt every time he
was even close to her.
Jaymie waved in the
direction of the camp that the team had set upon the beach. It was a good
hundred yards from where she and Brick were
having their "discussion" within the jungle's fringe. "You gave
in to all three guys when they
insisted on going with you to save your nephew. There's no reason why I can't
be on the recovery team, too."
When
he'd opposed her being on the team, Brick had used the excuse that because
she'd been a CIA agent and not former Special Forces, she'd be
unable to handle the kind of ops they would be hired for. He'd
argued that she'd be a liability instead of an asset.
Over the past six months
since she'd joined the team, Jaymie had hassled Brick at every opportunity7,
pissing him off as much as possible, just
for the hell of it. She'd had no problem proving him wrong on their first two
missions together, showing everyone how valuable she was to the team. Of course
Brick was too much of an arrogant
bastard to admit he was wrong. At least he'd stopped his rumblings about her
even being there.
Brick
took one step towards her, leaving only inches between them. Jaymie almost
stepped back, which would have had her pressed up against the
young kapok tree behind her, and congratulated herself on keeping
her position. She narrowed her gaze as she met the six foot four man's green
eyes. Even at five foot ten she had to look up to glare at him.
"I've been a
member of Dark Force for six months." She clenched her hands into fists at
her sides. "During both of my missions I've proven that I'm a
valuable asset to the team."
Tension
radiated from him, so palpable that she felt it within herself. When he spoke
again, the single word was low, measured, controlled.
"No."
Jaymie started to speak
but every thought shot from her mind as Brick grabbed her wrists. In an almost
violent movement, he jerked her to him and captured her mouth with his.
There could be no other
word but "capture". Jaymie felt his hard, firm mouth pressing her
softer, fuller lips against her teeth. Complete and total surprise had her opening
her mouth and Brick totally dominated her by thrusting his tongue inside,
exploring and tasting her before he sucked on her tongue.
Shock
immobilized Jaymie for only a moment but he'd raised her hands so fast, both of
her wrists clenched in one of his big palms. He held her hands
above her head and nearly slammed her up against the kapok tree. She fought
against Brick's hold but he used his large, hard body to prevent any kind of
move she might make.
Sixteen
years of tae kwon do, not to mention extensive training in hand-to-hand combat,
and she was pinned by this brute of a man, this immovable force.
Brick's
kiss was hard enough to be painful. He clenched his fist in her loose blonde
hair and kept her head motionless.
Instead
of fighting him, she relaxed her body, thinking that if she did she might fool
him into letting down his guard. More surprise shot through her
as she felt his long, thick erection pressed against her belly.
His
kiss was relentless, powerful. Jaymie found herself breathing in his masculine
scent, and involuntary electrical charges zinged from her belly
button to between her thighs. In the past six months since she'd been
recruited on to the team by Thunder, Brick's musky scent had never failed to
send thrills through her. She'd never been
so close to him, though, never been so filled with his incredible scent, his very presence.
She
didn't even realize she had fallen into the kiss and was kissing him back until
she heard herself moan.
Her moan encouraged Brick
and his kiss became impossibly more intense. He bit her lower lip with a firm yet soft bite.
Jaymie gave a cry into
his mouth. Not of pain, but desire. Sheer, complete desire. And she was shaking
with it. Shaking with the need for him to
take her right there against the tree.
"I
want to fuck you." He raised his face just enough that she could see the
sexual need and frustration in his green eyes as his words echoed her
thoughts. "Be inside you." His next word was a low growl.
"Now."
Jaymie tried to think
clearly, but all she could do was imagine Brick filling her. That was what
she'd wanted since she'd first met him despite his arrogance and insistence
they didn't need her on the team.
Brick
didn't relax his hold and she could still feel his barely contained desire. She
knew he wouldn't force her, but he wanted her badly. As badly as she
wanted him.
"I like it
rough, Jaymie." He pressed his rigid cock against her belly, grinding as
he did it. "And when I start I'm not stopping."
Jaymie tried to swallow
but her throat was too dry. She met Brick's gaze that had gone dark green in
the dim jungle light. Feral, hungry - his expression deepened
as he stared at her, waiting for her response. Even if he were
rough, he wouldn't hurt her. Would he?
She
needed him so badly, what other answer was there? 'Yes," she said in a
hoarse whisper. "I want you."
Brick moved his fingers from her hair
while his other hand continued to pin her wrists against the tree. She squirmed against his hard body. He ripped a
vine from a tree and wrapped it around her wrists then around the trunk
of the tree at her back.
Stunned,
she struggled, but she could tell he had tied the smooth vine so well her
efforts were totally futile.
The
instinct to fight against her bonds was natural. "What the hell—"
Another harsh kiss
took the rest of her sentence from her. With her arms secured above her head
and his body pressed to hers, she couldn't stop him from pushing up her tank
top and wrapping another vine around her waist. It was smooth against her belly. He had her
tied so securely there was no way she could get loose. As he drew back and
looked into her eyes, she knew he'd meant what he said. She'd said yes ... and there was no turning back.
But she didn't want
to turn back, didn't want him to stop. The eroticism of what he was doing, how
he had tied
her to the tree, had her completely off guard - had her completely turned on.
With one hand he
yanked her green tank top up and over her breasts. He anchored his other hand
in her hair again, pulling her head back so firmly it thunked
against the tree. Her mind spun from the not-so-gentle thump. But
then she gasped as he jerked down her bra and immediately caught one of her nipples
in the warmth of his mouth.
Her nipples had
always been unusually sensitive, and the feel of him sucking one made her
nearly blind with lust. When he lightly bit her nipple, it almost made
her knees give out.
She
tried to keep her moans and sounds of excitement low as he moved his mouth to
her other breast so that the noises didn't carry back to camp.
Her
scalp tingled as he released her nipple so that his hands were free to push her
shorts and panties over her toned thighs to her feet, leaving her naked from
the waist down. Humid jungle air brushed her skin and she grew so
wet with desire she was squirming against the vines that held her.
Brick slid his
fingers into her wet folds and Jaymie choked back a cry when he flicked the
taut nub. His calloused fingers felt rough against her softness and the
contrast was amazingly hot.
"Can't wait any
longer." He had the sound of a primal animal that took its mate regardless
of her own need.
Well,
this was one female whose need matched his own.
He
unfastened his fatigues and shoved them down his hips. The length and girth of
his cock made desire clench her abdomen. She grew wetter with the
knowledge that he would be taking her, driving his thick erection
into her.
Brick grabbed her by
her ass with his large hands. His fingers dug into her flesh as he raised her.
She wrapped her legs around his hips and his ass, his body
firm between her thighs.
His feral, dark-green
gaze focused on hers as he positioned his cock to enter her. Jaymie caught her breath,
her heart pounding, body trembling, as she waited for him to do what they both
wanted, needed.
He
gave an animalistic rumble in his chest just before he thrust inside her.
An involuntary cry
came from Jaymie's lips as she took him deep. Vaguely she was aware of the fact
that the other guys of Dark Force might hear her, but right
then she wasn't quite sure she cared.
"I've
wanted to fuck you since the day you joined the team." Brick pounded into
her almost relentlessly as he spoke. "I knew you'd be a distraction
and we couldn't afford distractions, /couldn't afford it."
Jaymie couldn't speak
as he pulled her hair harder, jerking her head back so her breasts jutted out.
He ran his
stubbled cheeks over the column of her throat.
"Brick."
His name seemed to come from nowhere as he fucked her harder than she'd ever
been fucked before. "Please—" She stopped, not even knowing what she was
begging for. Maybe it was for the orgasm that was starting to build inside her, already beginning
lowin her belly.
She could feel his hips bruising the
insides of her thighs from the power of his thrusts. Being restrained - his
hold on her hair almost painful - made everything feel somehow more exciting.
Her
orgasm spiralled inside her, eliminating her ability to think clearly. She fell
into every sensation she was experiencing. Her wrists restrained above her, the vine
tethering her waist to the tree, Brick's T-shirt rasping against her nipples, his stubble like sandpaper against her
throat, and his cock driving in and out of her so powerfully she felt it deeply enough to cry out with every
thrust.
When Brick clenched his
fingers around her ass, Jaymie nearly screamed as she came. Her entire body jerked then shuddered from the intensity, the
power of her orgasm. It seemed to go on and on, Brick drawing her climax out as she spasmed around his
cock.
"I can't have
you driving me out of my mind like you do." Brick bit her ear as he spoke
in a low, almost menacing tone, and she shuddered as she tried to come back to
herself. "When I finish fucking you, you'll be out of my system. I won't think about putting my cock inside you
every time I see your blue eyes. Every time
I look at you."
Through
the haze in her mind, Jaymie tried to make sense of his words.
Then
Brick slammed into her a few more times and growled as he came inside her.
Within her now sensitized channel, she felt him throbbing.
His face was a grimace as his orgasm clenched his body.
When he looked like
he was in control of himself, he gripped her shoulders and slid out. She stared
at him in confusion as she lowered her legs from around his
waist.
Jaymie widened her
eyes when he drew out his dagger. Then he reached up and sliced through the
vines securing her wrists. He did the same to the vines at her waist and caught
her before she would have fallen, due to the wobbly feeling that surged
throughout her body.
He kept his gaze on her as he sheathed his
knife, tugged up his fatigues and fastened them. She dressed as well, slipping into her shorts and pulling her
tank top and bra down over her aching breasts.
Her body went from
hot and excited to cool and distant as she stared at him, processing each and
even1 word he'd just said.
"You fucked me
because you think that will make you stop wanting me." Her tone was like
ice. She took a step towards him.
Brick
shrugged and started to turn away from her, towards camp.
Jaymie
moved in front of him and slugged him.
Then
she rammed her knee as hard as she could into his balls.
Brick
dropped to his knees with a pained shout.
Jaymie
smiled with the smallest amount of satisfaction, turned, and headed back
towards camp.
Two
Adrenaline heightened Jaymie Taylor's senses as
she slipped silently through the dark jungle and gripped the stock of her Barrett 82A1 .50 cal
high-capacity semi-automatic rifle. A kidnapped twelve-year-old kid's life was at stake.
And
his son of a bitch of an uncle, Brick, was somewhere in the jungle, unaware of
her presence.
Despite Brick's order
that she wasn't to accompany the rest of the team, Jaymie left not long after
they did, following the men into the jungle.
Her body armour and
utility belt were heavy but comforting as she moved forwards. Her dagger, Sig
Sauer handgun, a small flashlight and extra ammo weighted her belt along with
two IEDs - improvised explosive devices.
Secured in her left boot was a small but deadly knife and in her right was a
second Sig, a model that was more
easily concealed than her larger handgun.
Occasionally
Jaymie heard the men checking in with Brick, the obvious team leader on this
mission, by giving their statuses in low voices. Miniscule earpieces
were secured firmly just outside each operative's ear canal,
including her own. The individual high-tech earpieces were programmed to
transmit only its operative's voice, keeping background noise
to a minimum.
It was possible lives
would be lost tonight - it was almost a given in a situation where their team
would be storming a compound like this. But no way could she allow that kid or
anyone on the team to be among the casualties.
She
was one of the best of the best at what she did, as were the four men ahead of
her. She never allowed doubt to enter her thoughts. Doubt could get
you killed.
Through
her night vision goggles, everything glowed green-yellow. The eyewear assisted
her in slipping among the dense foliage, through complete
darkness. She easily blended with the night in her black fatigues,
her blonde hair stuffed under a cap, black paint streaking her face.
Jaymie eased under a
rubber plant's thick, low hanging leaves, her booted feet silent on the sodden jungle
floor as she made her way towards their target.
Somewhere not too far
ahead of her, Brick moved as easily and quietly as she did despite his almost intimidating size. She was so angry with him that
her blood felt like lava in her veins. And she was so furious at herself
because she was still unbelievably aware of the potent sexuality of his
presence even though she couldn't see him, couldn't
hear him-he was probably a good 200 yards ahead of her.
Despite
the distance, Jaymie could almost swear she felt his magnetism beside her. She
imagined
catching
his scent and her belly flipped as she remembered the way he'd felt inside her.
The conflicting
emotions were driving her out of her mind. She'd driven him out of his mind
enough to fuck her up against a tree to get her "out of his system".
She wondered if he'd succeeded. Unfortunately he wasn't out of hers.
She
elbowed vines aside while she held back a smirk at the fact that Brick, the
asshole, now had a black eye and had walked with a limp for the rest
of the day. He seemed fine now, which was a good thing considering
they were on a mission.
The
jungle's humidity caused perspiration to break out on Jaymie's skin and
droplets of sweat rolled down the sides of her face.
At the last moment,
she avoided stepping into a depression in the rich earth beside a banana tree
and her heart bounced in her chest. Damn. She caught her breath
and gritted her teeth. What the hell was the matter with her? What
was she doing thinking about Brick when her focus on the mission needed to be complete?
She would get herself or someone else killed if she didn't get it together.
Jaymie shook her head
then easily brought her thoughts back to where they needed to be - part of the liquid
machinery of the black ops team.
Lights winked in and out
of the foliage in the distance. "Compound in sight," came Brick's
voice in her earpiece.
"In view," Jaymie almost said
but managed to bite her tongue. She checked the GPS-enabled watch on her arm as
the others reported their positions.
Within moments Thunder,
Casper and Spit gave their coordinates. Casper would do his thing and take out the generators, enabling the team to take over
the compound more easily in what would soon, likely, be chaos.
The
recon the team had engaged in for the past couple of days would help make this
op go like clockwork. The guys hadn't even been aware that she'd
followed them each day.
When
she reached the fringe of the jungle, Jaymie crouched behind a cover of
cecropia trees. The compound's lights became too bright and she
had to push her night vision goggles up on top of her head.
Surrounded by twenty-foot-high fencing, several
buildings stood in the middle of a massive clearing. Stars winked above the
area devoid of jungle vegetation. One of the buildings was huge, the main house
where they were sure the kid was being held.
Jaymie gritted her
teeth. The child could be a needle in a haystack. Over the comm, she'd learned
a couple of days ago that Brick was certain he'd spotted the kid through a
window on the northern side of the building. Jaymie had thought
she caught a glimpse of blond hair through the same window on that day, too.
Around the building were
two sets of thick-linked fences with rolls of barbed wire along the inner and outer ten-foot high fencing. At each corner were
tall metal outposts, each with two armed sentries.
"In
thirty," came Casper's low, casual drawl. Anyone who knew him would have
no idea that he was about to wreak havoc on the place big time.
Jaymie
shielded her eyes with her hand and slowly counted down the seconds. At the
exact moment she ticked off thirty in her mind, an explosion rocked the
grounds.
The
entire compound went dark.
A
roiling ball of fire shot to the sky and sparks jetted from the flames
providing enough light to let Jaymie see the sudden pandemonium. Black
smoke boiled from the ground along with the flames. The IED that had just taken out
the compound's main generator had obviously done its job.
Cries and screams
echoed in the jungle, coming from the group of buildings. Men shouted out
orders in Spanish while others screamed.
Another
explosion blasted the night. More flames shot up to the sky, the sound so loud
she wanted to put her hands to her ears. Instead, she maintained
position, her heart pumping blood as if the fire had turned
to liquid in her veins. She forced herself to breathe as she waited for Brick
to give the order to the men to move in.
Jaymie
blinked in surprise when the compound's lights flickered - and came back on.
Dimmer, but they were working.
She
frowned. The second explosion should have taken out the back-up generators.
Now, in the light provided, it was easy to
see men rushing to surround the perimeter of the fence, their rifles pointed towards the jungle.
Damn.
Dark Force's main advantage was totally gone if they couldn't take out all the
lights.
"Hold
on tight, kids," came Casper's drawl inside her ear through the comm. :£You might want to cover your ears and close your eyes."
Jaymie barely had time to
lower her rifle to obey before light scorched the night, lightning bright even through her closed eyelids. Thunder from the third
explosion sounded as though her hands weren't even muffling her ears.
"Good
to go," Casper said in his usual casual voice.
Jaymie's
ears rang as she opened her eyes to see the compound was dark again, with the
exception of more light from flames shooting towards the sky in the
huge jungle clearing.
She pulled her
night-vision goggles down, careful to avoid looking at the flames, and gripped
her rifle tight again.
"Synchronize."
Brick's voice was strong over her earpiece.
Boy
was he going to be pissed when she came out of the jungle with the rest of
them. But he was too professional to let it distract him, so she
wasn't worried about diverting his attention from the mission.
She glanced from the
darkened but chaotic buildings to her watch as Brick continued his countdown in
a slow, measured tone, "Five... four... three... two ... one."
Jaymie
clenched her jaw as she brought up her rifle. At the same time she pushed
herself to her feet and bolted for the compound.
Three
Rage flowed through Brick as he charged forwards.
He focused through his night-vision goggles as he squeezed the trigger of the M-4 rifle and took out as many of Chavez's
men as possible.
That
son of a bitch - Chavez's right-hand man - was going to die for what he'd done.
For daring to kidnap Brandon in order to draw Brick out.
When
Brick got too close to the buildings for the M-4 to be effective, he slung the
rifle over his shoulder. At the same time he drew his Glock.
Spit
Andersen shot out of the jungle on Brick's left. Brick felt no surprise as
Jaymie drew up on his right. The depth of his feelings for her,
feelings he'd refused to acknowledge, were shoved even further aside. Now
was not the time to be thinking of Jaymie in that way. In any way but as a
valuable member of Dark Force.
He
tried to be pissed that she hadn't obeyed him. Truth was she'd be an asset
tonight whether he wanted to admit it or not.
Brick
didn't have to look at Spit to know he was levelling a large grenade launcher
at the double fences.
The
hollow thumping sound of the launcher was nearly lost in the chaos.
With
the next explosion, Brick squeezed his eyes shut for a mere second to avoid the
glare in his goggles. He didn't stop running. He blinked and had the
satisfaction of seeing gaping holes through both fences, thanks
to the grenade launcher.
Brick
gripped his Glock in both hands and fired at two more of Chavez's men. Since
Jaymie was there, he knew that his back was covered as he ran
through the yawning wounds in the fence straight towards the main
house. He'd rarely seen anyone who could shoot as well as she could. Spit, also
a superior marksman, nearly as accurate as Jaymie, would keep
things clear behind them.
Adrenaline surged through
Brick and his insides felt as if his entire being was strung tight. He and his teammates fought their way through the darkness,
the night-vision goggles giving them a big advantage.
When they reached the
main house, Brick headed straight for his target. Sure as hell, he knew he'd caught
a couple of glimpses of Brandon through the window during the torturous week of
recon.
Brick had wanted to
rescue his nephew every time the black ops team surveyed the compound. He knew better than to rush
things and risk getting the kid killed. After their last day of recon and a
run-through of each and every drill, Brick
had been satisfied they'd recover Brandon alive.
Once
his nephew was safe, Brick would find that bastard, Mark Flynn. He'd make sure
Flynn never
fucked
with anyone else's family ever again.
One
of Chavez's men rounded the corner of the house, his sights set on Brick. But
in the next instant, the man crumpled to the ground as Jaymie put a bullet into his
head.
When they reached
their target destination, Brick pushed his night-vision goggles up on top of
his head. With fire still consuming some of the outbuildings, he
focused on the small barred window. Flames reflected on the glass making
it difficult to see inside.
Jaymie
and Spit stood with their backs to him, covering him from all sides. Regardless
of the ear-splitting chaos of the night, he identified every
report of their weapons.
It took some effort to
keep from worrying that something would happen to Jaymie. He had to acknowledge
that she was just as competent, tough, intelligent and capable as his other
teammates.
Brick stuffed his Glock in its holster and
slung his rifle from his shoulder. He still couldn't see inside. Damn. He
wanted to make sure he didn't hurt the kid.
He got as close to
the window as he could and shouted, "Stand back", hoping he could be
seen. Or at least heard.
After retreating a
step, Brick gripped the rifle, raised it and slammed the butt between a pair of
bars and through the windows glass. It shattered- not bulletproof,
thank God.
"Brandon!"
he shouted through the bars, hoping to hell his nephew was in there. "It's
John."
''Uncle
John?" came the boy's voice. Relief poured through Brick. Brandon's terrified
face came into view. He sounded even more scared than he looked as he added in a
stutter, "I... I can't believe—"
Brick
shot a quick glance over his shoulder before looking back at his terrified
nephew. "Are you alone?"
Brandon
nodded. "Yes."
Brick searched the
room with one sweep of his gaze and spotted a bed. "Get under the
bed," he ordered. "Have to blow these bars and I don't
want you getting hurt."
Brandon didn't
hesitate. He ran to a far corner of the room, dropped to the floor and vanished
beneath the bed while Brick took a small, but always effective,
explosive device from his belt. Unlike an IED, this device
was far more accurate and controlled.
Brick didn't bother to
look over his shoulder again to see what was happening behind him. Jaymie and Spit were taking care of business.
"Down!"
Brick shouted at the pair as he set the explosive on the windowsill and pressed
the button with the mere three-second delay.
He was a good ten
feet from the house and dropped on to one knee, turning his head slightly away
as the explosive blew. When he whirled to face the window,
through remnants of smoke, he saw the bars were history and the
former window was nothing but a gaping hole.
Brick
looked around them. Chavez's men were everywhere, but Jaymie and Spit still had
he and Brandon covered.
Brick
rushed back to the house. "Get out, Brandon,” he shouted into
the room when he reached it.
The
boy scrambled from under the bed and ran for the window. He jumped out so fast
that his weight slammed into Brick, forcing him to step back
despite being three times the size of the boy.
Brick released the child.
No time for even a small reunion. "Stay close to me and as low as possible.
We're going to get you out of here."
Brandon
gave a short nod and attempted a small show of bravery that Brick knew was for
him. "Yes, sir," he said at the same time he crouched
low beside Brick.
Sweat rolled down
Brick's face from the heat of the flames. His T-shirt clung to his skin beneath
his body armour. They shot any of Chavez's men who came into sight.
Brick's heart pounded as he aimed the handgun and gripped the
trigger time after time.
Once they made it
through the gaping holes in the two fences, Jaymie, Spit and Brandon sprinted
beside him across a barren clearing, towards the jungle.
Just before they
reached cover Spit shouted and dropped. Jaymie came up short, like she was
going to go after Spit. Even in the darkness Brick thought he could
make out the bluer than blue shade of her eyes
"Take
the boy. Head for cover.” Brick gave Brandon a slight shove towards
Jaymie. "I'm going after Spit.”
Jaymie's
nod was sharp, her expression grim. The boy didn't pause as he dashed to the
jungle beside her.
Spit was motionless on the ground. Brick
put his fingers to Spit's neck and felt the man's strong pulse. Out cold, but alive.
Shots
speared the night as Brick grabbed Spit under his arms. The bullets were close,
way too close. Brick dragged the former Navy SEAL into the cover of the jungle.
When they were hidden by thick foliage,
Brick shoved up his night-vision goggles. By the light of the flames, he saw Spit wake and grimace, but the man
didn't make a sound.
Through
the cover, Brick caught glimpses of Chavez's men at the compound. It looked
like they'd organized what remained of their ranks and were about to
head into the jungle.
"Get
the hell out of here,” Brick said over his comm. "Chavez's men
are headed our way."
Thank God all of his team
responded in the affirmative, including Jaymie. Meant no one was down but Spit.
"Where
are you hit?" Brick asked his teammate.
"I'll live." Spit sucked in his
breath. "Took one in my thigh, I think close to bone.” Spit
spoke through gritted teeth. "Bullet
got me in the back, dead centre. Knocked the breath out of me but that's
it."
Brick ripped strips
off his T-shirt and hurried to tie a tourniquet around Spit's thigh and the blood-soaked
fatigues.
"We need to get
our asses back to base." Brick jerked Spit to his feet. 'Thunder and
Casper should make it back before we do with you holding us
up."
"No
fucking kidding." Spit had already turned and made his way through the forest,
barely limping
despite
the wound. Tough son of a bitch.
Shouts
came closer and a bullet zinged and buried itself in a rubber tree next to
Brick's head.
"The
kid with you, Taylor?” Brick said to Jaymie over his comm while he
busted through the foliage.
"Yes," she said over the comm to the sound of
gunfire, her breathing sounding a little rough. "We're sure not
hanging around.”
Brick
kept up with Spit and covered their backsides as they headed to base.
Four
"Thank you, Uncle John.”
Brandon crouched by the fire, early morning light showing the dust and ash on
his cheeks.
Jaymie
glanced from uncle to nephew, noting the strong resemblance. Brandon was going
to be even better
looking than his uncle, without all the harshness of Brick's nature and
features.
Brick
sat on a rock near the campfire, not looking at his nephew. He ran his palm
down his stubbled face before looking at Brandon and shaking his head. "I'm the one
who got you into this mess. You don't owe me
one single word of thanks.” He nodded towards each team member
lounging around the campfire, including
Jaymie. "The team deserves mine.”
Thunder,
Spit, and Casper each shrugged or gave Brick a casual "it's no big deal”
look.
"You would've done it
for any one of us, ''Thunder said in his rough voice. He pushed himself away
from the palm tree he'd been leaning
against. "So don't start that gratitude shit.”
Brick
studied Jaymie with tired, irritated eyes. Boy, had she given him an excellent
black eye.
He
got to his feet, his torn black T-shirt exposing the flat tanned skin of his
abs. He focused his gaze on Jaymie. "Come on,” he said as he
turned his back on her and started walking into the jungle.
A
slow burn travelled through her body, heating her face and causing her scalp to
prickle. She was so tempted to ignore the big ass, but she had to
face him sooner or later and she never was one to procrastinate.
"Sure."
Jaymie tried to keep her tone and her expression cool as she got up from the
rock she'd been sitting on. She dusted sand from her
backside, as if that would do any good considering they were camped out
on a beach.
By
the looks on the faces of the other black ops team members, they knew Brick was
pissed and intended to let her know it. Jaymie swallowed and
followed him into the dimness of the jungle.
As they made their way deeper into the
foliage, the potency of his presence seemed to envelop her and she could almost feel him inside of her.
Idiot. She wanted to bang
her head against a tree - maybe a coconut would land on her head and knock sense back into her.
She
had no idea why he was going so deep into the jungle. All he needed to do was
get her out of earshot of the campsite.
When
they were a good 100 yards from the campsite, Brick turned to face her, his
arrogant features grim and unyielding.
Jaymie
raised her hands before he could speak and imagined herself wringing his neck.
"I'm there every step of the way with this team no matter what
the mission is."
He
stood in front of her, like a battleship anchored in stormy seas. His
expression flickered with something she hadn't seen from him before - and she wasn't
sure exactly what it was.
She
clenched her hands into fists at her sides, wanting to clock him. Again.
Then
his features softened, just slightly, but she'd never seen him look anything
less than tough. He dragged his hand down his face and met her
gaze.
"I—" Brick cleared his throat, but kept
his eyes locked on her "—owe you an apology."
Jaymie blinked. Then she
blinked again. Brick was apologizing? "For not letting me on the
team," she stated.
"No."
Brick shook his head. "I was wrong to leave you off the team but I had my
reasons. But that's not what I'm apologizing for.”
Before
Jaymie could comprehend what this big man was saying, he continued, "I was
an asshole for what I said to you yesterday when we—" He cut off his sentence like he
didn't know how to finish it. "Worse than an asshole."
She
narrowed her gaze. "That's never been in question."
Brick
approached her and she stood her ground, even when he raised his hands and
gripped her shoulders.
Warmth travelled from his palms throughout her body.
His jaw tightened.
"The reason I said what I said is the same reason I didn't want you to go
on this mission."
Her
confusion grew. "I'm not following this conversation."
“I’m in love with
you, Jaymie." Brick's grip on her shoulders increased as her jaw dropped.
"I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you. The mission was
too dangerous."
Jaymie felt like
she'd just fallen into quicksand and it was sucking her in, fast. She'd been an
undercover CIA
operative for eight years, a mercenary for six months. Nothing on earth could
have prepared her for what Brick was telling
her.
"I
thought that maybe if I ... if I had you . . . that it
would make these feelings go away." He started moving his hands up and
down her upper arms. "Maybe it was just lust. Shit." Brick released
her arms and dragged his hand down his face again. "I know I
fucked everything up yesterday."
Warmth
grew within Jaymie's chest and the weighted feeling that had been in her body
grew light, pleasant. He locked his green eyes with hers again.
"That's crazy,
Brick." She started to smile, started to tell him what was inside her
heart when she saw an expression of anger cross his features.
The
too-familiar click of a handgun sent harsh tingles down her spine.
"Nice,"
came an unfamiliar voice from the foliage behind Brick. "Brick Sanders has
yet another Achilles heel."
Brick's
scalp prickled and a sudden rush of adrenaline sent his pulse racing.
Flynn.
It took every bit of Brick's SEAL training
to keep his body loose and prepared to get out of what was about to become a fucking mess. How the hell
hadn't he caught onto Flynn's approach until it was too late?
Jaymie. His feelings for
her had caused exactly what he'd thought it might - distraction. He didn't meet
her eyes. Instead he looked over her
shoulder and saw two men ease out from behind their tropical cover.
Three on two. Not bad
odds prodding Flynn didn't just shoot them.
Brick couldn't hear Flynn
move, but he sensed that the man was getting closer. Flynn had been one of Brick's closest friends at onetime, when they were
both Navy SEALS. Not any longer.
"Turn
the fuck around, Sanders. Hands behind your head." Flynn's voice was
filled with rage. "You know I won't have any problem
putting a hole in your woman's head if you screw with me." The man made a snarling
sound as he added, "I want her to die right beside you."
Brick didn't bother to ask Flynn to let
Jaymie go. That would be the last thing the bastard would allow. Brick met
Jaymie's gaze and he felt pride at the strength he saw in her eyes. She
wouldn't go down without a fight.
He wasn't wearing
his weapons belt, but he always kept a handgun at his ankle and a knife in the
sole of his boot. Not that Flynn would give him a chance to use
either.
Once he'd raised his arms, hands behind
his head, he slowly turned and faced the red-headed man he'd called a friend. Women had always gone for the
bastard's inherited Irish charm and wit.
'You destroyed
everything." Flynn's hand remained steady, his weapon levelled at Jaymie
as she stepped up beside Brick. "Had a real good thing
going with Chavez before you took out my half of the operation."
"Nothing
personal," Brick said, maintaining his calm. "You know we were paid
to take it out."
"Bullshit." Flynn's naturally
pale complexion had reddened to the point that Brick wondered about the man's blood pressure. "You would have had
intel."
Brick
gave a slow nod. "Like I said. Nothing personal." He stared at his
former friend, more anger rushing through him because Flynn had
turned to narcotics - to producing and selling cocaine. When Brick
had found out, it had become personal.
But
Flynn had spotted him during the takedown of his drug organization and
retaliated by kidnapping
Brick's nephew, Flynn had been a friend of the
family at one time and knew way too much about Brick's personal life.
"Since you
managed to get the kid back," Flynn said, "I think I’ll take care of
this little sweetheart. You can watch as I bleed her out."
From the corner of his
eye, Brick looked at Jaymie. She didn't blink and her expression was neutral. A
combination of pride and fear for her made his
focus all the more clear.
Flynn
held his gun on Jaymie as he drew a knife from his belt. He held the gun in one
hand, the knife in the other.
Brick glanced at Jaymie's
hands behind her head. She was pointing one finger towards the men behind her.
He
met her gaze, hoping she could see that he understood exactly what she intended
to do.
Flynn
raised the knife as he took a step towards Jaymie.
She
dropped almost flat to the ground, in a push-up position.
Brick dived for
Flynn and tackled him. He knocked the gun from Flynn's hand, but the knife
pierced his shoulder and pain shot through him, swift and hot. He ground his
teeth to hold back a shout from the pain, at the same time slamming his fist
against Flynn's jawbone. He felt bone crack beneath his knuckles.
Jaymie twisted on to
her back as the two other men went for her. She gathered herself in a tight
ball and rolled between the men, catching them off guard.
She drew a knife from
her waistband and another from her boot so that she had a knife in each hand. She
surprised the men again by going on the offence - and slicing each of their
Achille's tendons in a swift move of each hand.
The men shouted and
shrieked as their legs gave out. Jaymie didn't pause. As they hit the ground
she sliced
one man's throat and rammed the other knife into the other's heart.
After
a gurgle and a pause, both men went slack.
Brick
and Flynn still grappled on the ground. Blood flowed from Brick's shoulder but
he ignored it as he fought. Flynn possessed extraordinary strength.
Flynn slammed his fist
into Brick's eye. For the slightest moment, Brick felt disorientated, but he recovered
and delivered a knife-hand strike to Flynn's throat.
The man gasped for
air and started to swing. Brick grabbed Flynn around the neck in a death hold.
With one quick movement, Brick twisted his former friend's head and snapped his
neck.
Brick
pushed himself to his feet and slammed his boot into Flynn's head, even though
the man was already dead. Adrenaline ran high and powerful through Brick's
body. The thought of what Flynn had intended to do made him want
to kill the bastard all over again.
He
turned and looked at Jaymie, getting to her feet. She was breathing hard,
smears of blood on her hands, her hair plastered to her neck - but she was alive.
Thank
God she was alive.
They
stared at each other for a long moment.
"Well,
that's certainly an interesting way to tell a girl that you love her,"
Jaymie finally said with a hint of a smile.
The power of his
feelings for Jaymie nearly overwhelmed him. He strode towards her, grabbed her
in his arms and nearly crushed her in his embrace.
He
kissed the top of her head and rubbed her back with his palm. "I love you,
Jaymie."
Brick
caught her by the chin and tilted her face up so that their eyes met. There
they were, standing in the middle of three dead men and he was
telling her he loved her.
When
she smiled, something exploded in his heart. Something warm that flowed through
his body.
Jaymie
wrapped her arms around his neck and brushed her lips over his. "I just so
happen to love you too, you big ass."
Lipstick Spy School
Gina Robinson
Inside every woman there's an inner Bond girl
longing to break free. The Lipstick Spy School had one mission-to draw it out and nurture it. For a day, at least.
As Kim entered the
luxury hotel on the Fort Lauderdale beach, she actually had two missions: get a
decent pedicure (Floridians didn't seem to believe in closed-toe
shoes), and kill Jason Bergman, Lipstick's special ops spy instructor.
Unlike her fellow
day spies, Kim arrived alone, without the almost mandatory best friend,
sidekick and cohort in crime. She had a designer overnight bag slung
over her shoulder with her gear inside: athletic shoes, yoga pants,
sports bra, makeup, lingerie, slinky dress, stiletto sandals and various
weapons of choice.
She was particularly handy with her Italian-made automatic Leverletto knife - a
lethal, lady-sized piece that fitted well in
her hand. But really, she could kill with practically anything.
The decor of the hotel lobby
screamed modern, beachfront chic in a colour palette of white, deep blue and
green. The chairs were boxy and square, the tables and bolsters perfectly round
in every respect, and the lighting
intimately dim with a touch of neon thrown in to promise some excellent
nightlife once the sun went down.
The message couldn't be clearer - only affluent, fashionable clients need
apply.
How
very fantasy spy-like.
Kim
spotted her Lipstick Spy School contact immediately. A blind woman couldn't
miss the curvaceous brunette in the tight, logoed Lipstick Spy School T-shirt.
The
woman extended her hand as Kim approached her. "Babette Long. Welcome. And
which spy would you be?" She spoke in warm, sultry
tones, as if she were a Bond girl herself.
Kim
shook her hand. "You can call me Tracy."
"Ah,
Tracy, a clever code name. Everyone wants to be Bond's best babe,"
"His
true love, his wife," Kim corrected.
Babette looked her
up and down, probably assessing her potential to party and spy with the best of
them and
wondering how hard it would be to drag her Bond-girl potential out. If only she
knew...
"We're
meeting in the Millionaire's Room. Third floor.” Babette pointed up
a wide staircase in the middle of the lobby as she gave directions.
"Report in and Vicki will get you squared away."
The
Millionaire's Room looked like an exclusive executive boardroom with a nod
towards nature. Cut-loop pile carpeting the colour of sand spread across the room
like a beach. The far wall was nothing more
than a row of windows with a view of the Atlantic Ocean, set at a perspective
made to look as if you could open a
window and step out on to the water.
A
good place to toss a man from a window? Ah, but Jason could swim. Still, if he
were unconscious ...
Kim's
assassin tendencies never lay dormant.
A boardroom table sat
in the middle of the room surrounded by tan chairs and punctuated at regular intervals
with vases of magenta lilies. How very Lipstick.
Vicki greeted Kim at the door. She issued
her a V-neck camp T-shirt with the distinctive smoking lipstick-gun logo and a hot-pink cosmetic bag embroidered with the name Tracy.
The bag, filled with a high-end lipstick in a pouty pink shade and a
compact mirror, came complete with a gold chain shoulder strap. Perfect. Kim needed a place for her poison
and the chain looked like it would hold up to a good strangling.
Six women were
already sitting around the table, drinking lattes and tea. You could cut the
nervous anticipation
in the room with a nail tile. Kim seated herself at the far end of the table,
away from the other women. She had no need to fraternize. As the room tilled,
she smiled to herself at the oestrogen overload. Jason, testosterone-tilled
Green Beret that he was, was not going to love this. Poor baby, he had his work
cut out for him.
Eventually, twelve
women tilled in around the table. Babette appeared and camp began with the
official welcome.
"Welcome to the
premier spy day experience for women. Today's adventure will feature the fine seductive and survival
arts of being a Bond girl. Hand-to-hand combat, for the girl who finds herself
in a dangerous situation; master mixology,
because a seductress should always know how to pour a drink; and a lesson on the ballroom world's most sensual dance,
the tango, because sometimes we want to put ourselves in a compromising situation." She winked.
"I'll keep this short. In a moment, Vicki will take you to the fitness centre and the locker room where you can
change into your camp shirt and exercise gear and prepare for combat."
In the locker room, Kim changed quickly
into her yoga pants and sports bra, mentally going over her battle plan. If she could take Jason out in the
first session, that would be a cushy day's work, wouldn't it? She'd enjoy a little
extra time around the city to shop, maybe take a water taxi, or hang out at the
beach. And it would be so easy to
get away with murder. Accidents do happen.
With her back to the
others, she loaded her pink cosmetic bag with her knife, poison and assassin's
tools before stuffing her overnight bag into her locker. Then,
as the other women pulled their hair into bouncy
ponytails, Kim twisted her shoulder-length hair
into a severe French twist and secured it with a comb. Let the amateurs make a fabulous handhold for an
attacker. There was no way she'd give Jason a thing to grab onto. Bag
dangling from her shoulder, she left the changing area and was the first woman
into the fitness room.
The
workout room had the same "walk on water" view as the Millionaire's
Room and smelled faintly of sweat. As her fellow campers filed in,
it smelled more and more like the perfume counter at Nordstrom. The room
quickly filled with a hum of feminine voices and the occasional nervous giggle.
Even
before spotting him, she knew when Jason walked in. The room went dead silent
for a moment, followed by a collective sigh of appreciation.
She
turned to see Jason emerging from the men's locker area with his fellow
trainer, a man named Steve. Kim had only a faint sketch of who the
other guy was. Since he wasn't her target, she only cared enough to make sure he wouldn't be
a threat to her plans. Physically fit, but short and stocky with an off-centre
nose that had been broken too many times,
Steve certainly wasn't the cause of the exhales of appreciation.
On the other hand, the
sight of Jason sent an unexpected surge of desire through her. Evidently, wanting to kill him
didn't dim her animal reaction to him by even a milli-watt. It was a pity she'd
have to waste such a fine male specimen.
Six foot two, buff but lean, short dark hair, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, he was heaven dressed in a black T-shirt and
black athletic pants. Unfortunately for him, even heaven sometimes got a little hell.
His gaze locked with hers
and then travelled the length of her body. Appreciation and lust lit his eyes. Naughty boy. She shook her head at him ever so
slightly.
Vicki
shepherded the last camper from the locker room, went to the middle of the
training mat, and introduced the instructors.
Kim knew all about them.
Her mind wandered as Vicki droned on about Steve, but she perked up with pride as Vicki talked about Jason. Not every woman
had a target like him.
"You
women are so lucky, you don't even know! We only get Jason when he's home for
one of his infrequent
leaves. He's our most popular instructor." She winked at him.
Jason just smiled.
"Jason
works for the US Army in Special Forces. Counter-terrorism, is it?"
Jason
shrugged. "Maybe."
The
sound of his deep, sultry voice brought a look of rapture to the woman standing
next to Kim. It was a good thing women no longer wore corsets or
there would have been some good old-fashioned swooning going
on.
Obviously
charmed, Vicki giggled. "His work is so secret, I'm not sure he even knows
what he does, but he's an excellent trainer. Very experienced."
So
much innuendo in Vicki's words. Kim didn't appreciate it.
Jason
grinned. "I've trained a few foreign armies in my day."
Since
the man looked no older than thirty, the boast was doubly impressive.
Introductions
complete, Vicki stepped out of the way and the hand-to-hand combat training
started. Steve
and Jason took turns explaining and demonstrating various tactics while the
lady spies watched and mimicked. Kim
contemplated her first move.
Jason
began by teaching about balance and demonstrating the on-guard stance.
"Good balance is the key to winning a tight. Knees bent, rest on the balls
of your feet, ready to move. Arms up, ready to attack. Body turned
to the side. You want to present the smallest target possible.” He
turned and stared into Kim's eyes.
Her
heart flipped and her pulse raced out of control, but like any trained killer,
she held his gaze.
"Stare
into the enemy's eyes," he continued.
Enemy?
Oh my, he’d picked her out already.
"But
remain aware of your surroundings.”
Kim
smiled to herself. With Jason in the room, it was hard to be aware of anything
else. In that pose, with his thigh muscles and biceps bulging,
he looked completely delectable, like she could just run into his arms
for a squeeze as he fought off a foreign terrorist. Such fanciful thinking.
What had gotten into her today?
Steve took a turn teaching the class the
vulnerable parts of the body as well as how to properly ball a fist and use it as a weapon. Then the two took turns
demonstrating different manoeuvres. They taught the rapt women the open-palm ear slap, the heel-of-the-hand
chin jab, the knee-to-the-head bang, and the art of biting and kicking effectively.
When
Jason cocked his elbow to demonstrate the well-connected elbow blow, his guns
rippled.
“I’m
having trouble with that one,” a spy named May Day, a plump, nearly
menopausal woman said. "My cocked elbow doesn't seem
quite right.” She looked at her flabby arm and laughed. "Do you
mind if I feel yours and see what I've got wrong.”
Jason
walked over to her and held his arm out for her to feel. "Here. Give it a
squeeze."
May
made grabbing motions with her hand before finally taking an actual feel of
Jason's arm. "Oh my, ladies! That muscle is real, and very
hard.”
Kim
restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Such blatant behaviour. She may have
wanted to kill him, but show some respect. Jason wasn't a male stripper they'd
hired for a bachelorette party.
"Let me show you how
it's done.” Jason came behind May, put his arms around her, and bent
her arm into the proper position.
"Flex.” He gave her arm a feel. "Good. See how simple?”
Kim
thought Jason shot a look at her. Hey, after hours at the gym, her muscles were
rock hard and ready for action. Go ahead and show off, she thought. Enjoy your last
remaining moments on this earth. When I show
you my muscles, it will be all over.
Jason
walked back to the front of the class. "All right, if s time for
battle," he said. 'You'll each get a turn
sparring
with either Steve or me. Who'd like to be first?” His gaze bounced
around the group.
As
the women clustered around Jason, Kim held back. She may as well watch the
entertainment for a bit, get her money's worth from camp. Though she
highly doubted it, one of the women might tire Jason out, which
would only be to Kim's advantage.
Two clumsy bouts with
Jason playfully pulling ponytails were all Kim could stand to watch. As the
other day-spies sat on the sidelines and cheered and laughed,
Kim had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. Jason hadn't
even broken a single bead of sweat.
As
the round ended, Kim pushed her way to the front of the crowd and stared Jason
down. "I'm next."
She
ignored the death glares the women who'd been waiting longest shot at her.
Spies weren't paragons of manners. The sooner they learned that lesson, the better. She
wanted to get this over with and on to her other mission - that much needed
pedicure. The thought of her feet in a warm, sudsy footbath spurred her on.
She wondered for just
a second if Jason would chastise her and send her to the back of the line.
Fortunately, he didn't disappoint her. He was a soldier at heart. He didn't
give a rip about politeness. Instead, he liked bold women and
relished a challenge. She could see it in his eyes.
He
swung into the ready position. "You're on, Tracy."
Kim
smiled and whipped off her T-shirt, revealing her low-cut black sport bra, a
whole lot of cleavage, and the set of abs she'd worked so hard on.
The other women gasped. Too bad none of them had been smart
enough to think to use their assets to their advantage. Kim saw the sparkle of
lust reignite in Jason's eyes.
Kim
snapped into position, calculating her moves.
Jason
waved at her to come at him. “Your move. Give me a big kick."
"I'll kick your butt, all right. But
I don't take orders from anyone, let alone the enemy," She swept up a fitness magazine that was sitting on a table
nearby and rolled it into a baton in a single movement.
The
group let out a collective gasp. Someone shouted, "Not fair! She's got a
weapon."
Kim
held the magazine baton like a spear and charged him, aiming it at his
windpipe.
Jason ducked into a crouch at the last
second, sending Kim tumbling over his back and flat on to hers. "All's fair in love and war." He
sounded exuberant.
The sounds of the
women on the sidelines, all cheering Jason on, faded away as Kim concentrated
on her goal.
She rolled on to her stomach, put her
palms flat on the floor, brought her knee up under her and sprung to a stand, thrusting a well-aimed knee at his
crotch.
He
caught her knee just before it made contact and tipped her back down on her
butt. From the floor, she wrapped one leg around the back of his
knee and tugged. As he went down, Kim leaped forwards on to her knees. She had
to get his head back so she could deliver a death chop to his windpipe.
His military haircut was
too short to grab and use as a handle to pull his head back. Instead, she
curled the fingers of her left hand in
towards her palm, aiming the heel of the hand at his forehead, intent on pushing his head back, as she prepared to chop
with her right hand.
She surprised him and got
his head back, but he was lightning quick. He deflected her death chop and grabbed her hand, tugging her off balance on to
her side. As she fell, her left hand lost contact with his forehead.
Curse his brute strength!
As
she cowered on her right side, trying to recover, he pulled the French twist
comb from her hair.
She
growled and startled him enough to grab it from him. Holding it like a claw and
channelling her inner wolverine, she swiped it at him. She
caught his arm with the comb and drew blood. Swearing beneath his
breath, he wiped the blood off on his shirt, giving her enough time to get on
her feet and lunge for him.
He dodged to her right
and then back to her left. As she swung her head around to track him, her loose
hair and her rage blinded her. Jason seized
the advantage, grabbed her and pounded her into the mat. Next thing Kim knew, the comb flew from her hand and
clattered across the room. She lay flat on her back on the mat, hair
fanned around her, with her arms pinned to her sides. Jason sat on her crotch.
She
wished she could say she hated the feeling, but the man had the goods. Her
whole body tingled. For his part, he was smiling and staring at her
heaving breasts. Pretending to readjust his weight, he rocked against
her ever so slightly and winked.
Two
could torment. She squirmed beneath him just to get him going. But actual
escape was futile.
"Uncle?"
He leaned into her so close that their lips nearly met and her breasts brushed
his chest.
Just the tiniest
movement would close the gap between them. What would it be like to kiss him
here? A woman with less self-restraint would have found out.
Dead
silence filled the room.
Kim
scowled. "You win. This time." It looked like her pedicure would have
to wait.
He
grinned. "The army could use a girl like you." He sat up and offered
her a hand up. "Ready?"
She
nodded, thinking standing wouldn't be all that comfortable for him. Next round
would be hers.
In the locker room, the other spies gave
Kim the wide berth she'd rightfully earned. The fact that she'd botched
the job only made her more stand-offish. Her fellow campers took quick spins in
the shower to mist
off the gentle dew they'd worked up during hand-to-hand combat, before changing
into their cocktail dresses for the afternoon.
Kim was a sweaty mess.
She took a real shower and washed her hair, which meant she had to start her beauty routine from scratch. As a consequence, she
showed up to lunch perfumed, hair flowing, sultry-eyed and late. She wore a plunging, dark-pink knee-length dress
with a skin-tight bodice and flowing skirt,
gold stiletto heels, and her camp make-up bag over her shoulder. The only seat
left was next to
Babette.
Lunch
waited for her.
Babette
passed her the salad dressing and a basket of rolls. "Are you enjoying
yourself?"
"I
am, yes. Thank you." Kim helped herself to a roll and a pat of butter.
She'd earned a treat and she'd be working it off later,
anyway.
"We've never
had a camper quite as ... um, zealous as you
are." The perplexed look on Babette's face said she was trying
to figure Kim out, and failing miserably.
Being
a good spy, Kim put on her innocent routine and decided to act as if Babette
were complimenting her.
"Really? Oh,
thank you!" She beamed. "I like to win. I'm very competitive. And I
love physical activity. I'm just sorry I didn't beat him."
Babette laughed as if
Kim's statement were a silly thing. "That would have been a first! No one
beats Jason. Ever. Not unless he wants them
to." She sounded ridiculously proud of him.
For
some reason, that irritated Kim. She kept smiling and playing along anyway and
planning her revenge. She shrugged as if she were conceding the point.
"I really let out my inner Bond girl, didn't I? I get points
for that, at least."
"Well . . .
yes." Babette squirmed, looking as if she didn't want to encourage any
more of Kim's overzealous behaviour.
Kim
couldn't resist egging her on just a bit more. "Hey! I have a great idea.
I could give you a testimonial for your website." She flashed Babette her
most radiant smile. "All about how the Lipstick Spy School really brought
out the Bond girl in me."
"Oh, um, sure. Next time we update
the website, maybe?" Babette cleared her throat. "After lunch, we have our mixology class. You're going to love
that." Her voice was unnaturally cheerful and the bright smile on her face patently fake. Beneath the forced good
humour, she looked relieved by the thought of a stiff drink or two.
Kim
guessed Babette was thinking that nothing could possibly go wrong during a
mixology lesson.
Guess
again, Babette, darling.
Jason hated wearing monkey suits, even
one in the form of a ridiculously expensive Brioni tuxedo. At least the dress
trousers were narrow cut, giving them a military flair. As Babette had
explained to him numerous times before, a tuxedo may be cliche, but it was what
the women considered the quintessential spy uniform. So think of it that way,
as a uniform. He wore those all the time, didn't he?
Furthermore,
what the female clients wanted, the female clients got. His job was less about
teaching valuable self-defence lessons and more about giving the
ladies a slice of fantasy - he was supposed to be a bit of eye candy and flirt
a little. He felt like a gigolo. If this job didn't pay so well and have such
excellent perks, he would have ditched it a long time ago. It was
a hell of a way to spend part of his leave time.
As he walked on to
the terrace in preparation for mixology 101, he rubbed his arm where a bandage covered the scratch Tracy
had given him with the hair comb. He smiled. Deep as it was, he deserved that scratch. He'd worked her hard and he was proud of
her.
No demure little thing for him. He had one
thing in common with Bond - he liked his women bold and dangerous.
Something about that
particular woman turned him on.
A group of Lipstick
spies gathered around a portable bar in the shade on the terrace overlooking
the pool. They watched the mix master, a bartender named Mark he'd talked with
on occasion at the gym, prepare for class. The day-spies, mostly privileged women in their
thirties and forties, wore a variety of obviously
expensive cocktail dresses. Only Tracy's turned his head.
She
sat at the end of the bar, aloof and confident in a deep-pink dress with her
camp bag slung over her shoulder. He was no fashion expert, but her
dress was hot. As he approached, a pleasant breeze lifted Tracy's flowing skirt,
revealing a smooth, firm, perfectly shaped thigh that made him itch to run his
hands down it.
Mark the bartender was
speaking. The ladies hung on his every word as if he were Proust. Like Jason, Mark had been hired as much for his looks as for
his job qualifications.
Mark's words drifted to Jason on the
breeze. "The perfect Martini recipe is a fantasy. Individual tastes differ. Simply put, the ideal Martini is the one
that tastes best to you.
"A
Martini is nothing more than a mixture of gin and vermouth in proportions that
please the recipient's palette.” He held up a bottle of
French vermouth. "For the novices among you, vermouth is a fortified wine flavoured
with herbs.”
Looking
at the women, Jason couldn't see a novice anywhere from here to the horizon.
Mark set a silver
Martini shaker and a bucket of ice on the bar counter. "A dry Martini
refers to a Martini made with much more gin than vermouth. The
less vermouth, the drier the Martini..."
Jason
slid on to a stool beside Tracy, turning so his knees nearly brushed her hips
as he leaned on the bar to stare at her. "How do you prefer
your Martinis?”
She turned and gave
him the sexiest smile he'd ever seen. It reached all the way to her eyes, which
were made up to simply smoulder. "A good Martini is like
a fine sense of humour- dry. The drier, the better.”
He leaned in close to her. "If I
poured you a glass of gin, would you let me whisper 'vermouth' in your ear? Would that be dry enough for you?”
She tilted her head
and laughed. "Almost. Maybe.” She picked up a swizzle stick
from a dispenser on the counter and twirled it in her fingers.
The
other women were staring at them now.
"A
Martini can be shaken or stirred,” Mark was saying, trying to draw
their attention back on him and the lesson. "There are pros and cons to each
method. Both cool the alcohol, which is the main point..."
Jason
held Tracy's gaze. "Ah, the age old question - shaken or stirred?"
Her
coy smile struck straight at his heart. "Stirring preserves the clarity of
the liquor."
"But?"
he asked.
"I prefer
shaken.” The corners of her mouth curled up as if he amused her as
no other man ever had. She looked seductively up at him from
beneath her long lashes.
He
wished she'd never stop staring at him like that. "Really?"
"Yes."
As she adjusted herself on the stool, her hips brushed his knees.
You
wouldn't catch him moving away from her touch. "Because it's the Bondian
method?"
"Bondian
method! You made that word up." She laughed again, a beautiful, deep,
sultry laugh that made his desire rage. "No, not because
of Bond. I love the little ice flecks that float on a well-made drink."
"Ah,
you like to skate on yours. Hot, are you?"
"I
could be." Her tone held just the right amount of flirt.
If he'd been a
caveman or in the one of the many jungles and remote locations he'd fought in
over the years, he'd have scooped her up and carried her off
right then.
She tilted her head and appraised him.
"You look very handsome in a tuxedo. But I bet all the girls tell you that."
Before
he could answer, she reached over and ran her fingers over his shoulder,
sending a pleasant shudder down his back.
"Beautiful
fabric." Then she ran her hand down his arm and squeezed his forearm,
right where his bandage sat.
He
winced.
"Your
arm." She spoke in a seductive coo. "I'm so sorry."
"Hey,
you two," Mark called to them. "Try your drinks."
Jason
hadn't noticed that a Martini glass had been set before him on the bar. He
ignored it, preferring to watch Tracy as she sipped hers.
"And
that concludes the basic Martini," Mark said. "Now for the
variations."
Tracy sighed. "Mark
looks put out. We'd better pay attention." Much to his disappointment, she
turned around to follow the lecture.
Mark demonstrated some of the more exotic
Martinis - a Sour Appletini, a Chocolatini, a Rendezvous. Each spy, starting at the far end of the bar from
Jason and Tracy, tried her hand at mixing a different drink. Even Steve mixed one up after wandering in
pulling at his shirt collar, so late Babette should have canned his butt.
When
they got to Jason, Mark asked him, "What'll it be for you? A James Bond
Martini?"
Jason
shook his head. "I'd like to make up my own recipe."
"Brave
man," Mark said. 'You going to mix it or shall I?"
"You go ahead. I’ll
give you the recipe." Jason turned to Tracy. "What do you like? Give
me an ingredient."
"Let me
think," she said as she pulled her bag off her shoulder and set it on the
counter. "Hmmmm." She opened her bag and pulled a
tin of breath mints from it. "Like one?" She held them out to him on
her open palm.
He declined, watching
raptly as she put a mint in her mouth and replaced the tin in her purse. How in
the world
did she make sucking on a mint look like a seduction? Something in her eyes,
the way she held his gaze. The way she ran
her tongue around her mouth and puckered her lips. He'd love for her to be sucking on him. He hoped the mint was enjoying
itself.
She pursed her
lovely, glossy lips as she thought. "Tonic water. I love a good gin and
tonic. In this warm weather, it sounds like heaven."
"You're
making it too easy on me," he told her before turning back to Mark.
"Five parts gin, one part Blue Curacao, one part tonic, and
a twist of lemon peel. Shaken and served in a highball."
"Coming at
you." Mark mixed it and poured it with the flair of a class-act bartender
before setting the drink in front of Jason.
"Not
for me." Jason handed the drink to Tracy. "For the lady."
The other women let out a collective sigh
of envy and appreciation as Tracy lifted the glass to her lips. Yes, he'd
calculated the romance of it all. Just because he was a kick-butt action guy
didn't mean he didn't know how to seduce a
woman.
Tracy sighed
appreciatively as she pulled the glass from her lips and looked him directly in
the eye. He loved the way she stared at him, as if they were the only
two people in the room.
"Fabulous!"
Her tone was low, sexy, intimate, just for him. "My compliments. What will
you call it?"
"The
Mrs B."
She
tilted her head as she smiled and studied him. "Not the Tracy?"
"No."
"How
about the Mrs Bond?"
He
laughed. She thrilled him to his core. "Too formal. The Mrs B."
She
nodded and turned from him to hold the glass up towards the sky and ocean and
watch the light shine through it. "What a gorgeous
drink. 1 love blue." She sounded almost wistful.
Jason could have watched her all day. As
it was, it was a good thing he was watching her then. Most people wouldn't even
have seen it, but he'd been trained in observation skills. She'd concealed a
small vial of white crystalline powder in
her hand. Probably got it when she'd opened her purse to get the mints.
Using
magician-quality sleight of hand, she poured the powder into the glass and
disposed of the vial. He watched her swirl the highball slowly to
dissolve the addition.
"If
s a blue horizon in a glass,” she said. "Absolutely perfect.”
The
whole transaction took mere seconds. When she turned around, the powder had
dissolved and the drink sparkled, clear blue again. She held
it out to him much as he imagined Eve had held the apple out to Adam, all seduction
and harm.
"Have
a drink?” Her words were practically a whisper on the wind.
She
was good. She didn't even falter.
He took the drink
from her hand and lifted it part way to his lips just to watch her reaction.
Yeah, she was dying for him to drink. At the last second, he tipped
the drink into the tasting spittoon bucket on the bar.
"Sony,
I don't drink on the job.”
Even though she held
her sultry smile in place, anger and disappointment leaped in her striking
green eyes.
Why
did the beautiful ones always want to kill you?
Two botched attempts in a few hours
were almost more than Kim's pride could handle. Yeah, the man was good,
but she was a better assassin than that. She'd blown her two best shots. A kill
during hand to hand could have been written off as an accident. The poison she'd
slipped in the drink was slow-acting and untraceable
and the tonic water would have concealed its bitter taste. She could have been
the heck and away long before he
succumbed. But there was no way she could kill him on the dance floor and get
away with it. Simply no way.
She cursed handsome,
charming men. There were so few of them and, yet, she had to get rid of a prize
one. This one was very rare. He set her pulse
going and threw her off-balance where many others had failed.
She was known as an unflappable woman, and
for good reason. Trying to kill him was her job. But her mark was on to her now, big time. Her job wasn't
going to get any easier.
Fortunately, her
intel said that Jason had a room in the hotel for the night. She had his room
number and she hadn't met a lock yet that could keep her out.
She'd have to strike him there.
Her
automatic Leverletto should do the trick quickly and without any unnecessary
mess. But she wasn't going to get any extra sightseeing time. And she was going
to have to endure tango lessons, she thought as she walked into the Millionaire's Room,
which had been transformed into a studio complete with a dance floor.
The tango instructors, a handsome Cuban
man and a slender, pretty Cuban woman, stood at the head of the dance floor
talking to Babette and Vicki. A cluster of young male dancers stood just off
from them. Where were Jason and Steve?
She'd assumed they'd be here, too.
Kim
joined the group of women hovering at the end of the floor nearest the door and
did the maths.
"There
are too many ladies,” she said conversationally to the woman next to
her.
The
woman glared at her and spoke coldly, "Someone will just have to sit it
out."
Kim shrugged her
attitude off. She'd never cared whether other women liked her or not. And as
often as not, they didn't.
Vicki introduced the instructors as Andres
and Veta. After being introduced, Andres took over the instruction.
"The
tango is a game of seduction," he said in his delightfully
Spanish-accented English.
Where
did Babette and Vicki find their instructors? They certainly knew how to
sustain a woman's fantasy. Kimgavethem credit for a job well
done. Now if she could only do hers.
"Like any
seduction, it all begins in the eyes." Andres held his arm out to Veta as
she came around to stand in front of him.
She looked
adoringly, seductively into Andres' eyes and he into hers. Kim could feel a
swoon penetrate the air around her.
"Now it would be helpful if my male
dancers will pair with the ladies." He snapped his fingers and the young
dancers partnered up.
They were one beefcake short. As the last
available dancer headed for Kim, the snotty lady next to her snagged him by grabbing his arm and pulling him to
her. The young man looked startled. The woman flashed Kim a smug look.
"Aye! We are
one short." Frustration showed on Andres* face as he looked at Kim and
shook his head. He turned to Vicki and Babette and frowned. "I can't pair
you with her. It does no good for ladies to dance with
ladies. The man and the woman have different steps. It would ruin you! And I
have worked so hard."
Just then, Steve hurried
into the room, adjusting his tie as if he'd had it off in the brief interim
between sessions.
"Ah,"
Andres said and swung his arm wide to indicate Steve should partner with Kim.
Kim sighed. She was
pretty sure Steve had all the grace of a gorilla and she really didn't want to
stare him in the eye. Unfortunately, she had no choice.
"We begin with the
posture." Andres demonstrated. "Arms at the side. The neck follows
the line of the spine. Breathe deeply and
quietly." He looked around the class, studying his students.
"Good! We move
on. The man holds the woman in the small of her back with his right hand. Just
so." He put his arm around Veta. "He takes the woman's right
hand lightly with his left and they extend their embrace to shoulder height.
Women, rest your left hand gently on your partner's shoulder. Now chests wide,
arms bent..."
The lesson continued
with Andres and Veta demonstrating the steps and Steve clobbering Kim's toes, made
especially vulnerable in her open-toed stilettos, as they tried the moves.
"One,
two, three, four, five - ladies remember to cross over—"
Kim
crossed. Steve moved the wrong way and stomped her foot.
"Ouch!"
Kim bent and grabbed her throbbing toes.
"Sorry!
Sorry!" Steve bent to have a look.
She
tried putting her weight on her foot and winced, backing off. It was as good an
excuse as any to end this disaster.
"I
don't think I can dance any more." She glanced at him. He really did look
apologetic, though with the force he'd pranced on her foot, she wondered if it
had been intentional. She got the feeling Steve didn't like dancing.
"Let's
get you to a chair." He offered his arm and she hobbled with his help to
the nearest seat.
She sighed as she
examined the damage. Her big toe glowed red, the dark edges of a bruise already
beginning to form. She'd be lucky if she
didn't lose her big toenail. Even a great pedicure couldn't cover up a lost nail and she didn't relish the thought of an
acrylic.
She
was still lamenting and rubbing her foot when Jason walked into the room.
Without a word, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to
the dance floor before she could protest.
He snapped her around
in front of him and stared into her eyes with an intensity that took her breath
away. She couldn't look away. She could only stare back into his eyes
as if he held her there by sheer will. His put his hand at the small of her back where
she was keenly aware of its heat through the thin fabric of her dress.
She rested her
trembling hand on his shoulder and kept her chin up. He took her hand in his
and squeezed it. She thought she'd never be able to breathe
again.
"Ready?”
he asked in a deep, steady voice that made her tingle all the way to her toes.
"When
you are."
He
smiled. Their gazes never wavering, they flowed into the music and on to the
floor as one.
"One,
two, three, four, five with the crossover, six, seven, eight." Andres kept
time.
Kim
could have kept it with her heartbeat.
Staring into the depths of
Jason's eyes, seeing seduction and desire there, feeling his heat and a rush of
desire wash over her, she hoped her knees
wouldn't buckle.
The world faded away. They became one, the
two of them engaged in a tango that was both seduction and competition.
She broke the silence,
but not their gaze. She refused to blink first. "You're very sure of
yourself, aren't you?"
"A
good spy always is."
"I'm
injured."
"Are
you?"
"Bastard,"
she said, but she kept her tone light. "Suppose I were to kill you for a
thrill for dragging me out here?"
He
laughed. "Quoting Bond movies now, Countess?”
"Butchering
them."
He
smiled. "I think we've mastered the basic step. How about a challenge -
can you sandwich?"
At the thought of
his thigh between her legs, she flushed. But she never backed down from a
challenge. "Can I sandwich!" She beat him to the punch and
slid her leg between his, rubbing her thigh against his crotch,
and smiling at the reaction she got.
He merely
grinned and whispered in her ear, "Gotta love the tango."
One,
two, three, her leg between his. Four, five, six, his between hers. Her heart
raced as he grew bolder with each step.
A
whisper of desire grew until it shouted within her. She lost herself to him. A
very dangerous game, that. She wanted nothing more than to tango all the way to the
bedroom and beyond. Oh so far beyond to tangled satin sheets and satisfied
moans.
When the music
stopped and the dance ended, Kim had to force herself back to reality7
from the ravenous dance.
Andres was clapping
for them. "Excellent. Excellent! We see why couples love the tango."
He winked. "Such fluid motion."
Kim's breath came
hard. While she danced, she hadn't even felt the physical exertion. Now she
wasn't certain the dancing had anything to do with it. Jason
continued to stare into her eyes and hold her in his arms
for the few extra seconds necessary to indicate intimacy.
Then he released her,
nodded to her, and left her standing alone and stunned without a word.
She'd
been so engrossed, she hadn't even noticed her toe. But now it began to throb.
Along with her heart.
Camp ended a half-hour after
Jason left. Although she went through the motions, it ended for Kim with his departure.
The moment Babette dismissed them, Kim rushed for the locker room and retrieved
her overnight bag.
Room
1010. Jason's.
She
hoped he'd gone straight to it. She didn't relish the thought of lying in wait.
On the surface, waiting to pounce sounded exciting, but waiting was
waiting no matter how you sliced it, and dead boring.
Kim
took the elevator up alone and found the hallway deserted. This time of day,
the cleaning staff had finished their job. She located Jason's room with ease.
She cased the
situation and studied the door. Lucky her, he was in. He'd locked the deadbolt
and now the
indicator on the door showed that the room was occupied. She pulled her tools
from her bag. Seconds later, she'd picked
the electronic lock and jimmied the deadbolt.
She stashed her tools in
her bag with the stealth of trailing shadow. As she palmed the little
Leverletto, her heartbeat roared in her
ears.
Be
still my heart, the excitement!
She listened at the
door before she pushed it open. Running water! Delicious. She not only had the element
of surprise on her side, but the Psycho element as well.
As
she peered inside, her breath caught. The white and tan room had a wall of
floor-to-ceiling windows that slid back and opened on to a wide balcony and a panoramic
ocean view. Bolsters, shams and pillows scattered
with red rose petals and embroidered with words of love filled the mile-high
bed.
More
rose petals lay scattered on the floor, making a path to the bed and the
bathroom beyond. Perfumed candles flickered on the nightstand
and on a table on the balcony in the waning evening light, giving
off a seductive scent. An ice bucket on the table held a bottle of deep red
wine. Two crystal wine glasses and a box of high-end chocolates sat
beside it.
The
man lived like Bond. And he was expecting company.
She
smiled and silently let herself in, setting her bag by the door. She fingered
her knife, ready to strike as she sneaked towards the bathroom door
and into the hypnotic sound of running water. No one would hear a thing.
She paused for just a
second by the slightly ajar bathroom door and peeked in. Steam obscured her
view. She didn't dare venture a better look for fear he'd see
or hear her. She took a deep breath. It was now or never.
She stepped in, ready to
kill. Before her, gently steaming water streamed into a half-filled, two-person
Jacuzzi bathtub. But there was no one in it.
Where was—
Warm,
bare arms, moist from a shower, grabbed her from behind, pinned her arms
against her side, and her body against a very naked man.
She
bit back a scream and kicked wildly as he lifted her off the floor. She should
have known! The man had ice in his veins and moved as silently
as falling snow.
"Drop
it!" he growled in her ear.
His
freshly shaved cheek brushed her own, distracting her. She did love a smooth
face. "Make me."
Wrong
thing to say. He pressed her more tightly against his aroused body with one arm
and grabbed her knife wrist with the other so tightly he cut off her
circulation. She'd fight him until the end. She had to.
She flailed against him, but it was
useless and a waste of precious energy. She tried the child's trick of going limp, hoping he'd drop her or that she'd be
able to slip through his arms. But the steam stuck her dress to both her
skin and his, gluing them together and giving him the advantage. And he was too
strong and too well trained for the limp
trick to work. He acted as if he could hold her deadweight all night long.
He held and squeezed her with muscles as
firm and taut as a cobra's until her body tingled all over, and she wanted
nothing more than to coil herself around him.
Her
hand lost all feeling. Her hair felt damp against her face. He shook her wrist,
trying to snap the knife
free. Her wrist cramped up and she lost her grip. The
Leverletto clattered to the floor. Rotten commando moves!
Jason
kicked her knife away.
He released her.
Unable to resist him any longer, she spun around into his arms. He pulled her
against him and into the deep, open-mouthed kiss she'd been longing for all
day. She melted into him and kissed him back, running her hands through his
short hair and over his shoulders.
He
pulled away and stared deep into her eyes. "I missed you, Mrs
Bergman."
"I
missed you too, Mr B."
He
nuzzled her neck, at the same time pulling the spaghetti straps of her dress
off her shoulders. "I win. Again."
"Ummm." She
could barely think. 'Yes, yes, oh yes." She ran her hands over his bare
chest, savouring every rock-hard ripple of muscle. How she missed him when he
was away. "Never wrestle with a naked man.
He’ll always win."
Happiness bubbled up within her. He;d
bested her. His skills were as sharp and honed as ever. Her job keeping him on his toes done, she could relax. A
bit.
'You
almost beat me. I nearly missed the powder in the drink." He kissed her
shoulder.
"Quinine. Just
enough in the whole dose to make you uncomfortable. Now if it had been
something truly lethal..."
'You're
a hell of an agent. The CIA's lucky to have you." He kissed her neck.
"And so am I."
He pulled back just
far enough so he could look her in the eye. He swept her hair back from her
face with a gentle touch that made her love for him well up.
"I've proven myself? You won't worry when I'm on active duty
now?"
She
cupped his face in her hands. "I love you. HI always worry." She
sighed, sensing he wanted reassurance. He hated it when she
worried. "But “I concede that you're in top form." She smiled and
traced a pattern on his chest with her fingertip.
He
shuddered beneath her gentle touch.
She looked up at him again and pleaded
with him, "Just come back to me. Come back to me whole and yourself."
'Yeah."
He unzipped her dress and slipped it off her. "If you’ll come with me
now." He scooped her into his arms.
She
leaned her head on his shoulder as he shut off the water and carried her to
that big, wonderful bed.
Don't Walk Away
Shiloh Walker
One
The
woman he loved held a knife at his throat.
He was on his knees,
on a fucking filthy street, and she stood behind him. Close. So close he could
smell her
skin. So close he could reach out and touch her ... finally.
Except
there was the small matter of the knife in her hand. And he suspected she
probably hated his guts. Somehow, he doubted the knife was her
way of telling him how much she missed him.
He wanted to see her.
But he held still. Her hand was shaking. He could feel it, feel the sharp edge
of the blade pressing into his skin. If he moved too quickly, she just might
lay his neck wide open.
"Fucking
bastard.” It was the first thing she'd said since she'd come up
behind him. It was dim in the narrow alley tucked between two low, squat buildings, but
Ethan Raintree had no trouble recognizing her voice.
"Hello,
Celeste."
"Bastard.”
"You already said
that. Are we going to stay like this all night or are you going to use that
knife?” he asked. Part of him wondered
if she could. Could she use it on him?
"Don't tempt
me,” she whispered. There was an underlying thread of steel in her
voice. His heart broke a little at the sound. She'd been so soft once,
so untouched. No more. The ugliness of his world had bled over into
hers.
Yes.
She could use the knife.
But
she lowered it instead and backed away.
Slowly,
Ethan came to his feet and turned to face her. The sight of her now did the
same thing to him as
it
had the first time he'd seen her. Nearly eleven years had passed since then.
It had been ten years
since he had walked away from her. It had been the hardest thing he'd ever
done, but he hadn't had much choice. After
he'd destroyed her life, leaving her alone was the least he could do.
Eleven
years ... she'd changed.
He had as well, in some
ways. But he still loved her. If he didn't love her, he wouldn't be here, on
this day, in this sad, run-down excuse for a town. Belle,
Texas-It was anything but "belle”. Ugly as
sin, poor as dirt and still struggling to catch up to the current century.
He
was only here, because he'd known she'd be here, too.
It
was 2 July, the anniversary of the day her grandmother had died. Every year on
the second day of July, like clockwork, Celeste travelled to Belle, Texas to
visit her grandmother's grave.
Ethan knew. Every year for the past nine
years, he'd been here on this day if at all possible. Before he had left the army, he'd missed the date twice. In
the five years since then, he hadn't missed it once.
Up
until now, she hadn't ever seen him.
Judging by the look
on her face, she wasn't overly pleased about running into him now. What in the
hell was I thinking? he wondered. She'd been leaving the small
diner at the centre of town and when she'd glanced his way, instead of
melting back into the crowd, he'd lingered, just long enough for her to see
him.
He
wasn't sure if he was surprised she'd come after him or not.
Although he had been
surprised when she'd taken his feet out from under him a few minutes ago.
He
might have asked about that if she hadn't looked at him with such venom in her
eyes.
"What
are you doing here?" she demanded, glaring at him. Anger flashed in the
depths of her dark eyes.
Ethan jerked a
shoulder in a restless shrug, uncertain how to answer that. Did he tell her he
was there because he'd known she'd be there? Did he tell he'd come
so he could see her, for just a few seconds? That he'd
been doing it for years?
Stalker,
much?
Celeste narrowed her
eyes and said, "You know, I'm pretty sure the Army Rangers aren't in big
demand herein Belle, Texas. So what in the hell are you doing
here?"
"I'm
not with the army any more," he said.
She blinked, and if he
wasn't mistaken, she looked a little caught off guard. She recovered quickly though
and gave him a cocky smirk. "Well, that would explain how you ended up on
your knees in an alley, I guess. You getting rusty, Ethan? Letting
somebody like me sneak up behind you?"
"I heard you
behind me." And if he'd turned around just five seconds earlier, she
wouldn't have taken him out like that. He hadn't turned around
because he'd needed a few more seconds to level out. By the time
he'd thought he could look at her without letting her see his every emotion
written on his face, she'd already taken his legs out.
"Bully
for you." Her grin took on a mean slant and she said, "So did you let
me put you down? If so, why don't we do it again? Maybe after a few
dozen repeats, “I feel better.”
If
he believed that he just might let her. He stared at her, hungry for the sight
of her, and so much more. He wanted to feel those long, slender fingers running
through his hair, curling around the back of his neck and stroking his skin as
he kissed her.
A few seconds passed
and the cocky smile on her face faded. "Don't look at me like that,"
she said quietly, shaking her head.
"Like
what?"
"Like
that...like you used to look at me. Like you thought I hung the moon and the
stars."
“I did." They hadn't had much time
together during their relationship. Stolen moments when he could get away for a
day or two, and one memorable trip to Cancun when he had been on leave. That
was right before it all fell apart. Right
before he found out who she was.
Celeste
Harper was a bit of a pampered princess.
He'd
always known that, from the first time she'd walked into a nameless bar in the
depths of Mexico City - a place she never should have gone. All
he had to do was look at her as she sauntered into the cantina,
wearing a white silk dress that cost more than most people made in a month.
Hell,
in Mexico, that dress probably cost more than most people made in a year.
She'd had two shadows at
her back, but paid them so little attention Ethan had decided she was used to having silent bodyguards.
The bodyguards - shit.
Even if he had been too dazed by Celeste, he should have taken a look at the bodyguards and run in the
other direction. He could have saved them both the heartache.
But he had glanced
over the bodyguards and figured he knew why she had them. Princesses didn't
leave their castles without a couple of knights to watch over
them.
Ethan had looked, wanted,
taken ... and it wasn't until later that he realized who she was.
Celeste
Harper was actually Celeste Harper Jeffers.
And she was the only
daughter of Paul Jeffers.
Ethan didn't personally
know the man, but he had heard of the bastard.
He
was a drug lord and his speciality7 lay in creating derivatives of
the date-rape drug, Rohypnol.
Celeste
had no idea.
Until
Ethan had told her.
He shouldn't still look that
perfect, Celeste thought, more than a little disgusted at the way her body was reacting
to him. It was like she was twenty-two all over again, and caught up in his
spell.
"You never thought I hung the moon
and stars," she said, keeping her voice low and level when all she wanted to do was scream.
He
glanced away, hiding his disconcertingly pale eyes from her. He didn't say
anything, but that wasn't a
surprise. Ethan had never been one for explaining
himself, or trying to convince people to listen. He said what he needed to and if people listened, fine. If
not, he didn't give a damn.
He'd
tried to convince you. And he did give a damn ...
Shut up, she told herself. That quiet
voice, even after all this time, tried to insist that Ethan hadn't done anything wrong, that it had been a weird quirk of
fate that had brought them together.
Just walk away. That was
what she needed to do. Desperately needed to do. Walk away from him, get back on the bus and head back home. Of course, she
didn't really know where home was. Not any more.
Not
for ten damn years, ever since she'd realized the truth.
Ever since Ethan had told
her the truth.
Watching him from
under her lashes, she tucked her knife back inside her boot. She spent a few
seconds smoothing
out her jeans, and wished she could do something about the way her hands shook.
Slowly, she straightened
and stared at him. For the past ten years, she'd wondered how she'd feel if she
saw him again. What it would be like to
look at the man responsible for shattering everything she'd valued in her life. She'd clung to the notion that if she
ever saw him, she'd pummel that perfect face of his bloody.
The
bottom of her stomach gave out on her as she realized something.
She
didn't want to beat him bloody. She didn't want to shriek, yell, punch. She
wanted to throw herself at him and feel those arms come around
her, feel him tangle his fingers in her hair and hold her close.
This
is bad, bad, bad ...
Setting her jaw, she crossed her arms over
her chest. She bit the inside of her mouth. She made herself think about how terrible the first few years of
her life had been after she learned about her father. She dredged up every bad memory that she could link
to Ethan's existence.
Nothing
was working. She still wanted to run to him.
Desperate
times called for desperate measures.
Baring
her teeth at him, she asked in a cool tone, "So ... was it you?"
Ethan
cocked a brow at her. "Pardon?"
"Was
it you? Are you the one who killed my father?"
The
only reaction she saw was the faintest flicker of his eyelashes. His face never
changed, no anger, no guilt, no surprise showed in his eyes.
Nothing.
"I
wasn't involved with anything connected to Paul Jeffers," he said.
Was he lying? If he
was, would she even be able to tell? She narrowed her eyes and watched him
closely, looking for . . . she didn't even know what. What did
she expect to see? A glaring red sign that read: I'M A LIAR.
Or maybe one that said: YES, I DID IT. I KILLED HIM. YOU’RE RE RIGHT TO HATE ME.
Except she didn't
hate him. And she couldn't make herself not believe him. "Not 'involved'.
Exactly what does that mean?"
"Just what it sounds
like," he replied. His pale-grey eyes held hers. "I wasn't involved.
I had nothing to
do
with it. I didn't know it was going down. I didn't even know he'd died until it
was on the news.”
Celeste swallowed. To her
horror, she realized her eyes were burning - she was so close to crying. So close. Blinking away the tears, she looked away
from him and muttered, "Well, maybe that counts for something."
Ethan
sighed. "It shouldn't count for anything." He came forwards, edging
around her. He passed so close she could feel the warmth of his body,
so close she could smell the warm, vaguely exotic scent of the sandalwood soap
he used.
Was
she imagining it or did he lightly brush the tips of his fingers over her hair?
"Goodbye,
Celeste."
Goodbye?
Narrowing
her eyes, she spun around and glared at his retreating back. "Excuse me?
Goodbye? You show up here after ten years and all you have to say to
me is 'goodbye'?"
He
glanced over his shoulder at her, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his
hard mouth. "What else do you want me to say, Princess?"
"How
about 'sorry'? How about an explanation for why you are here? Something."
"You're
a bright woman, Celeste. It's 2 July. This is Belle, Texas. You're always in
Belle on 2 July."
Celeste
gaped at the back of his head. "You expect me to believe you're here because
of me?"
"I don't expect
anything of you," he said, his deep, smooth voice quiet and steady,
stroking over her like a velvet glove. Then he sighed and pushed a
hand through his black hair. "But you asked for an explanation. So there you go. I knew you'd
be here. I wanted to see you. End of explanation." He turned back to face
her, a grimace twisting his lips. "The
explanation is easy. But an apology? Not so easy."
He
watched her with a deep, penetrating stare that made her feel like he could see
clear through to her soul. "What should I apologize for, Celeste? I'm sorry you've
been hurt in this - I can say that. But I can't apologize for telling you the truth about your father. You needed to
know. You were busting your cute little ass in school, making all these plans for how you wanted to help
disadvantaged youth, while your dear daddy
paid for that education by exploiting women and children."
She
flinched. Shame hit her, a slap across the face. Blood rushed to her cheeks.
"You bastard."
"So
you’ve said. Twice already." A cynical smile twisted his lips and he shook
his head. "But that doesn't explain what you want me to
apologize for. I'm not sorry I told you the truth and I'm not sorry that sick son-of-a-bitch
is dead."
"That
sick son-of-a-bitch was my father," she snarled at him. "I loved
him."
"I know." His voice was gentle,
his eyes kind. There was sympathy there, sympathy, understanding ... and other emotions she didn't want to study too
closely because it hurt too much. Just seeing his face hurt. Hearing his voice.
Furious
with herself, Celeste snarled, "No, you don't know. You don't have any
idea what it’s like to realize you come from a monster; to realize that you loved that
monster. To realize that the monster even loved you back. He loved me. He did
everything he could to take care of me, to make sure I never wanted for anything ..." A sob stole her voice. I can't do this.
Glaring
at him, she backed away. "Stay away from me, Ethan. I don't ever want to
see you again.” She took off running, barely able to
see the ground for the tears that blinded her.
Two
He
was out there.
It
was disconcerting as hell to realize that.
Celeste
got out of her bed and padded across the hardwood floors to the small balcony
facing Main Street.
The Belle Inn was the only moderately profitable business in Belle, catering to
those who enjoyed spending the night in
older hotels that had a history of being haunted.
It
had been redone period-style. The room she stayed in probably looked as it had
back in the 1800s, with the exception of the air conditioning
and indoor plumbing.
Thick
curtains covered the windows, blocking out the light, muffling sound. Too bad
they weren't enough to keep Celeste from sensing him.
Ethan.
He
was out there.
Why?
She'd
made herself clear, right?
“I don't want, ever
want, to see you again.' Nice, short, to the point. Pushing the curtains back,
she opened
the narrow door and stepped out on to the balcony, peering into the dark. There
were street lights here and there, but none
of them cast enough light to penetrate the darker shadows that lay between the buildings.
That
would be where he was. Somewhere in the shadows. Watching her.
Bracing
her hands on the railing, she leaned against it and stared into the darkness, looking
for some sign of him.
Where
are you?
And
even as she silently asked that question, part of her wondered, Why do I care?
Because
it was Ethan.
Because
she had to care.
It
was Ethan...
"Where
are you?"
From where he was, he
couldn't hear the question.
He saw her lips move, but for all he knew,
she was up there begging God to strike him down where he stood. Leaning against a crumbled brick wall,
Ethan stared at the woman on the balcony and tried to figure out why in the hell he was still there.
She
didn't want him around.
She'd
made that fact pretty damn clear.
Still,
he'd lingered around the little town and, come nightfall, he did exactly what
he'd done the night before- stood outside her hotel and waited. Just as he'd
done for the past nine years.
When
she backed away from the balcony, he breathed out a sigh that was part relief,
part frustration. Relief because if she wasn't looking at him, he could almost
breathe past the band constricting his chest; frustration because now it would be
another year before he saw her again - if she came back to Belle next year at all.
It
had felt like she had been looking straight at him from on the balcony. That
look had made it all but impossible not to go to her, even as it made
him want to grab her, hold her.
The
past nine years had been so damned hard. He missed her. Needed her. Wanted
her...
She slipped into the room
from the balcony and he waited for the doors to close, for the curtains to fall
back into place.
But
they didn't.
The door remained open
and the curtains pushed aside.
Waiting...
'You
need to leave," he muttered.
But
he found himself leaving the alley ... crossing the street...
One second she was alone,
and the next she wasn't. There was no sound. If she hadn't been staring at the
open curtains so intently, she wouldn't even have seen the darker shadow before
it was lost to the rest of the darkness.
She
eased up in the bed and waited.
The
only sound was her erratic breathing, but she knew he was in there. She could
feel him - a ripple of electricity dancing through the air, his gaze an unseen
caress along her bare skin.
The man moved like a ghost, utterly
silent. It should have terrified her - she was alone in a room with a man who'd been trained to kill. But she wasn't
terrified.
Celeste
held her breath and waited for him to speak, but the silence stretched on. Her
heart raced within her chest and she squeezed her eyes closed,
tried to figure out what in the hell she was doing, why she'd opened
the door, why she was lying here like she was waiting for him.
It
came to her then. Clear as daylight. Clear as the longing she'd seen in his
eyes. The same longing she'd felt echoed in her own eyes. Longing
... for him.
She
was waiting.
From the time he'd
walked away, even as part of her wanted to hate him, she had been waiting for
him to come back.
She'd
needed him to walk away at the time. He had to go before she did something,
said something, she could never take back. She'd needed the time to come to
grips with who she was-who her father was. After he'd died, just a few short
weeks later, she'd needed the time to grieve.
She'd needed the time to
understand.
To
find herself away from her father's overwhelming influence.
Now,
a decade later, she could finally admit something else.
She needed Ethan.
She'd needed him almost from day one. She could survive without him, but she
didn't want to survive without him. She wanted to live, wanted to experience
the happiness, the peace, she'd known only with him.
None of the men she'd allowed into her
life had ever measured up to him. No matter how much or how little she'd cared, none of them had ever come
close to Ethan. None of them had ever come close to her own heart.
Taking
a deep breath, Celeste kicked her legs over the edge of the bed.
He
was so quiet... she couldn't even hear him breathe. So quiet. And her teeth
were all but chattering, she was so nervous. She wished he'd say something, but
if she tried to open her mouth to speak, she was going to start to babble, and
then she'd lose her nerve and she really needed to get this done. Get it over
with. If she ended up with a boatload of guilt and self-disgust come morning,
so what? It wouldn't be anything new.
Without
wasting another five seconds, she grabbed the hem of her short nightshirt and
hauled it over her head.
She
let it go and, as the fabric hit the ground with a whisper, she finally heard
something from him.
A harsh intake of
breath, followed by the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps, coming right in
her direction.
Abruptly, terror seized
her and she reached out, blindly hit the light switch on the bedside lamp. A
soft golden glow filled the room and she
stared at him, blinking her eyes against the light.
He
wasn't staring at her face, though.
He
was staring at her body - a naked, hungry look on his face. Terror held her
frozen. Need churned inside her. Her hands shook and she fisted them at her sides,
fought not to cover herself.
"Celeste..."
His voice was a ragged, harsh growl, so unlike his normal tone, always so deep
and mellow.
He lifted a hand and she caught her lower lip
between her teeth as he brushed the back of his fingers over the outer curve of
her breast.
She caught his hand and
pressed it to her. "Come to bed." She took a step backwards, taking
him with her.
Heat flared in his
eyes, but when she went to lie back, he didn't come with her. He opened his
hand, cupped her breast in his palm, but did nothing else as
he watched her. "Why?"
"Because
I need it. I need you."
Ethan shook his head.
"No, you don't. You’ve gone ten years without me in your life. You want me
to leave you alone. You don't want to see
me again. So why?"
"If I didn't want to
see you, I wouldn't have opened the door," Celeste said quietly. She
leaned against him and pressed a kiss to
his chest through his T-shirt. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the solid
feel of muscle and man through the
thin cloth. "If I didn't want to see you, I wouldn't have followed you
when I saw you on the street earlier."
Lifting
her head, she stared at him through her lashes. Fisting her hands in the worn
fabric of his T-shirt, she eased it up. She held her breath when the shirt caught under
his arms, wondered if he would stop her, but
then he grabbed it and tore it away, hurling it across the room. He caught her
arms, keeping a few scant inches
between them when all she wanted to do was press her mouth to his chest and
lick, suck, bite, nuzzle all that
bare, golden flesh.
"I
want you." He pressed his brow to hers, his pale-grey eyes boring into
her. "I've wanted you every day for the last ten years, and
I'd damn near sell my soul for this. But not if you plan on walking away in the
morning. Or the day after. Or the year after. Walking away from you
almost killed me. I won't do it again -not if this happens."
The naked need in his
eyes wrenched at her heart. So often, she'd looked into his eyes and seen a
blank wall - he rarely left himself
exposed. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers down his jawline, feathered them over his lips. "I haven't thought about
tomorrow. Or the day after. The year after. I can't think right now. All I know is that I've missed you, even while I tried
to tell myself I hated you. I've spent the past ten years missing you, too. Spent the past ten years being
lonely ... and I'm so tired of it. I want you, Ethan."
"You
want me, but do you still love me?"
Celeste stepped
forwards and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her naked breasts to
his chest. "I don't think I ever stopped." She
caught his lower lip between her teeth and bit him lightly.
His body shuddered,
but he didn't pull her close. He held still, so very still. Seconds stretched
out endlessly - would he pull away? Would he walk away?
Walk away. Ethan knew that was exactly what he
should do. Coming to her in the dead of night, without even knowing why, without even understanding what in the hell she was
doing - hell, he doubted she knew
what she was doing. Just a
few hours earlier, she'd told him to stay away and now she stood naked in his arms.
Naked.
In
his arms.
And he wasn't doing
anything ... why?
Fuck
it.
He'd figure the rest
of it out later. Bending his arms around her, he boosted her slender form up
until she could wrap her legs around his waist. "Celeste
.. ." He groaned her name against her lips as he tangled a hand in her hair, tugged.
She tipped her face
back and met his kiss, hunger for hunger, heat for heat. Taking her to the bed,
he tucked her smaller body under his and settled his hips against the cradle of
hers. Through his jeans, he could feel her, warmth and woman ..
.waiting. Waiting for him. Finally. After ten fucking years.
Levering up on to his
knees, he tore at the fly of his jeans, swearing as his fingers fumbled with
the button and the zipper. His breath hissed out of him. He
ached, throbbed. He shoved his jeans and underwear down past his
hips. Celeste reached out and wrapped her fingers around him, smiling.
Her hair, black as
the night, spread around her shoulders and a wicked smile curled her lips.
"Witch," he muttered. She had a confidence now that she hadn't before. Some seed
of jealousy tried to grow inside him, but he shoved it aside. It had no place
here - neither of them had stopped living. He certainly hadn't.
Gritting his teeth,
he reached down and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, stilling her
movements. "I... shit, Celeste, I don't have anything with me."
She
reached up and slid her hand under one of the fat pillows crowding the
headboard. She pulled out an unopened box of condoms and tossed them to the
middle of the bed. "Problem solved."
His
gaze landed on the condoms and then he glanced back at her.
She
shrugged, somehow managing to make the gesture look sophisticated, elegant,
even as she lay naked on a bed. "I didn't exactly plan
this - had no idea you would be around. But—"
"It doesn't
matter," Ethan said, shaking his head. He dipped down, pressed his lips to
hers while fumbling for the box. He tore it open, shredding the box
in his haste.
Nothing
mattered ... nothing but her, nothing but him, nothing but this.
Endless seconds passed
as he stretched his body out and covered hers. Endless seconds as he held himself
still, hovering just above her while he stared at her face.
She
smiled up at him.
Brushing
his lips against hers, he whispered, "I love you. I'm always going to love
you."
Then, without giving
her a chance to reply, he crushed his mouth to hers. She groaned into his kiss
as he pressed against her. He growled deep in his throat as
she yielded to him.
Heat
to heat... softness to strength. It was bliss. It was everything.
And even when it was over, even as Ethan was left
wondering what would happen come morning, he felt complete for the first time
in ten lonely years.
Three
I'm
in hell.
Too
fucking hot.
The air was thick; thick with the sounds
of screaming voices and the stink of blood. Heavy with death, despair.
I'm
in hell...
Something cool
touched his face. Stroked his cheek. Warm lips pressed to his. A voice murmured
in his ear.
"..
.wakeup ..."
Just
like that, so easy, he slipped out of hell and into heaven. Opening one eye, he
peered up at Celeste. She was propped up on one elbow, staring down
at him. Her midnight-black hair fell around her shoulders, lay across his
chest. Her dark-brown eyes gazed at him solemnly.
"You
were having a bad dream," she said softly.
Ethan grunted. Yeah.
Bad dream. That might describe it well enough. If one could call a bad dream having a friend turn and
sell them out. Four years. It had been four years since that particular
nightmare -one of the men in his unit, a guy
he'd known for years, had turned traitor. Max Blesset - the fucking bastard was dead, cold in the ground, but it
wasn't enough.
How
many nights had he spent reliving that night in dreams?
Too
many.
"Are
you OK?"
Ethan
forced himself to smile. "I’ll be fine.”
But
he wasn't sure he would. Now that he was awake, now that he realized morning
had come, fear settled inside. A cold, hard knot of fear
that threatened to block his throat.
"You
don't look like you feel fine,” Celeste murmured.
Tangling his fingers
in her hair, he shifted in the bed, rolled until he could tuck her body under
his. "I'm fine,” he said again, slanting his mouth over hers.
He needed her again.
Because in his gut,
he suspected she was going to walk away from him now. She'd walk away and, for
the rest of his life, he'd live with the knowledge that he
would never get over her.
He
needed more ... he needed always.
He
would have to settle for moments and memories.
Celeste lay collapsed on his chest, gasping for
air. Ethan's big arms held her close, clutching her tight, so tight she could barely breathe. He held her like
he thought she'd slip away.
Working
her arms between them, she lifted her head and smiled down at him. His face was
an expressionless mask and Celeste felt something cold begin
to work its way through her heart. Her smile wobbled, but she
tried not to let it show as she lowered her head and kissed him.
He
kissed her back.
But
it felt... off.
Nervous, she pressed
against his chest and he let her go, let her slip away from him. She felt cold.
She grabbed the sheet and wrapped the
tangled cloth around her as he climbed out of bed.
The bright
early-morning sunlight fell across his golden body, played over his skin as his
muscles shifted.
Mouth dry, she watched
as he grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on. "What are you doing?”
He
glanced at her. His long, dark hair fell in his eyes, obscuring his features.
"Getting dressed."
"In
a hurry?"
He
shrugged, lifting one big shoulder before grabbing his shirt from the floor.
The cold ache in her
chest expanded, shifted, flooded her. She'd felt like this once before - the
day he'd walked away from her after he told
her about her father.
Blinking back the
tears, she climbed off the bed. Her hands shook. She wanted her clothes, but
she doubted she could even manage to pull anything on just
then.
She
felt sick.
As
he put his shoes on, she stood there, watching him. Dazed.
It lasted until he
started towards the door. Then the cold exploded into fury. Snarling, she
grabbed one of her shoes from the floor and hurled it at him. It hit him square
between the shoulders.
"You
son of a bitch."
He
reached the door.
Celeste
grabbed the other shoe and hurled it. This one hit him in the back of his hard
head. Finally, he paused, reaching up to rub at his head as he
looked at her.
"You're
walking away from me. Again." She hated the petulant whine she heard in
her voice. Hated how desperate, how needy she sounded. "You're doing it
again."
He
just stared at her.
Fighting
to force the words past the knot in her throat, Celeste gestured to the bed and
said, "So if you're walking away, just like that, what was last
night about?"
He
lifted a brow. "Sex?"
If
she'd had another shoe handy, she would have thrown it at him. And she'd aim
for his nose - maybe she could break it. "You bastard. So
much for that line you handed me about this meaning something."
"What
was it supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice weary, strained.
Glaring at him, she said,
"I thought it meant that we still meant something. To each other.
Obviously, I was wrong."
"What
was it supposed to mean?" he asked again.
Celeste didn't even
know how to answer that. Turning away from him, she walked to the balcony and slipped
outside. It was hot - even though it was barely eight in the morning, the sun
shone down with burning intensity and the air was thick,
humid and still.
She
sucked in a lungful of that sultry air and told herself, I'm not going to cry.
She
didn't believe it, though.
And
right up until the door opened at her back and she felt the cool wash of
air-conditioned air dancing over her skin, she was perfectly OK
with crying. She was entitled, damn it.
When
she'd woken up, she'd felt like she was on cloud nine. Ethan was with her ...
finally.
Then he'd started
moving in his sleep, restless. Occasionally, he'd muttered in his dreams, his
voice hoarse, angry and sad. She whispered to him until he came out of the
nightmare and he'd touched her ... made love to her.
Now
he was walking away - hell, yes, she was entitled to cry.
"Celeste?"
Dashing the back of
her hand over her eyes, she stared straight ahead. The busted roads of Belle,
Texas were
in desperate need of repair, like half of the buildings. But it was easier to
look at the eyesores of the poor town than
to look at him.
"Just
leave, Ethan."
He laid his hands on her
shoulders. Celeste hunched away and when he didn't take the hint, she moved away, putting as much distance between them as
she could.
"I'm
not leaving," he told her quietly.
Snorting,
she glared at him. "Oh, really? So were you going for coffee just now or
what?"
He
had the grace to look a little ashamed. "Maybe we can wind the clock
back."
"No need." She
looked away and stared at the barber shop across the highway. "You want to
leave, so leave. No reason to wind the
clock back."
"I
don't want to leave."
"Oh, puh-leeze." Rolling her
eyes, she shook her head. "If you didn't want to leave, you wouldn't have
rolled away from me less than a minute after you made love to me. You wouldn't
have gotten dressed and headed for the
door."
"I
didn't want to - I figured that's what you would want. Hell, Celeste, you
barely know me any more."
Slowly, she turned
and stared at him. "I know you as well as you know me. But I wasn't the
one heading for the door. That was you."
A
muscle jerked in his jaw. "You blame me for your father's death."
"No."
Celeste closed her eyes and sagged back against the balcony railing. Through
the thin cloth of the sheet, she could feel the rough, heated
concrete rail. It felt solid, sturdy. Needing something to cling to, she reached
down and braced one hand on it, curling her fingers into it.
"No. Dear God, there have been times
when I've hated my father, you know that? Even though I loved him, even though I still love him, a part of me
hates him, hates what he was, hates how he lied to me." Opening her eyes, she stared at Ethan through her
lashes and said softly, "I blame him for his death, Ethan. Him ... not you."
'You say that
now." He stared off over her shoulder, not looking at her. "But
practically the first thing out of your mouth was whether or
not I had anything to do with it. What would you have done if I'd said, yes
... if I had known? Hell, if I had killed him?"
Celeste
flinched. She covered her face with her hands and whispered, "I just don't
know, Ethan."
With a terse nod, he
said, "Well, maybe you should think about it. I didn't kill him. I don't
know if it was a sanctioned hit, who did it, nothing."
He took a step closer and reached up, caught her chin in his hand, angled
her face up to his. In a low, rough voice, he said, "But I could have done
it. Hell, I wanted to, once I figured out who he was, and how he'd
kept you in the dark all your life. I wanted to kill him and, if I'd had the
chance, I just might have done it. So think about that. You don't really want
me in your life, Celeste. Not really."
He
stroked a thumb along her cheek, leaned down for a kiss. It felt like goodbye.
It felt like an ending.
Tears
burned her eyes as he turned away.
But she didn't let
him walk away this time. Lunging after him, she grabbed his arm. The sheet she
had draped around her gaped and she fumbled with it
one-handedly as she glared at him. "That's my call, Ethan.
I get to say whether or not I want you in my life and, damn it, I know what I
want. And I don't want you walking away from me again."
Her voice broke and she reached up,
touched her fingers to his cheek. "I don't want you walking away, Ethan. I've been so damned empty without you in my
life."
She trailed her fingers
over his mouth, felt the hard, chiselled lines, committed them to memory. Then she made herself take a step back. "I know
what I want. But I'll be damned if I chase after you. It's your call...if you want me, you come looking for me."
She left him
standing on the balcony and locked herself away in the old-fashioned bathroom.
Struggling not to cry, she turned on the water and let the claw-footed bathtub
fill. The sound of running water echoed in the small room and she
sniffled, giving in and letting one ragged sob escape.
There
was more sadness trapped inside. But she couldn't give into it. Not yet. She
needed to get cleaned
up, get the smell of his
skin off her body, and then get the hell out of there. Once she was on the road
back to Mexico City, she'd give in, then she'd cry. Then
she'd grieve.
But
not yet.
She
let the sheet fall to the floor and climbed into the tub. Water sloshed against
the rim as she settled back. It was hot, almost too hot, but the temperature
wasn't doing a damn thing to penetrate the icy shell around her heart.
She
was so cold. So cold ...
Heaving
out a sigh, she leaned back in the tub. "Don't think," she told
herself.
It
was how she got through that first year after Ethan had left her. It was how
she'd gotten through her father's death. Denial - it was her friend. "Don't
think."
Abruptly,
the water cut off.
Startled,
she opened her eyes, staring at Ethan through a cloud of steam. Instinctively,
she drew her knees to her chest, shielding herself from his gaze. But
he was looking at her face. Only at her face. He knelt by
the side of the tub and reached out, fisted a hand in her wet hair.
"What?"
she demanded, defensively, when he did nothing more than stare at her and toy
with her hair.
He still didn't say
anything. He reached for her and hauled her to her knees, slanting his mouth
over hers and kissing her. Water dripped from her body and
hair, soaking his T-shirt, dripping down on to his jeans.
Celeste tore her
mouth away and glared at him. "Don't do this to me, Ethan. I can't handle
this roller-coaster ride, not if you don't know what in the
hell you want."
"I've
always known what I wanted," he said. "You. Just you."
"Yes,
as evidenced by you walking away from me. Twice."
"I know what I
want," he said, his voice low and rough. "But that doesn't mean I
think I can have it. Damn it, Celeste, I barely survived walking
away from you."
"Then
why did you do it?" Celeste demanded, arching her back and trying to put
some distance between them.
Ethan
just tightened his hold. Grey eyes flashing, he glared at her and said,
"Because it was the right thing - for you. I'd ruined your
life."
"No."
She shook her head. "No, you didn't. That wasn't my life. It was a lie,
one my dad made for me out of the lies of his life. That's not the kind of life
I wanted then, and it's not the life I want now."
"What
life do you want now?"
She
gave him a bitter smile. "Haven't you been listening? I want a life with
you. I don't know much more than that, but I want it with
you."
His Adam's apple
bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes, dark and stormy, stared into hers, so deep,
so intent,
as though he was trying to see clear through to the other side of her soul.
"Celeste..."
She leaned in and
kissed his throat. Her heart raced in her chest, soaring high, then crashing to
her feet. "If you really walked away because you thought it
was the right thing to do, then so be it. I don't like it, but I understand
.. . I think. You made a choice. Now you've got a chance to make another one.”
Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his ear and murmured, "Make the choice,
Ethan. Choose us this time. Us. Not me. Not you.
Us."
He
didn't say anything out loud.
He
just kissed her.
But
this time, when he kissed her, it wasn't goodbye. It didn't feel like an
ending.
It
felt like a new beginning.
Heat of the Night
Jordan Summers
One
The plane bucked and sputtered, its engines threatening to
die before the wheels could touch down on the dirt runway that had been carved
out of the jungle a hundred feet below. Ken "Viper" Thompson stared
at the civilian medical team from behind
mirrored sunglasses. They were a ragtag group of do-gooders, who believed they were making a difference in the
world.
Had
he ever been that naive and young? If he had, Ken couldn't remember. Fifteen
years as a professional sniper would do that to a man. He and his spotter,
John James Ekle had replaced one of the nurses and the minister on the team at
the last moment, which was why they were jammed in here like a half-dozen
squids in ajar.
Sweat trickled down
his back as the heat rising from the jungle smothered the little plane and its occupants. Lack of
circulation made the stale air take on an edge of fear and desperation. Nerves
were running high. Ken scanned their faces once more, but everyone seemed to be
preoccupied with what was outside the
aircraft.
No one suspected the
real reason he and John were here, not even the sharp-eyed doctor in charge of the
team. They hadn't had time to develop a deep cover - thanks to a power-hungry
ex-general's accelerated
timetable - so they'd decided to blend with a real medical relief team. Danger
came with that decision, since civilians
were unpredictable and could blow even a good cover by accident.
That's
how Ken had ended up dressed as a missionary priest and John had passed himself
off as a nurse. Both had enough combat medical experience and
training to pass scrutiny, but Ken's size had made him conspicuous. At six foot
three, there was no blending in. Without the collar to deflect suspicion, the home-grown
military would spot him for what he was - a warrior.
It was one thing to
pretend to be a priest, it was quite another to think like one. Ken's gaze
dropped to Dr Lily
Houser's bare legs as she uncrossed them. They weren't long, but they were
shapely like the woman. Firm and compact, they had just enough strength to grip
when it counted. It didn't help that her short sexy blonde hair and sleepy
green eyes looked as if she'd just crawled out of bed after a night of vigorous
love-making. Hell, maybe she had.
The visceral reaction the thought provoked
made Ken pause. Why should he care if she had a lover or not? He didn't even know the woman. It wasn't like
he was looking to get involved in the middle of a mission. His eyes strayed to
her chest and what few saintly thoughts he'd had fled from his mind. Ken tugged
at his clergy collar, wishing he'd worn the vestigial tab instead. The cut-out
display in his shirt would've saved a lot
of choking.
Damn,
it was hot in here.
Ken had been given a
file on Lily and the rest of her team before leaving the marine base in
Oceanside, California. According to the papers, this was the second
time she and this group had volunteered to be dropped into the
ass-end of the jungle. They planned to immunize the locals against the H1N1
virus and set up a makeshift clinic to help curb infant mortality
rates.
While they set up
shop, Ken planned to put a bullet through Juan Garcia - an ex-general with
grand ideas of raising an army to stage a coup - then hump it
out of the jungle with John before anyone was the wiser.
Unfortunately, that would take time since the satellite photos showed three
potential locations. Until John scouted them all out and found where Garcia was
hiding, Ken would have to play holy man under the watchful
eyes of Dr Lily Houser.
His gaze strayed to her legs again. Her
tan thighs poked out from beneath khaki shorts before tapering into a pair of snug hiking boots. He could think
of worse places to be than beneath the good doctor.
Lily felt his eyes on her
again. She couldn't see the blue hidden behind those mirrored shades, but there
was no mistaking the heat. She resisted the urge to tug her shorts down over
her legs. It wasn't like they were indecent. They came to mid-thigh.
Yet under his gaze, she felt naked. Lily crossed then uncrossed her legs
in an attempt to get comfortable in the cramped space. Weren't priests supposed
to only have eyes for God?
It didn't help that Ken didn't look like
your average priest. Her eyes slid over his well-muscled form, long-fingered
hands and dark head. He kept his hair short and his rugged face clean shaven.
She caught a whiff of something musky, thought it might be aftershave until she
smelled it again and realized it was simply
soap and man.
Father
Ken wasn't classically handsome. He was too rough around the edges for that,
but he was striking, even more so when she could see his eyes. The
colour of glacial ice, there'd been nothing cold about the way he'd
looked at her. Any more heat and he'd have melted the polar caps. Lily was more
than a little
ashamed that she'd noticed.
When he and John had
first reported to the aircraft, she'd baulked. Her regular nurse, Amy, had
backed out of the trip at the last minute
without much of an explanation. The crew Lily had put together was skeleton
enough without losing a key member. Every member had a specific function.
Without someone there to fill in the missing
piece, the team would fail.
Lily had little
choice but to accept the new additions. That didn't mean she had to like them.
She'd put her personal preferences aside because children were
dying down in Cielo Bonita. A delay to seek out new team members would only
mean more unnecessary casualties.
Still,
she'd made a few phone calls. Lily couldn't afford not to since she had to
depend on her team when they reached the jungle. Father Ken and Nurse John had checked out
much to her chagrin. Lily didn't like working
with new people, especially out in the field. You never knew how they'd react
to the conditions.
Her
gaze strayed to Father Ken. He didn't look like the delicate type. She glanced
at the large black duffel bag at his feet. In fact, he looked as
if trips like this were second nature to him.
The
plane dipped and everyone but Ken and John gasped and grabbed for their
harnesses. John hadn't missed a beat as he chatted up her other
registered nurse, Karen Matthews, a cute redhead with stunningly long legs that went on
for miles. From the look on her besotted face, the advances he was making
weren't exactly unwelcome. Karen laughed and touched his arm as John pulled a
face behind the pilot's back. As long as their antics didn't jeopardize the
team, Lily didn't care what two consenting adults did in their free time.
Lily forced her hands to
release the straps and calmly smoothed out her short blond hair. She was still getting used to the length, since she'd cut it
specifically for this trip. When she realized Ken was still watching her, Lily
dropped her hands into her lap. If he wasn't rattled, then she wasn't going to
be either. Men like Ken and John
wouldn't respect a leader who couldn't even handle a little plane ride.
She
rolled her shoulders and forced herself to make eye contact. His lips quirked
and the cramped aeroplane space suddenly got warmer. Lily looked away and
thought she heard him laugh as the wheels bounced off the runway, then touched down.
Cielo Bonita wasn't more than a few
shanty houses perched next to a winding river full of deadly anaconda and
cayman - a cousin to the crocodile. To call it a town was being generous, Ken
thought. Why Dr Lily wanted to build a clinic here didn't seem
immediately apparent. Fifty miles over the towns got bigger. There was more
need, according to his intelligence.
He
unloaded his duffel with his clothes and bibles in it. His M-21 rifle, Glock
pistol, KA-BAR knife and ghillie suit would be buried beneath foliage
at the fallback site. He and John couldn't afford to count on airport
security, even though they'd been paid ahead of time to look the other way.
Ken waited for John to
get his gear. His spotter scope had been disguised and placed with photography equipment. Lily glanced back at them as John
approached.
"I
think the good doctor has the hots for you," he said. ''She's barely taken
her eyes off you since the flight began. Maybe she has a taste for
the forbidden.” He laughed and waggled his eyebrows.
"Or maybe she hasn't
made up her mind about us," Ken said, looking his way. "We need to
stay on our toes. We can't afford to tip
off the natives or the friendliest
"Tell me you
wouldn't like a piece of that,” John said, his eyes straying to
Lily's bottom. "She's your type and she has one smokin'
body."
Ken
elbowed him hard. "I don't have a type. Try to stay focused on the
mission."
John
grunted, then gave him a knowing smile. "That's what I thought."
"We better help them set up. Don't
want to give our new boss an excuse to send us packing," Ken said, ignoring his partner. The mission came first. It
didn't matter that Dr Lily Houser had a mouth that was utterly kissable or that his hands itched to touch
those luscious curves she kept hidden under that loose blue T-shirt. Ken had a role to play and it didn't
include seducing the utterly fuckable doctor. Lily would be horrified if she knew what he was thinking, not
to mention if he acted on his carnal thoughts. He tugged at the collar
again, then forced his hands away. A real priest would be used to wearing the
damn thing. Of course, most priests didn't have seventeen-and-a-half-inch
necks.
If he had a brain in his head, he'd do his
job and get the hell out of here. His prolonged presence would only endanger the sexy doctor and her team. Ken
had no doubt they'd be receiving a visit from some of Juan Garcia's men either
today or tomorrow. He planned to make himself scarce when they arrived. No sense in tipping them off. They probably already
had eyes on the place. He scanned the faces of the villagers who'd come to get
a glimpse of the new arrivals.
"What's
wrong?" John asked. "Are you having one of those feelings?"
Ken
looked at the faces once more, but didn't get the itch between his shoulder
blades that always let him know when he was being watched. He shook
his head and rolled his stiff neck. "Let's get moving," he said.
"We don't have much time."
"Right
behind you, boss."
Ken
shot him a warning glance and pointed to his collar. Just the thought of it
choked him.
"I
mean Father," John said then chuckled.
"More
like undertaker," Ken muttered and they both laughed.
Two
Despite
Ken's resolve to stay away from the luscious Dr Lily, he'd had little luck
doing so in the three days since they'd arrived. She was like a
magnet for his attention. Her sexy laugh and caring demeanour drew him
repeatedly to the makeshift tent they'd set up as a temporary clinic. The
patients had been flowing in ever since word got out that a doctor
had arrived. She'd treated well over two hundred people in the past two days
and more kept coming. Lily was a tireless worker, who never lost her bedside
manner no matter how exhausted she became.
There'd
been times he'd had to step in and make her take a break, drink some bottled
water and have a bite to eat. Those times had been his
favourite because he'd learned a lot about the woman. She was the youngest
of three kids in a family of lawyers. Lily had fought to go to medical school,
even though her father had expected her to join the family
firm. Ken had read most of the information from her file, but Lily had made the
facts come to life with her animated storytelling.
If Ken had learned
anything over the last few days, it was that Lily was a scrapper. Despite her
diminutive size, she fought for what she wanted and what she
believed in. She had very strong opinions about a variety of subjects and wasn't
afraid to share them. He'd enjoyed every second of their verbal sparring, but
didn't miss the fact that it hid a deeper
attraction. One that was getting harder and harder to ignore.
They'd
just finished their lunch, when the first of Juan Garcia's men arrived. It had
taken longer than Ken had expected. Whether that was due to the
distance from his camp or extreme caution, he didn't know, but would find out soon
enough. The man had come in under the guise of a wounded farmer, but Ken and John had recognized military training in his gait
and his watchful gaze.
Lily
left Ken's side and rushed over to help him into the tent. She was already
asking questions with the help of a local interpreter before the flap closed. Ken shot
John a sharp look and jerked his head towards the
tent. John followed Lily inside.
Ken
rose slowly and put his hands together so that it looked like he was praying.
All the while, he scanned the tree line. He had no doubt they
were under surveillance. The spot between his broad shoulders was
twitching. He crossed himself, then stretched out his stiff muscles and calmly
made his way towards his tent. The heat from the jungle punched the
air out of his lungs. The sweet smell of blossoms wafted on the breeze, leaving him
light-headed or maybe it was the company he'd been keeping. Ken wanted to go
into the medical tent, but there was no reason for him to be there. It wasn't
like the man was dying and needed last
rites. John would report back on what the soldier said. He just had to wait. It
turned out to be a very long two
hours.
The man who'd come in
under the guise of a farmer hadn't said much. John noted that he'd looked over
their equipment and eyed the staff suspiciously. He was spying, trying to
ascertain if they were who they said they
were. His actions left no doubt that Juan Garcia was in the area. Fortunately,
the rest of the afternoon and evening were uneventful.
The
next morning three more men showed up. These guys hadn't bothered to disguise
their uniforms. Lily had hesitated when she saw them, but then
quickly ushered the men into the medical tent for treatment.
Up to this point, Ken had respected Lily's work ethic and intelligence, but now
he was beginning to wonder if he'd misjudged her.
It was one thing to
treat a man in disguise, it was quite another to knowingly treat the men that
had caused some of the injuries she'd seen over the last few
days. She was deliberately putting herself in harm's way. She needed to get
that sexy butt back to San Diego where she'd be safe. It took every fibre of
his being not to march into the tent, pick her up and put her on
the next flight out of town.
Lily stared at the men
dressed in green fatigues. One man watched her and her team while the other two
searched their tents and luggage. No one tried to stop them and for
that she was grateful. She hadn't known she'd been holding her breath
until the last man came out of Father Ken's tent empty-handed. Lily's shoulders
eased a little. Logically, she knew there shouldn't be anything to find, but
that hadn't stopped her from worrying. For one terrifying moment she'd
imagined them shouting that they'd found something other than bibles.
He's a priest, she
reminded herself again, hating that she had to keep doing so to prevent her
growing feelings for the man from showing.
Lily had known
coming into Cielo Bonita that she might have to contend with the politics in
the region. In
this case, that meant the corruption, intimidation and violence, which were
rampant. Like various areas in South
America, civil unrest was common or at least had been in the past. Between the
drug trade and power struggles,
violence was as normal as breathing. She didn't know which cause had these men knocking at her door and she didn't care. The
faster she treated them, the sooner they'd be gone. Hopefully for good.
The many paid the
price for the few bent on destruction. She knew these men had caused some of
the wounds she'd treated. Lily had heard whispers of
kidnappings, torture and enslavement. The latter used for labour in the drug
trade. She'd even heard stories of young girls being taken from their families
and forced into prostitution to entertain the soldiers.
She'd taken the
warnings seriously, but she hadn't been able to turn her back on the people.
Any more than Lily would turn her back on these men. She'd taken
an oath to treat everyone no matter their background and Lily intended
to keep it.
Karen Matthews stood
next to her, her gaze going again and again to John Ekle, who had finally shown
up to work.
"Long
night?" Lily asked.
John
had the decency to blush. "Longer than I thought." He grinned and
Karen scowled.
"Doctor,
should we give him an antibiotic?" she asked.
"Yes,"
Lily said as she finished dressing the soldier's leg. He'd had a cut that had
gotten infected. If he'd left it much longer, she would've had to amputate.
"No,
I meant him," Karen said, pointing to John.
His
grey eyes flared. "I always use protection, darlin'. You don't have to
worry about me," he said, winking at her. ''I'm a regular Boy
Scout."
John's words were playful like always, his
actions smooth and relaxed. Nothing he did seemed out of place as he helped them bandage the soldier, but
Lily couldn't shake the feeling that he was watching their patient closely.
"You
are disgusting,” Karen said, helping the soldier off the table.
The
man glanced between them and his lips quirked. Some things were universal and
didn't require interpretation, Lily thought, as the soldier hobbled out of the
tent. The armed group left shortly thereafter. No doubt to report their findings.
John
leaned forwards, not missing a beat. "You still like me?"
Karen
baulked. "Not any more. You're a himbo."
"Ouch,"
he said, clutching his chest.
She
snorted. "Like calling you a male bimbo would ever hurt your
feelings."
His
grey eyes glittered in amusement as he gave Karen's body a slow perusal. TU
make it up to you tonight," John said. "I
promise."
Karen
glared. "You said that last night and the night before."
'Yeah."
He shoved his hands into his pockets and gave the nurse a lopsided grin.
"But now I mean it."
"You
two need to get a room," Lily said, shaking her head.
"Oh, I intend
to," John said, sending a heated glance Karen's way. "What's it going
to be, darlin', your tent or mine?"
Karen let out a
frustrated growl, but from the look in her eyes she had every intention of
taking John up on his offer.
Lily's
thoughts wandered to Father Ken. "Not going to happen," she muttered
under her breath, before tossing her latex gloves into the trash.
Ken made himself scarce, keeping towards the tree line, but
couldn't bring himself to go far in case Lily needed
him. He didn't think the men would try anything, but you never knew with
home-grown militias. At least she wasn't alone.
Despite
his nocturnal activities, his spotter was in there with her. John had spent the
past few nights traipsing through the jungle and studying
satellite images to try to figure out where the ex-general had been hiding himself. Ken had
covered his absence when Lily noticed him missing by telling her that John had met a local woman in the town. She'd frowned, but
accepted the story, since John had done nothing but flirt since they'd arrived. It was a good cover. No one
who'd been around him for any length of time would suspect it was a lie.
This
morning John had reported that he'd located their equipment and a crude
four-room house seven klicks south of their position. He'd seen movement and had been
able to get a positive ID on Juan Garcia. John
had scouted out a tree-covered hill 2,000 feet away that looked to be a good
spot to try to take the shot. The
dense brush would give them the cover they needed.
Ken watched the soldiers leave. He didn't
relax until they were out of sight. He hadn't seen the location John had picked out yet. He'd need to survey the
place for himself before he knew for sure if he could take the shot from that position. It wouldn't do for a
tree branch to be in the way. They would be leaving tomorrow morning and, if all went as planned,
they would not be returning. A fact that bothered him more than it should . . . thanks in part to a certain
blonde-haired doctor, who in a short while had managed to weasel her wav under his skin.
Three
Morning came early for the
medical team. The heat and the noise made sleeping in impossible. The sounds of
the jungle grew in volume as the animals began their daily struggle for
survival. The hot air accentuated the damp musky odour of the rich soil and the
sharp tang of the muddy river nearby.
As was her habit,
Ken found Lily sitting on a log by the fire, a bowl of instant oatmeal in her
hands. Her hair had been pulled back and she wasn't wearing any
make-up, allowing her inner beauty to shine through. She hadn't noticed him yet, so he
continued to stare. He was going to miss seeing her face every morning. His chest constricted as he stepped
forwards into view. Lily smiled brightly then scooted over so he'd be able to sit beside her. It was a routine
they'd both gotten used to over the short time they'd been here.
"Good
morning," she said, before taking a sip of coffee,
"Morning,"
he answered, grabbing a cup for himself. "Need a refill?" Ken shook
the coffee pot.
"No,
I'm good," she said, putting her cup down to finish eating.
They sat in silence, each
enjoying the beginning of a new day. The sun hadn't reached the treetops yet,
but already the heat threatened to turn the world into a sauna.
"It's
going to be a scorcher," Lily said.
"Yeah,
it feels like it." Ken took a sip of his black coffee. "I'm going to
head out to a village that I’ve heard might be receptive to the
good word," he said.
"You're
leaving?" she asked, her expression clouding without her realizing it.
Ken's
throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. He squeezed the cup to keep from
reaching for her.
"I
thought most of the people in this area were already converted," Lily
said.
He
nodded. "They are, but the people I'm referring to are natives."
"Oh."
Lily reached for her coffee. "How long will you be gone?" She didn't
have to say that she was going
to
miss him. Ken could see it in her shimmering green eyes. It matched the longing
he felt inside.
Ken looked away
unable to face her. He'd lied to hundreds of people over the years. Some for
their own good
and some because it meant the difference between life and death. Yet his gut
clenched at the idea of lying to Lily.
"Should
be a day, two tops," he ground out, while staring at the swaying trees.
"Maybe
I can come with you?" she suggested.
His
head whipped around. "No! I mean, you're needed here. Word has spread that
you're giving inoculations. It takes people days to get here. You
don't want them to show up when you're gone."
Her
amber brow furrowed. "What if you need medical assistance?"
He
met her gaze. "I’ll take John with me. That should keep him out of Karen's
hair for at least a few days."
She
laughed. "He does seem to be quite the horn-dog. I've heard him drag
himself in late most nights."
"I’ll
have a word with him about that," Ken said.
Lily
laughed and the sound washed over him. "I think he's long past
saving," she said.
Ken hadn't been
referring to saving John's soul, although he'd known Lily's mind would go in
that direction. He'd meant he would have a word with his
spotter about the amount of noise he was making. He should've been able to slip
in and out of camp undetected.
"Did
you hear him last evening?" Ken asked.
Lily
shook her head. "No, but that's not a surprise since I saw him go into
Karen's tent last night. My guess is they're still in there."
Their eyes met and held
as the attraction they'd been fighting bubbled up, swamping them. Lily's gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered, while she
moistened her lips. Ken knew what he was about to do was all kinds of wrong,
but he couldn't stop himself. This was the last time he'd ever see Dr Lily
Houser and he'd be damned if he'd
leave here without tasting her. Before he had a chance to let good sense and
his conscience talk him out of it, Ken lowered his head and captured Lily's luscious
mouth.
He groaned on
contact as her full lips softened under his assault. He'd meant to be gentle,
work into the kiss,
but he wanted her too bad. She tasted better than Ken had imagined, better than
he'd ever dare hope. Sweet from the oatmeal
and sharp from the coffee. Totally delicious. He ran his tongue over the seam
of her mouth, then sucked her lower
lip, luring her into the fire that was raging between them.
Her
fingers flitted over the front of his shirt hesitantly. He mistook the move for
trying to escape. Ken's hands automatically tightened into fists,
clutching her T-shirt as he deepened the embrace. Their tongues touched and
need shot through him, tensing his muscles. His body made demands that were not
about to be answered, but that didn't stop him from wanting to
toss Lily over his shoulder and carry her back to his tent. He wanted her naked
and writhing beneath him, her firm thighs gripping his sides as they rode out
the passion exploding between them. Ken wanted her more than
he wanted his next breath. He knew he had to let her go before he
acted upon the insane thoughts churning in his head, but his lingers refused to
cooperate.
He
was going to hell for sure.
Lily's mind spun. She knew
what she was doing was wrong, but she couldn't seem to stop. She had wanted to know what it would
feel like to kiss Father Ken since the moment she'd laid eyes on the man. It
was so much more than Lily had ever thought
possible.
Pulled firm against
his hard chest, her body melted into his. Lily revelled in his strength, the
touch of his hands. She could feel the leashed power simmering just
below the surface of his carefully constructed control. There wasn't an ounce
of softness to him. Even his lips were hard and demanding. He deepened the embrace, stoking her
passion until Lily feared she'd go up in flames. She squirmed to get closer as
the world faded, leaving only the two of
them and the vortex they'd created.
Her
fingers threaded through Ken's short black hair, accidentally brushing his
collar. Reality came crashing back with a vengeance. What was she
doing? Lily cried out and tore her mouth away.
Pain and confusion marred
his brow before quickly smoothing into an unreadable expression.
Her hands trembled as Lily brought them to
her lips. Her body was still throbbing, demanding release. She ignored it as her mind called her every foul
name in the book. "I am so sorry, Father. I don't know what got into me.”
Ken
stiffened. "No,” he said. "It's my fault. I should've
never touched you.”
Lily's
face grew warm. She didn't know what had gotten into her. The fact that she'd
welcomed his kiss and enjoyed his touch confused her even more.
She'd never done anything like this. Had never even considered
breaking this taboo until she met Ken.
A faint streak of red
coloured his cheeks. "Please forgive me. I don't know what came over
me," he said. "You are an amazing woman and any man
would be lucky to have you. If anyone is in the wrong here, it's me."
"How
can you say that?” Lily asked. "Don't you get it? I just
French-kissed a priest."
"I'm not—” Ken caught himself before he
could refute her statement. "I better get my things packed for the trip
before the sun gets any higher. Thank you for everything."
Lily nodded, but
couldn't look him in the eye. She'd never been so embarrassed. One minute they'd
been enjoying breakfast and the next she'd been all over him.
Her parents would be mortified if they ever found out
about her lapse in judgment. It wasn't like she had a thing for priests. She'd
simply wanted Ken the man. And for one moment, he'd wanted her, too. She groaned. The
stress of the job was obviously getting to her.
Maybe
it was a good thing he was going away for a day or two. She had enjoyed their
mornings together and was really going to miss him, but some
distance would give her time to clear her mind and do some
soul-searching. They could
talk when he got back or maybe by then everything would be settled and they'd never
have to mention it again. They could pretend the kiss never happened. She
watched Father Ken retreat to his tent and her heart sank. Who was she kidding?
Lily knew she'd remember that kiss for the rest of her life.
She
stood up and brushed off her hands, then walked to the river to wash her
dishes. A splash nearby startled her out of her musings. Lily jumpedback in time
to see a cayman submerge under the muddy water and disappear. Cayman
were smaller than crocodiles, but still quite deadly. She'd been so distracted
by that amazing kiss that she'd nearly strolled right over the
reptile. She shuddered at what could've happened.
Lily looked around
then quickly finished washing her dishes. She returned to camp as Father Ken
exited his tent, earning his big duffel bag.
"Why
are you taking that?" she asked.
"It
holds everything I'll need for the trip," he said, capturing her gaze.
Before Ken or Lily
could say any more, John stumbled out of Karen's tent, pulling on his shirt.
His pants were still unbuttoned and his hair was tousled. He
scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned. When he caught
sight of them, John grinned. "A promise is a promise," he said, then
looked at Ken and frowned. "Did I interrupt something?"
"No."
Ken scowled. "Thought I was going to have to leave here without you."
"Give me a
minute and I'll be ready to go." John changed direction and raced into the
jungle. He was back in short order. It took him no time at
all to gather his things and join them by the fire.
"Duty
calls," Ken said, staring at Lily, trying to memorize her features.
"Well, I'd
better get to work," she said, hitching a thumb over her shoulder towards
the medical tent. "Have a safe trip."
"Thanks,"
Ken said, then quietly added after she walked away, "Have a good life, Dr
Lily Houser. It was truly a pleasure."
Four
John led Ken to the hill
he'd picked out. There was dense overgrowth, making the trek difficult. No one
was around
the primitive house when they arrived. John had moved the drag bags with their
equipment closer to their target. He'd
concealed the bags with leaves and vines then draped them over a tree limb
covered in dense foliage. The bags
contained four camouflage ghillie suits, two for their rifles and two for them,
an M-16 rifle, an M-21 match-grade bolt-action rifle, two black Glocks,
lighters, flash bombs, knives, communication
devices and the spotter scope they'd disguised as camera equipment.
Ken
surveyed the area through John's scope. There weren't many places to take a
clear shot, which
soul-searching. They could
talk when he got back or maybe by then everything would be settled and they'd never
have to mention it again. They could pretend the kiss never happened. She
watched Father Ken retreat to his tent and her heart sank. Who was she kidding?
Lily knew she'd remember that kiss for the rest of her life.
She
stood up and brushed off her hands, then walked to the river to wash her
dishes. A splash nearby startled her out of her musings. Lily jumped back in time
to see a cayman submerge under the muddy water and disappear. Cayman
were smaller than crocodiles, but still quite deadly. She'd been so distracted
by that amazing kiss that she'd nearly strolled right over the
reptile. She shuddered at what could've happened.
Lily looked around
then quickly finished washing her dishes. She returned to camp as Father Ken
exited his tent, earning his big duffel bag.
"Why
are you taking that?" she asked.
"It
holds everything I'll need for the trip," he said, capturing her gaze.
Before Ken or Lily
could say any more, John stumbled out of Karen's tent, pulling on his shirt.
His pants were still unbuttoned and his hair was tousled. He
scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned. When he caught
sight of them, John grinned. "A promise is a promise," he said, then
looked at Ken and frowned. "Did I interrupt something?"
"No."
Ken scowled. "Thought I was going to have to leave here without you."
"Give me a
minute and I'll be ready to go." John changed direction and raced into the
jungle. He was back in short order. It took him no time at
all to gather his things and join them by the fire.
"Duty
calls," Ken said, staring at Lily, trying to memorize her features.
"Well, I'd
better get to work," she said, hitching a thumb over her shoulder towards
the medical tent. "Have a safe trip."
"Thanks,"
Ken said, then quietly added after she walked away, "Have a good life, Dr
Lily Houser. It was truly a pleasure."
Four
John led Ken to the hill
he'd picked out. There was dense overgrowth, making the trek difficult. No one
was around
the primitive house when they arrived. John had moved the drag bags with their
equipment closer to their target. He'd
concealed the bags with leaves and vines then draped them over a tree limb
covered in dense foliage. The bags
contained four camouflage ghillie suits, two for their rifles and two for them,
an M-16 rifle, an M-21 match-grade bolt-action rifle, two black Glocks,
lighters, flash bombs, knives, communication
devices and the spotter scope they'd disguised as camera equipment.
Ken
surveyed the area through John's scope. There weren't many places to take a
clear shot, which
Her head slumped.
"I was worried about the men who came down here with me. They were
supposed to return and no one has heard from them. I told your men
that when they grabbed me. Now I demand that you let me go or take
me to the US Consulate.”
"You
demand,” Garcia said, then threw his head back and laughed.
"Take note, you are in no position to demand anything.”
He lifted her bound hands and dropped them.
'You're
making a mistake,” Lily said.
Blood roared in
Ken's ears. She was in this fix because of them. Had she not gone looking for
them, the general would've ignored her. He fought to get back some
of the calm he was famous for.
Garcia
paced in front of her. "I don't believe you. Perhaps a few days here with
my men will change your story.”
Lily's eyes widened
with fright. "I'm telling the truth," she said, pleading with him.
"I'm a United States citizen here on a humanitarian mission.”
Ken's hands
tightened on his rifle. He still had a clear shot, but if he took it, Lily was
as good as dead. His duty was clear. Save civilians first, take out the target
second.
"John,
get down here. I've heard enough,” he said.
John came back thirty
minutes later, moving slowly over the shrubbery to avoid giving away their position.
"What are we going to do?”
"We don't have a choice. We have to
get her out of there," Ken said. "It's our fault that she's fallen
into Garcia's hands."
"And exactly how are
we going to do that?" he asked. "We didn't exactly come prepared for
a rescue mission."
Ken's
head slowly lowered until his forehead touched the ground. "Give me an
hour and I'll figure something out," he said.
"Why
did she come looking for us?" John asked. "We told her we'd be gone
for a few days."
Ken
clenched his jaw. "Because that's the kind of woman she is," he said.
"She takes her responsibility as team leader seriously. It's
my fault. I should've told her we'd be gone longer."
"Damn
foolish if you ask me," John said.
"Well,
no one did," Ken snapped. "You may recall we have a similar code:
Leave no man behind."
John
sobered. "No offence, sir."
"None
taken." Ken stared at the little shack that now housed Lily, their target
and a growing army of his men. Howwashegoingto get her out of that place alive? He
couldn't shoot them all. He was good, but with a bolt-action rifle he wouldn't be able to reload fast enough.
Rescuing lily was
going to take stealth and distraction, not force. He didn't even want to think
about how mad she was going to be when she saw him again. Ken
couldn't worry about that now. The only important thing was getting
her out of there alive.
He
swung the scope to the left and saw a man walking back to the house with a
bucket of water. Conditions in the place must be as primitive
as they looked from the outside. "They may have to allow Lily to
go outside at some point,” Ken said.
The
thought of Garcia's men having their way with her brought out protective
instincts Ken didn't realize he had. It was only his years of
training that kept him in position.
"What
if they don't let her out?” John asked.
"Then
we'll have to drive them out like vermin.”
John
inched closer. "How?"
"Fire,"
Ken said.
"Not sure if you
noticed, but the humidity here is about ninety per cent. I’m not sure that
house would burn even if we dropped gasoline on it," John said.
"And there's always the chance they'd leave her in there to fry and save
themselves. Unless you packed your asbestos underwear without telling me,
neither one of us is equipped to run into a
burning building."
"We
just need to get her to the river. I'll attempt an extraction from there."
John
snorted. "That water is crawling with hungry cayman and anaconda."
Ken looked at him.
"That's what I'm counting on. I need them to believe she's been eaten.
It'll be the only way I'll be able to get her out without them
following."
"And
what am I supposed to do while you're getting your ass snapped at by man-eating
carnivores?" John asked.
"Go back to Cielo
Bonita and get the medical team to safety7, then create a
distraction. We need something that goes boom."
John
grinned. "I like making those kinds of noises."
"I
know you do." Ken clapped him on the shoulder. "Now get moving."
Lily stared at the man who'd introduced himself as General
Juan Garcia. He was a squat man with slick black hair and a sharp moustache that
curved down at the ends. An ugly scar bisected the right side of his face. A knife wound no doubt. Whatever had caused
the injury, the wound hadn't been properly treated, leaving the skin to
pucker unnaturally around the snaking length of slashed flesh.
She
still couldn't believe he'd accused her of spying. All she'd done was ask after
her men to see if anyone had seen them. Obviously that was enough to
constitute spying in this part of South America. Ridiculous.
She'd never seen the
general before and she'd certainly never heard of him. Lily wondered, not for
the first time, if he'd found Ken and had
him killed. Her chest ached at the thought. She reminded herself again that
despite the collar ordaining him, Ken wasn't a little man. He looked like he could
handle himself and he hadn't been alone.
John was the type who could talk the underwear off a nun. Surely he'd be able
to talk their way out of trouble if they'd encountered Garcia's men.
Nervous laughter bubbled up in her throat. In
all
likelihood, they were fine. She was the one in trouble now.
Garcia's
men kept eyeing her. Lily tried to ignore them, but it was impossible to do
with them leering at her. Were they waiting for the go-ahead from the general
or had he told her that just to scare her?
He didn't look like
the kind of man who'd bluff. His black eyes had seemed lifeless and cold as
he'd stared at her. She meant nothing to him. To Garcia her
life was worthless. Even if she had information, Lily doubted
that it would be smart to share what she knew. The second she did, she was a
dead woman.
She
banished the unpleasant thoughts. Lily refused to spend what might turn out to
be her last hours on earth dwelling on the negative. Her mind
wandered instead to Ken and the kiss they'd shared. He hadn't kissed
like a man who'd been celibate. In fact, he'd kissed like he had years of
practice. Despite the danger she was in, her toes were still curled from that
impromptu embrace. And there was no doubt in Lily's mind that he hadn't planned
it. The look on his face showed as much surprise as she'd felt.
It didn't matter now. He
was probably traipsing around the jungle thumping bibles while she was stuck
here. Lily needed to find a way out. She understood enough Spanish to know the
general had no intention of letting her go.
He was toying with her, playing on her fear for his perverted pleasure. Her
team would try to help, but
ultimately there'd be no rescue. Lily knew in the end, she would have to save
herself.
Five
Five hours later the flash
bombs went off. Ken thought he'd heard them, but he was sure when six of Garcia's
men rushed out of the house towards a Jeep. Someone had obviously radioed to
let them know that the town was under attack. Ken knew that they
wouldn't ignore a threat to their territory. They couldn't if
they wanted to remain in control. Yet they weren't stupid enough to leave
Garcia completely unprotected. Birds squawked, their wings flapping wildly as
they launched into the air. Monkeys screamed, leaping from tree
to tree. The men sped away, mud flying up behind their wheels as they took the
first corner sharply.
There
were at least five men and the ex-general himself, Juan Garcia, still inside.
Ken slithered through the jungle like his namesake the viper. He
came across a tripwire thirty feet away from the house and stopped.
He was close enough to be able to lob a flash bomb into the building, but Ken
wasn't sure he'd be able get to the river in time. Besides a
flash bomb wouldn't start the fire he needed.
He backed away, slipping
into the brush as three men rushed out of the house and began searching the
perimeter of the house. They were alert and on edge. One snap of a twig and
they'd open fire. Ken hadn't been able to
see Lily through the windows, which meant they had her shoved somewhere towards
the back of the house. He'd have to firebomb the front to drive everyone out
the back. They could always decide to go out the windows, but it was unlikely.
Ken couldn't worry about that now. The plan had to work. And for it to work, he
had to be at the river when they rushed outside. There was no other option in
his mind.
John would keep the
men who'd stormed to town busy long enough for Ken to snatch Lily. The soldiers
assigned to guard the house finished their search and went back inside. He
pulled out the Molotov cocktail he'd created using the
lighters and a discarded soda bottle. Ken threw the home-made accelerant into
the window along with a flash bomb, then ran through the
brush for the river.
He'd stripped out of
his ghillie suit earlier, leaving on his green camouflage clothing to make
swimming easier.
Ken took out his knife and waded into the water. He heard splashing and hoped
it was cayman. He wasn't sure he could tangle
with an anaconda and win. He blocked the sound out, focusing instead on where the men, and hopefully Dr Lily Houser, would
appear.
A few seconds later,
the men came rushing towards the river. Garcia was dragging Lily. He shoved her
towards the water, shouting at her and the men. One of the men rushed
back inside the house and came out earning buckets. Two of the others
began to scour the jungle for the culprit behind the firebombing. Garcia
pointed towards the water and ordered Lily to step into the river. She shook
her head no.
"Come
on, honey. Do what he says," Ken murmured.
Garcia pulled out a
pistol and pointed it at her head. Lily hesitated, glancing at the water. The
tyrant shouted
something in Spanish and she flinched. Ken forced himself to wait in the vines.
He needed her to get deeper into the water
before he made his move. He'd only get one shot at this.
Lily stared at the muddy
water. Between the parasites, anacondas and the cayman, she was terrified. But Garcia
wasn't bluffing. If she didn't get in the water and start handing his men the
buckets, then he'd shoot her. Death by cayman or death by bullet: not
much of a choice.
She waded into the
water. The current swirled around her legs. The mud on the river bottom
squished under her boots, sucking at her ankles. She scooted her
feet to prevent stepping on a cayman that might be resting
on the bottom. Now that she was in the water, Garcia didn't pay much attention
to her since she had nowhere to go. It wasn't like she could swim off and get
very far. If the cayman didn't get her, Garcia's men would.
Lily
filled the buckets and handed them to the men as they raced to put out the
fire. She still didn't understand what had happened. One minute
they'd had her tied in a back room, the next they were screaming.
She scooped another
bucket of water out of the murky depths. Something chirped near the shoreline across
the river. She stared at the rippling water. Did caymans attack above water or
below? Lily shifted her legs and nearly dropped the bucket. Garcia
chastised her for her clumsiness. She focused once more on the task at hand. It
wouldn't take long to put the fire out.
Lily wasn't sure what
made her look to the right in time to see a wake caused by something large just
below the
surface of the water. There'd been no sound. No warning. But the wave was getting
bigger the closer it got. She tried to take a
step towards shore, but her boots were stuck in the mud. Something grabbed her legs, yanking her feet out from under
her. Lily had a second to scream then she was swept under. She fought like a mad woman despite her
bound hands, kicking, punching and thrashing to no avail. The predator's tight grip on her refused to be
broken. She gulped in panic, taking in a huge breath of water. Her lungs screamed in agony. There'd be no escape.
Ken swam for all he was worth.
It was hard with Lily fighting him, but he had to get them away from Garcia and
his men. The river current helped move them, making them glide downstream
quickly. When they'd travelled approximately 200 yards, Ken forced
them to the surface. His lungs burned as he gulped in air for his
starving body. Lily was no longer fighting him. Several yards back, she'd gone
limp in his arms.
He
kicked towards the shore, knowing he had to act fast. Ken pulled Lily on to the
bank and began CPR.
"Don't you dare
die on me," he pleaded as he took a deep breath and pinched her nose to
breathe into her mouth. Her chest didn't rise. Ken adjusted her chin and blew
another breath into her body, watching her chest rise this time,
then began the first of fifteen compressions.
Sweat and water dripped from his forehead.
The sounds of the jungle crashed in around him. He could hear Garcia and his men shouting in the distance,
but their voices were growing fainter. They were moving away from their
position. He gave his last compression and two more breaths, then pressed his
lips to her ear. "You're a fighter,
damn it. I need you to fight!" He started compressions again. "Fight
for me, Lily. Fight for us."
Ken had been about
to give her two more breaths when Lily choked and sputtered, spitting up water.
He carefully turned her on her side, so she could get all the water out, then
gently laid her flat. Her green eyes fluttered open and widened as he came into
focus.
"Glad to have
you back, Doc," Ken said, sitting back on his haunches. "Thought for
a minute I’d lost you." The words caught in his throat as
profound relief flooded him.
"How?"
She frowned, her gaze dropping to his camouflage clothing. “What are
you wearing?"
Ken knew the second
she'd put two and two together. Her eyes narrowed and she sat up abruptly. Her hand went to her head and
he reached out to steady her.
"They were after you
all along," she growled, then coughed some more. "And here I was
worried that something had happened to you.
I should've known."
He leaned in next to her ear. "Keep
your voice down. We don't want your friends to find us unless you want to go for another swim."
Lily shuddered.
"I thought a cayman got me." She glanced down at her legs in
disbelief, then slowly felt her limbs as if to reassure herself that they were still
intact. Her clothes were sticking to her like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Despite the warmth, she began
to shiver.
"That
was the intention." Ken's gaze followed hers and the heat around them
intensified. She was glaring at him by the time their eyes met again.
"If you feel up to it, we need to move. I have to get you to the fallback
position."
Lily
stood, brushing his hands away. "Fin not going anywhere without my people.”
Ken's
jaw firmed. "You can't go back. That's the first place Garcia and his men
will look for you."
She
hugged herself. "What about my medical team? Garcia is not fooling
around."
"John has made sure
that they're safe."
Her hands moved to her slim hips. "I
should've known he was part of this, too. You're not a real priest, are you?"
Ken's
lips twitched. "Don't sound so disappointed." His heart was still
pounding over how close he'd come to losing her. "If I was a
priest, I never would've kissed you. But I can't say I wouldn't have thought about
it. Any man breathing would have."
“I’d rather not
discuss that. . . that incident." Lily's gaze dropped to his mouth and
lingered. When she realized what she'd been doing, she kicked
the dirt at her feet. "It's your fault that I'm in this mess, Father
... is Ken even your real name?"
"My
name is Ken Thompson, but my friends call me Viper."
She
scowled. "I suppose that's some kind of Freudian nickname."
Ken
laughed. "Why don't you tell her?" He looked over his shoulder at the
trees.
Like a phantom
materializing, John stepped out of the brush completely camouflaged. "He
got the name because he can move through the jungle as silently as a
viper. Of course, I have heard rumours about his ... other
endowments."
Ken
punched John in the arm. "You aren't helping. Did you get the medical team
out of the line of fire?"
John nodded. "I
had one of the villagers with a boat move them over to Santa Clarita. They'll
be safe there until they can be extracted. Garcia's wound up like
a wet hornet."
"That's what happens when you
firebomb his house and snatch his hostage. I also left an incriminating trail
in the brush to make it look like a small army was around. That should keep him
busy until we come back. I thought I told
you to meet me at the fallback position."
John
shrugged. "Wanted to make sure everything went off without a hitch and
that my partner didn't need me," he said.
Ken
nodded. "Thanks, but next time I expect you to follow orders."
John
saluted in response.
"What
do we do now?" Lily asked John, ignoring Ken completely.
"We
need to get the hell out of here," he said, pointing in the direction he'd
appeared.
"Lead
the way," she said.
Lily
refused to look at Ken, even though he tried repeatedly to catch her eye. Her
emotions were so mixed up. Pail: of her was relieved that he was alive and had managed to
save her, while part of her was furious that
he'd caused her to be in this mess in the first place. She felt betrayed. He
knew how important this clinic was to
her, and yet he'd been lying to her from the beginning. It angered Lily no end
that, despite everything, she was
still attracted to him.
They hiked through the jungle, sweat
dripping from their bodies by the gallon. Several hours and many false trails later, they reached their fallback
position. They'd be safe here for the night or so she'd been told. Lily didn't think she'd feel safe again until she
was back in San Diego.
"I'm going to do
a perimeter check.” John glanced at his watch. "Should take me
an hour or so," he said. "You kids behave. Don't do anything
I wouldn't do.” He winked at Lily.
She
smiled in spite of herself. "He's incorrigible. How do you put up with
him?"
"You
get used to it,” Ken said, checking his weapons. "How are you
feeling?”
"Exhausted,
wet, dirty and hungry," she said.
'You're alive,”
he said softly. "That's all that is important." Ken still couldn't
believe how close he'd come to losing her. His hands shook as he
zipped the drag bag closed.
She
pressed her fingers to her ribs. "My chest hurts.”
He glanced at her.
"Sorry about that. They'll be bruised for a couple weeks. I had to give
you CPR. You weren't breathing.”
Lily's
hand moved higher until it rested above her heart and her expression grew
pensive. A few minutes later, she said, "Thank you.”
Ken
shrugged. "Figured it was the least I could do after causing you so much
trouble.”
She
wrapped her arms around herself. "What's going to happen now?”
"First, I'm
going to kiss you,” he said, moving closer, giving her every
opportunity to say no. When she didn't, he grasped her waist and pulled her
into his arms. "Then once I've gotten you to safety, I'm going to finish
the job I came here to do.”
Her
eyelids fluttered closed.
Ken's lips brushed
Lily's, gently at first, then more insistent. "I never meant to hurt you,”
he murmured, grazing
the side of her mouth. "I almost died when I saw Garcia's men pull you out
of the Jeep. I thought for sure I'd lost
you.” He deepened the embrace, pouring his heart and soul into the
kiss. "Please tell me that
you'll give me another chance.”
Lily's body
thrummed. He was kissing the good sense right out of her head. She pulled back
until mere inches separated their mouths. "What am I going to
do with you soldier?”
He
smiled and her hearted skipped a beat. "You can start by kissing me back.”
Epilogue
Ex-general Juan Garcia never felt the bullet
enter his head. It had been fired from over 1,500 yards away. No one saw the two men dressed in ghillie suits
slip back into the jungle. Nor did they notice the Black Hawk that extracted them under the cover of
night. The next day the local paper announced another failed coup.
Eight months later . . .
John Ekle stood at the side of his
friend and partner, Ken Thompson, just like he'd done hundreds of times before. And just like
before, they wore matching suits - except these suits weren't meant to conceal
them. They both turned to face the doors as
the organist began to play. A vision in white silk, Lily walked down the
aisle clutching her father's arm.
"Sure you know
what you're doing, sir?" John asked. "Might be your last chance to
scrap this mission.” He laughed.
Ken glanced at him, but couldn't seem to
keep his eyes from straying back to his bride. "My target has never been clearer, soldier."
"Last
chance," John said. "We have a fallback position located near the
side entrance."
He
glanced at his friend. "Don't you have something you could be
spotting?"
Ken watched John scan the
row of bridesmaids like a connoisseur picking out a fine wine. He stopped when his gaze landed on Karen Matthews. The nurse
wore an emerald-green dress, which accentuated her figure and fiery red
hair. Their eyes met and something unspoken passed between them. "Target
spotted, sir. Permission to engage?"
Ken
looked at Karen and laughed. "Permission granted," he said, knowing
that John didn't realize he was the one being targeted this time.
He'd figure it out eventually. Probably when they were walking down the aisle.
Lily's
father gently placed her fingers on Ken's arm and firmly shook his hand. He
kissed his daughter's cheek, then discreetly wiped a tear from his
eye before taking a seat next to her beaming mother. Both their families
were here to celebrate their union, along with half of Ken's unit. It had taken
precision planning to make the wedding go off without a hitch. Lily had done an amazing
job. Ken smiled at his bride. Love showed in
her misty green eyes.
"Thanks
for giving me a second chance," he said, whispering in Lily's ear.
"And a third . . . and a fourth ..."
Her
rosy blush matched the fresh blooms in her hands. "Did I have a
choice?" she asked, arching a brow as a smile ghosted her
face.
Ex-general Juan Garcia never felt the bullet
enter his head. It had been fired from over 1,500 yards away. No one saw the two men dressed in ghillie suits
slip back into the jungle. Nor did they notice the Black Hawk that extracted them under the cover of
night. The next day the local paper announced another failed coup.
Eight months later . . .
John Ekle stood at the side of his
friend and partner, Ken Thompson, just like he'd done hundreds of times before. And just like
before, they wore matching suits - except these suits weren't meant to conceal
them. They both turned to face the doors as
the organist began to play. A vision in white silk, Lily walked down the
aisle clutching her father's arm.
"Sure you know
what you're doing, sir?" John asked. "Might be your last chance to
scrap this mission.” He laughed.
Ken glanced at him, but couldn't seem to
keep his eyes from straying back to his bride. "My target has never been clearer, soldier."
"Last
chance," John said. "We have a fallback position located near the
side entrance."
He
glanced at his friend. "Don't you have something you could be
spotting?"
Ken watched John scan the
row of bridesmaids like a connoisseur picking out a fine wine. He stopped when his gaze landed on Karen Matthews. The nurse
wore an emerald-green dress, which accentuated her figure and fiery red
hair. Their eyes met and something unspoken passed between them. "Target
spotted, sir. Permission to engage?"
Ken
looked at Karen and laughed. "Permission granted," he said, knowing
that John didn't realize he was the one being targeted this time. He'd
figure it out eventually. Probably when they were walking down the aisle.
Lily's
father gently placed her fingers on Ken's arm and firmly shook his hand. He
kissed his daughter's cheek, then discreetly wiped a tear from his
eye before taking a seat next to her beaming mother. Both their families
were here to celebrate their union, along with half of Ken's unit. It had taken
precision planning to make the wedding go off without a hitch. Lily had done an amazing
job. Ken smiled at his bride. Love showed in
her misty green eyes.
"Thanks
for giving me a second chance," he said, whispering in Lily's ear.
"And a third . . . and a fourth ..."
Her
rosy blush matched the fresh blooms in her hands. "Did I have a
choice?" she asked, arching a brow as a smile ghosted her
face.
Ken
shook his head. "No."
The minister cleared his throat to get
their attention. Ken's heart swelled as they said their vows. It had taken time
and lots of persuasion, but Lily was finally his to have and to hold. He'd get
to wake up to her glowing face for the rest of his life. Ken couldn't imagine a
better mission as he slipped the ring on to her linger, and then kissed the
bride.
Overkill
E. C. Sheedy
"I
want your best man, Holister. And that's Tanner Cross."
"Impossible.
He's in the Congo." Holister tightened his grip on the phone, unable to
believe what he was hearing.
"Then
get him out of the Congo and have him in London tomorrow."
"I
need to get this straight. You want Cross to come to London ... to
kill you."
"Call it 'euthanize'
if that goes down easier. Or better yet 'neutralize'."
"Jesus."
Holister didn't like this order one bit even though it did come from Joseph
Derek, his boss, and the man who, twenty years ago, founded the Raven Force.
Financed by Derek's billions, the Ravens were a covert, privately
controlled, government-sanctioned squad created to destroy illegal weapons
cartels.
"Joe,
be reasonable. Chances are you'll come out of this better than new."
'They're
opening my skull, Holister. Poking around in my brain - and they won't give me
any guarantees.
There's a chance of dementia, loss of memory, altered personality. Who the hell
knows what else."
"I'm
just saying, what you're proposing? It's overkill."
"It's
also an order."
"At least wait until
after the surgery- see how it goes."
When he spoke again,
Derek's words were still heavy with intent, but more personal. "You think
I want this? Going under and not knowing if I'll wake up with
the intelligence of a cabbage or, worse yet, not be in control
of information that - if it fell into the wrong hands - would put all of the
Raven Force at risk?" A pause. "I'd prefer not to wake up
at all."
"There
has to be another way."
"There's
no other way," Joe said. "Let me know when Cross will arrive at
Heathrow. My daughter will see that he is picked up. I've told her I'm expecting a
replacement on my personal security team. That's all she knows - make sure you keep it that way. The
surgery is Thursday."
"Can
I ask you this: why Tanner Cross?"
"Because
he's a lot like me. He thinks, but he doesn't blink."
He
was right about that. Tanner was stone-cold effective working in the field,
Raven's best operative. But he was also unpredictable and
insubordinate when it suited him. "I think—"
"Don't
think, Holister. Just do." A beat of silence. "And don't let me down.
Please."
Derek
hung up, leaving Holister with no other option than to deploy his killer. He
got up from his desk, paced for ten minutes, cursed the room blue, then picked up the
satellite phone.
"This is a joke,
right?" Tanner Cross sat on a cheap bed in an even cheaper hotel in
Loubomoin the Congo Republic. He was counting money. He was also
naked, tired and, as of two minutes ago, when he'd stepped out
of his first shower in two weeks, actually clean. A month of sleep, a haircut,
and he'd be human again, although last he heard humans weren't called
on to kill their superiors. Holister had to be smoking something.
Either that or he was speaking in code.
"No
joke. Book a flight. Laine Derek will have you picked up and taken straight to
the Dereks' home in Mayfair. Security knows you're coming in as a
guest. And it's best you stay clear of Laine. She'll ask questions.
The woman is a tiger when it comes to her father's security."
"No
problem. I prefer my tigers in my gas tank or, better yet, my bed."
"Funny."
"I
take it she doesn't know what her father does when he isn't making billions for
Derek Industries."
"No.
And it's your job to keep it that way."
Jesus!
He tossed a wad of hundreds on the "counted" side of the bed, and ran
a hand through his wet, tangled hair.
He'd been with Raven
Force for eight years, run ops from the seething East-bloc to war-infested
Africa, but he'd never received an assassination order before.
Abort mega weapons deals and kill the bad guys, sure . . . and get
their money - that was the best part. But terminate the man who masterminded
Raven Force?
A man whose brilliant, Byzantine plots had saved thousands of lives - and taken
down dozens of murdering warlords?
This
order had to be bullshit. Had to be, 'You sure about this, Holister?"
Tanner heard a hard breath come down the
line. "He specifically asked for you - says you 'don't blink'. So get your
ass to London ASAP." Pause. "And clean up before arrival, OK? Suit.
Tie. The works. The Dereks don't do
casual."
"Oh
goody, a shopping spree."
Holister ignored the
joke. "And remember this is what Derek wants. This is his plan. And
whatever that man wants, he gets."
"Even
to choosing his own time and place to die." Tanner rubbed his jumpy gut.
Silence,
a full five seconds of it, then a hard exhale. 'Yeah, even that."
Tanner took just as
long to answer. "Shit," he said, because there was nothing else to
say. But a lot to think about. Like why in hell Derek asked for
him. You owe the man. Cross, maybe this is his way of calling in
the debt. And like it or not, this was an order.
When
Holister hung up, Tanner stared at the phone, working to get his thoughts in a
line that made sense.
He
didn't know what was worse, being ordered to kill Joe Derek, or seeing Laine
again.
He picked up his beer
from the floor beside the bed and took a long pull. Hell, chances were good she
wouldn't even remember him. He didn't know how he felt about that either.
Laine Derek waited in the
stretch limo outside Heathrow, her legs crossed, the index linger on her left
hand making slow circles on the leather armrest. Her right held a chilled
bottle of Perrier.
Tanner Cross - after all
these years.
The
last time she'd set eyes on him was at their home in Chicago. Back then she was
an achievement-obsessed A student destined for Harvard;
Tanner was a badass troublemaker destined for Cook County Jail -
until her father stepped in, muttering something about not letting potential go
to waste. How he'd seen potential in Tanner Cross escaped her.
Not much evidence of that potential at
school unless you considered the wishes and dreams of the girls who ogled him, the ones with a taste for fun - and
trouble. Tanner offered plenty of both. Or so she'd heard. Given she
wasn't exactly the fun-and-trouble type, he'd barely shot her a glance.
Whenever he did, she'd skittered away like
a frightened cat then, two minutes later, berated herself for being an idiot.
He
was damn fine to look at...
A couple of times,
he'd come to the house to talk to her father, but their conversations came
through the study
door as an indecipherable mumble. She should know, having had her nosey nose
pressed against it. The memory made her
wince, then smile. Maybe she wasn't as immune to Tanner Cross as she pretended.
The last time he was
there, he'd bulleted out of her dad's study with a face like thunder, almost
knocking her over. He'd grasped her upper arms to steady her. She remembered
his strong fingers digging in so hard they'd hurt.
Her father yelled from
inside the study, "Your decision, Cross. A chance to do something good in
this world or ... not."
Tanner ignored her
father, instead looking first at his hands gripping her arms, then at her. His
blue gaze, framed by thick dark lashes, was laser intense. He
made a backwards gesture with his head and asked, "That old man of yours
.. .filled with crap or on the level?"
She had no idea what he was talking about,
but she did know her dad was not full of crap. Adoring her father was what she
did back then - and what she did now. Which made her the tiniest bit defensive
when she replied. "On the level. Crap's
your thing, Tanner."
What she'd said didn't seem to bother him.
"Yeah, I think you're right." Then he'd slowly ran his hands down her
arms to her elbows, tugged her closer and - shockingly - kissed her on the
forehead, just above her stupid glasses. When he stepped back, he straightened
her glasses on her nose, then tapped the kissed spot with his finger and smiled. "See you around, Laine." With
that he was gone; she hadn't seen or heard a word about him since. Her father said he'd joined the army.
Strange
though it was, she'd never quite forgotten him.
Tanner barely made his connecting flight to
Heathrow, let alone found time for shopping. And damn it he was already freezing his ass off. Transitioning to
London from the Congo was like stepping into a meat locker.
Wearing khaki shorts,
a cotton shirt with a passion-flower pattern bright enough to fry eyeballs and
a pair of sneakers, he was conspicuously underdressed for London's
November weather. And for a supposed guest of a family hot-wired
into mega money, big business and high society, the outfit was a definite fail.
He'd
snagged the threads from a street vendor outside the women's clinic where he'd
dropped off a cash donation before heading for his flight; his way of making some
dirty gun money do something good for a change.
Spotting
a guy in a neat blue blazer holding a sign that said CROSS, Tanner flagged him,
and headed out of the arrivals area.
"I'm
Cross," he said, standing in front of him.
"Collier.
The Dereks' driver." Not a smile. Not a facial tic. Nothing. Just a slow
detail-grabbing body scan. A driver maybe, but a whole lot more. "May I
see your passport, please?"
"Sure."
Tanner dug his passport out of the pocket on the leg of his shorts. Smart move,
asking for ID. But then everyone working around the Dereks and
their fortune was paid to be smart.
Collier
gave the document a thorough once-over, handed it back, and said, "This
way." He headed for an exit.
Tanner slung his duffel bag over his
shoulder and walked in lockstep. "Mind if we make a stop before hitting Mayfair?" He plucked at the bilious
shirt. "I need to get some clothes. Take me fifteen minutes tops."
Collier
eyed him, raised a brow. "Fifteen hours more like it. Another two in the
barber's chair."
"You're
American."
He didn't answer.
"Over here." He stepped up to a sleek grey limo. "And re that
shopping stop, you'll have to ask Miss Derek." Collier opened
the rear passenger door.
"Yeah,
well I'd like to clean up before I meet the lady, if it's all the same to
you." This guy was starting to piss him off.
Collier
smirked.
"I think a short
stop at Harrods can be arranged.” The words came from inside the
car, seconds before the woman who said them
leaned into the light offered by the terminal's halogen. She smiled. "Nice
to see you again, Tanner. It's been
what? Twelve, fifteen years?"
The
voice stopped him cold. "Yeah. Something like that," he managed to
mutter, while his oxygen supply turned to sludge in his lungs. And what was with
that deafening alarm going off in his head? Damn thing sounded eerily similar to the one that had, on more than one occasion,
stopped him from driving over an Iraqi
road bomb. Now it had him hesitating outside Laine's limo like a damn
schoolboy.
Jesus,
she looked good! If he'd been wearing socks, she'd have knocked them off. And
that perfume she was wearing, wafting out from the car's warm interior - if
it was perfume - hit him like nerve gas. Too long in the jungle. Cross.
Way, way, too long.
"Get
in," she urged. "You must be freezing."
Collier, still standing beside the open
door, coughed discreetly. Tanner, sucking in some bracing, cold night air, slid into the dimly lit limo and the
privileged life of Laine Derek.
When the car was underway,
Laine asked, "Would you like a drink?" She pushed the button that
closed the privacy panel between them and Collier, then the one that opened the
built-in bar. "We only keep a limited selection, but it's decent
enough. I'm sure there's something you'd like." And I have to do
something so I can stop staring at you.
His
face mesmerized her, had ever since he'd got in the car. His expression, one of
speculation and strange deliberation, seemed to immobilize
her. His gaze was fixed on her now when he answered, "No, I'm fine.
Thanks."
Indeed
you are! Very fine. The years had been monstrously good to
Tanner Cross. He had the same shiny dark hair she remembered, thick and straight - and at
present, rakishly long - the same potently blue eyes, the same stubborn jawline. The scar on his neck, which appeared
drawn by a fine blade, was new, as was his sub-Saharan tan. And he was
harder looking, deeply self-contained. Somewhat intimidating. And utterly compelling.
He
took her breath away.
She got herself
another Perrier to occupy her fidgety hands and leaned back in the seat. Laine
Derek didn't fidget; she oversaw her father's vast empire, hired
and fired the best in the corporate world, and hop-skipped across
the globe managing her own investments. She straightened her shoulders. You,
Laine Derek, are focused, determined, and successful — you do not faint and swoon over a
good-looking man. At least
you haven't so far.
And today she had a
job to do: ensure her father's security remained steel-plated. Tanner Cross
might be sinfully handsome, but that didn't mean he was the right
man to protect her father. And with the surgery now imminent - her stomach clenched, as it
always did when she thought about her father being ill. God, stop thinking about it, Laine. It will be fine.
All the doctors say so.
"So . . . I'm
told you've been in the Congo,” she said, adopting a warm and casual
tone. "It shows - you picked up a great tan." She took a
sip of her water and managed another smile. This was all about being professional,
and God knows she was expert at that. "Where were you exactly?"
"Wherever my
employer wanted me to be." He shifted his gaze from her face and glanced
out the window.
"And
who exactly was your employer?" She was feeling more comfortable now.
Again
he fixed his blue gaze on her. "Are you looking for references?"
"I
usually do."
"I
thought Holister filled you in on my background."
"He
did."
"And
his word isn't enough?"
"Of
course it is. He's been a friend of my father's for over twenty years."
"So
why the questions?"
Laine
frowned, not sure how she'd become the answer-woman rather than the questioning
one. She didn't like it. "Just looking to fill in some
blanks."
"If there are
blanks, there's a reason for them." He shifted in the seat, faced her more
directly. "Look, I've been hired as additional personal
security for your father, posing as a guest." He went on, “I’ve been told the job is 24/7 until
after the surgery. Simple enough." His gaze raked over her face. "And
if it makes you feel any better. I'm good at my job. Nothing will happen to
your father on my watch."
She damn near spilled
her drink. "What do you know about the surgery?" Her father's health
and the planned operation were top-secret. If word got out,
Derek stock would plunge on markets from London to Tokyo.
They'd lose millions. She couldn't imagine Holister being this indiscreet.
"Nothing."
Again he glanced out the window, as if he couldn't bear to look at her.
"Have you mentioned
the surgery - to anyone?" OK, so she sounded the tiniest bit strident.
He
scowled at her, but said nothing, looking for all the world as if she'd
insulted him.
"I'll
prepare a confidentiality agreement," she said. "You'll have to sign
it immediately."
He
nodded, indifferently, looking as if something a lot more important than
legalese had caught his interest. Tilting his head slightly, he
said, "You got your law degree then - along with your MBA."
"Yes."
The abrupt change in subject from his work to hers took her mind off the
document she'd already started composing in her head.
He half smiled, and said
in a low voice, "Hell. . . That's really something. You're something.
Beautiful and brainy. That's what I call a
killer combination." There was a trace of awe in his tone.
Laine
should call his comments out of line - she was his boss after all - but
instead, caught in the lingering warmth of his curved lips and warm eyes, she reddened.
She was suddenly very, very curious. "And
you, Tanner? What have you been doing all these years?”
The
smile left his face, like a ghost turning from the light. Rapping on his side
window with his knuckle, he said, "Looks like we're here."
He
was right. There was no mistaking Harrods' green canopies. Collier pulled the
car to the kerb.
When Tanner put his hand
on the door handle, Laine put her hand on his bare arm.
Heat.
A fine spray of hair. Hard muscle.
Swallowing,
her fingers tingling, she pulled her hand back.
"My
question wasn't an interrogation. Just... friendly interest.”
He
smiled again, but this time it was fuller and, when paired with his eyes,
bordered on mockery. "'Friendly interest?” don't
think so.” He looked down to where her hand had briefly rested on
his arm then lifted his gaze to her. A gaze both seductive and
impenetrable. A gaze that offered and took away. A gaze that
made her heart pound and her brain soften. A gaze that saw a dangerous road
ahead and ... didn't give a damn. "You and I will never be
friends, Laine.”
"I don't know what
you mean," she said, as stuffy as a parson's wife. She knew exactly what
he meant, but some obscure instinct said the
game had to be played, surface words spread like a cool cloth on a fevered brow.
But
the words were useless against Tanner's hot blue eyes. 'Yes, you do.”
"Don't
worry. I’m not putting a move on you. And I won't. You're the boss, so we do
things your way." His stare speculative, he added, "If we
do them at all.”
With that he was out of
the limo and striding into Harrods.
Breathing
deeply, she watched his broad back disappear, her normally logical mind numbed
by possibilities.
Tanner
Cross as a lover. After all these years ...
That thought ended her
efforts at deep breathing and set off heart palpitations. Dear goddess,
where were the smelling salts when she needed them!
His words echoed.
"You're the boss ..."
Tanner cursed himself and then he cursed Laine
Derek. Himself for losing his grip on whatever cool he;d managed to salvage from the jungle and panting
after a woman he hadn't seen in years, and her for turning out to be exactly
what he'd expected - the woman who'd starred in his adolescent fantasies, and
quite a few since then.
Not that she knew
it, nor would he tell her, but it hadn't been fifteen years since he'd seen
her. No. He'd clapped eyes on her twice in the last six years: Cairo
first, then Madrid last year. She'd made his knees weak
then, and she did the same now. Not
good, considering his current job description, and the fact that he was as
far from being Laine's type as a lion was from a Siamese cat.
So
shut the fuck up. Cross, and quit with the sex signals. Get yourself some
working clothes and get away from her as fast as your ass will move.
The
menswear department was on the ground floor, so he headed straight for it.
He
pulled a half-dozen white shirts off the rack, found a clerk, told him his
sizes, and asked him to bring him three suits, one navy and two black,
whatever ties would work, and some dress shoes - his feet hurt just thinking
about them- and to toss in some jeans and underwear while he was at it.
After a double take
on Tanner's African-market-chic outfit, the clerk gave him a quick "Yes,
sir”, and set out as though on a mission to save a dying
species. Tanner had to hand it to the guy, he worked fast; in no time he was
back swishing expensive clothes under Tanner's nose.
"Will
these be suitable, sir?" he asked.
"Fine."
Tanner pulled out his credit card and handed it over. "Wrap 'em up."
"You'll need a
tux." Laine stepped up beside him, her eyes scanning the clothes laid out
on the counter, while the clerk did his tally. "I suggest
Armani. And switch one of the black suits for a grey. And maybe add a couple of
pale-blue shirts."
The
clerk looked at her, then him.
Tanner dropped his
gaze to hers; she was smiling. Without looking at the clerk, he said,
"What the lady says."
“And
put them on my account."
Again
the clerk looked at him.
"Negative
that."
Laine
shrugged. "What the man says."
When the clerk left
to make the changes, Tanner looked down at Laine; raised a brow. "You
trying to buy me."
"It crossed my
mind . . . given you've ruled out friendship." She wandered away,
fingering suits, shirts, whatever, as she went, and occasionally
glancing back at him.
He
followed her. Like a damn puppet on a string. Towards the private dressing
rooms.
They
paused outside a door. Tanner opened it. Laine stepped inside.
They
were alone in the heart of London.
Tanner planted his hands on the wall, one
on each side of Laine, careful not to touch her. But he could feel her warmth through his cheap shirt, see her
heart pounding under the silk of her blouse, smell her million-dollar
perfume - the million-dollar woman. If there was sound outside their tight and
cosy world, he didn't hear it. What he heard
was the whisper of her breath, the flurry of it on his throat. "You sure
about this?" he asked.
She
placed her hands on his chest, and his lungs damn near stopped pumping.
"Absolutely not." She moved her palms, grazing his
nipples. He sucked in a breath. Their eyes met. Held, ''Are you?"
He brought his mouth
down, brushed it over hers. A taste. The barest of tastes. I’m sure if s the
biggest mistake of my life."
"Good."
He
cocked a brow in question.
“We
never forget our mistakes." She slipped her arms around his neck.
Running her hands
through his hair, she pulled his mouth to hers. Took it hard and greedily. And
in that moment, he went deaf, dumb and blind to everything but
her lips pressed to his. On a moan, she took his tongue, played with
it. His temperature shot to stratospheric, and the down-low,
intelligence-starved anatomy behind his cheap Congo zipper turned
to hot steel, raw and rough with lust.
Wanting closer,
wanting in, he ground himself against her, his reward only the crush of her
breasts to his chest. He tugged at her blouse, slid a hand
under the silk of it, then over the satin and lace of her bra. He pressed his thumb against
the pebbled jut of her nipple and she pushed back, whimpered.
The
kiss deepened - him? her? - he couldn't tell just who was responsible, but when
she sagged in his arms, he locked her body to his, his hands
sliding over her hips, her ass. He wanted her. He wanted her now.
Here!
In a fucking Harrods
changing room?
He pulled back.
"Jesus ..." He put his forehead to hers. Their uneven breathing a
storm between them -hot, gusty and trapped
in a dense silence.
"Well,
that was, uh, interesting," Laine finally said, burying her face in his
shoulder.
"That's
one description." His voice sounded broken, too low.
"And
yours?"
"A
hell of a good beginning." He looked around the well-appointed dressing
room and smiled. "But your choice of venue is seriously
lacking."
She gave him a small
smile in return, and started tucking in her blouse; her hands were trembling.
"I didn't exactly plan ahead for this."
He pulled her to
him, again brushed his lips over hers. Damn near killed him to holdback.
"But you did plan."
She studied him intently.
"I'm not sure I did." Frowning, she added, "I just suddenly
felt... wild."
"And
now?"
"Now?
I don't know what I feel." Turning away from him, she said. "Except
we'd better get out of here. I think Harrods would agree."
When they arrived at Joe
Derek's Mayfair mansion, Laine asked Collier to show Tanner to his room. And
"And
now?"
"Now? I don't
know what I feel." Turning away from him, she said. "Except we'd
better get out of here. I think Harrods would agree.”
When they arrived at Joe
Derek's Mayfair mansion, Laine asked Collier to show Tanner to his room. And yes, she might have been
brusque, but she was more than a little desperate to get away from him - and do
some thinking. Something she hadn't managed
to do when she'd seduced him in a men's dressing room. Tanner gave her no argument, but the last look he
shot her before turning to follow Collier told her he was making a pretty good guess about what was going on
inside her.
Good
for him, because she had no idea.
Still light-headed,
she drifted into the library to wait for her father. She might not understand
her body's response to Tanner Cross, but what she really wanted to
know was why her father had brought him here. Why him?
"Hello, love."
Her father strode into the room, walked directly to her and gave her the usual
kiss on the cheek.
His
valet, Jacobsen, came in a few steps behind him. "Is there anything you
need, Mr Derek?" He nodded in her direction. "Miss?"
"No,
we're fine. Thank you, Jacobsen."
"Very
good," he said, in his odd stiff way. "I'll be in my room if you need
me."
When
Jacobsen was gone, Laine eyed her father's suit and tie. "Are you going
out?"
"A
late meeting."
She
wished he wouldn't tire himself, but knew it was useless to tell him so.
"I'd have thought you'd want to see Tanner. I brought him here straight from
the airport."
"Really?
You picked him up?"
She nodded but
offered no explanation. How do you explain a whim fed by curiosity? "I
understand he's joining your security staff." She
studied her father closely, as she'd taken to doing ever since his diagnosis. It always surprised her
how well he looked, tall, straight - thinner than six months ago, but his
colour was still good. Other than looking
tired he wore his sixty-three years with polished grace. She called him her grey fox. A grey fox she was terrified she'd lose.
"I've
got a few minutes. Would you like a drink?" He walked to the bar, poured
himself a brandy.
"No.
And don't try changing the subject."
He sighed and,
despite her refusal, poured her a glass of Chardonnay. Handing her the glass,
he said, "That's what I get for raising a too darn smart, pit
bull of a daughter. I can't get away with anything."
"Tanner
said he was hired by Holister. That Holister told him about your surgery. Why?
Holister has never
had anything to do with Derek security before. Why now? Why didn't you use our
usual firm?" She
paused, softened her tone and tried not
to show her fear. "What's going on, Dad? Is there something -some threat - that I
don't know about?”
"No, darling,
nothing like that. Tanner's just a temporary replacement for one of my men who
needed some unexpected time off. When I mentioned the situation
to Holister, he brought up Tanner's name. I remembered him, of course, and I thought it would
be interesting to see him again." He smiled. "Nothing dire, no devious plots."
'You're sure?"
“I’m
sure."
"He
knows about your surgery. You're OK with that?"
He shrugged easily.
"Security is the man's business, Laine. If Holister trusts him to be
discreet, I accept his judgment. Besides, in a few days the surgery will be
behind us, and Tanner will be gone. Let's not make a
big thing of it. All right?"
Something wasn't right... She had a
million questions, but rather than cause her father stress, she lifted her glass and nodded. "And in those few days,
you'll be on the mend and driving the staff crazy." She forced a smile.
He
tapped her glass with his, his expression oddly grim. "Amen to that."
Tanner dropped his duffel
bag on the bench at the foot of the four-poster bed. His room, with its lofty ceilings,
ornate mouldings and antique furniture, was as far from the jungle as a man
could get in one day.
Walking to the window, he watched Collier
from the corner of his eye, as the driver grudgingly hung Tanner's newly
acquired Harrods haberdashery in the closet. Tanner couldn't resist issuing an
instruction. "Leave the jeans on the
bed. I'd appreciate it."
Collier
shot him a fiery look. 'You're a pretend guest, Cross. Don't push it."
Tanner turned away
from the window - nothing but a street outside with slow-moving traffic - and
sat his butt on the edge of the window seat. "How long
did you say you'd been with the Dereks?"
"I
didn't." Collier faced him, his face tight. Not a man used to taking
orders, Tanner thought, or being asked questions. "Four
weeks. Not that it's any of your business."
"Cushy
job, driving a beautiful woman around."
Collier said nothing,
then, "If you're finished asking me about things that are none of your
business, I have to drive Mr Derek to a late engagement." His
expression was dark as if something black and ugly was on
his mind. "There's a dinner tomorrow night. You're expected to be there.
Try not to be a complete asshole." He strode from the room, his
back as rigid as the doorway he walked through.
Tanner
watched him go and smiled. Cross, you really need to work on your people
skills.
A half-hour
later - he was coming out of the shower - the phone rang. It was the woman on
his mind. Laine.
"I
don't imagine you've eaten," she said, her tone brisk.
"Some
plastic-wrapped stuff on the plane."
"Come
down to the kitchen then. We can talk while we eat."
Being
a man of few words, he decided to use some, "Laine, about what happened—"
"See
you in fifteen minutes." She hung up.
When he found the kitchen,
three floors down, Laine was already there. Cooking! "I thought you had a
chef for
that." He gestured towards the pot in her hands.
"We
do. But when I get the chance, I like to do it myself." She moved the pan
off the heat. "And this is pretty simple stuff. Some
pasta and chicken." With her head she gestured to the table and chairs by
a window that looked out over a small terrace. "Sit."
He sat, and in seconds
she'd filled their plates and joined him at the table, already set with cutlery
and two glasses of wine.
"Laine,
I-"
"Eat,
Tanner. Just eat. Please."
Damned if her face
wasn't pink. "Not before I apologize. That kiss.. . I stepped over the
line." And I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
She
shook her head. "And I stepped out of character." Looking at him, she
added, "Which didn't make it any less ...
fantastic." She put down her fork. "But I didn't ask you down here to
talk about our misguided kiss."
He let the "misguided" comment
go and stayed on the "fantastic". Picking up his fork, he asked,
"Now what?"
"I
want to talk about my father." She gave him her full attention. "And
I want to know why you're here."
Tanner
looked into her keen, searching eyes, and didn't miss the cool intelligence
behind them. Years ago, those eyes had been hidden behind
glasses with big dark frames. Now nothing hid them, not shyness -and
she had been shy - not uncertainty, and not her innate intelligence. Laine
Derek had grown up to be the smartest, toughest, sexiest woman on the fucking planet, and
he wasn't going to disrespect that.
"You're
not going to like it," he said.
"Try
me."
"I
came here to kill your father."
She
blinked and her clear brow furrowed, then she pressed a hand to her throat as
if to regulate her breathing. "Say again."
"You
heard it right the first time."
For
a moment, she sat still as marble, then she brought her hand back down to the
table. "If you're telling me this, I have to think: a) you've
changed your plan, or b) you also plan to kill me - maybe with
your
pasta fork. After you've eaten, of course."
He
curled some pasta on the fork in question, but answered her before putting it
in his mouth. "First off, I never had a plan, I'm only the hired
gun." He ate the pasta, wiped his mouth with the napkin. "And second,
I'd cut out my heart before I hurt Joe Derek." Or you.
"I
don't understand.”
Tanner, tired of
playing it cool, and wanting some answers of his own, put down his fork and
picked up his wine. "It's your father's idea. He wants me to
kill him before he goes under the knife."
She stood.
"That's insane! Why on earth would he want that?" Roughly, she shoved
her long dark hair behind her ears, held it there, a look of
utter confusion on her beautiful face.
"He
says he's afraid to wake up and not be the man he was."
"The surgery isn't without risk, of
course, but the doctors are confident— This
makes no sense!" She turned away, then
back. "And why you? Why did he choose you? Is that what you are? A killer
for hire?" The words were no
sooner out of her mouth than she held up her hand, palm towards him. "Damn
it! You're a Raven, aren't you?"
How
the hell did she know about the Raven Force? "What are you talking
about?"
The look she gave him
was withering. "Do not treat me like an idiot, Tanner. I've known about my
father's . . . sub rosa operation for years. I run Derek Industries, for God's sake.
That means I follow the money. Raven is very expensive."
"I see."
One smart lady. And damn it, he was a sucker for smarts. His chest tightened
over an alien surge of panic. A red alert. He could fall for
this woman - fall hard. Do not go there. Cross. Focus! "How much do
you know?"
She faltered. "No details. I know the
work involves the illegal arms trade, sometimes drugs. In the last few years, anti-terrorism." She paused.
"And I know it's important to my father."
"The Raven Force is your
father. And it's not only the money. He's a genius strategist, connected to the
highest levels of government, both here and
stateside. He knows - hell, he vets - every operative in the force. That kind of power attracts equally
powerful enemies, for him, and the Ravens." He rubbed his jaw. "My
guess is that's what this death wish of his is all about: what he knows and who
he knows. He's thinks this surgery will make
him a danger to everyone involved."
She eyed him warily,
suspicion darkening her startling green eyes. "Maybe you agree with him.
Maybe you'll do anything to protect the Ravens."
"I
will."
"I
thought you said ..." She straightened. "I'll kill you if you hurt my
father, Tanner. I mean it."
"Jesus,
I am not going to hurt him! Get that in your head and keep it there."
Running a hand through his hair, he added, "I'd rather hurt the other guy."
"Other
guy?"
"Joe
knows hiring a Raven to kill him is not a sure thing. Especially this
one." He smacked his heart."Hell, I'd be a nowhere man
if it wasn't for him turning my life around, getting my ass in the army, taking
me on as a Raven.” He took a beat. "I think he's got
back-up."
"Then
why call you in at all?"
He
fired his finger at her. "Two points for the question. Another twenty if
you have the answer."
Silence.
Laine
paced a bit, shoved her hair behind her ears again. She stopped abruptly.
"Plan B. Of course!" She nodded her head as if to
herself. "Dad always has a Plan B, and that plan 'must run parallel and be
as foolproof as the first'." She looked up at him, her
eyes wide.
Tanner nodded. He'd
heard Joe say those exact words a dozen times. "Now all we have to do is
figure out Plan
B."
"Come
with me." She marched towards the door.
A few seconds later,
they were in the library with its walls of books, expensive carpets and massive
male-sized
furniture.
Laine went directly
to the fireplace, ran her hand along the carved mantel and gave it a tug; the
fireplace swung
open like a gate. Tanner arched a brow in the direction of the many bookcases,
the usual cover for secret rooms.
She followed his glance. "Too
predictable. Dad had this—" she nodded
towards the electric fireplace "—put
in when we first bought in Mayfair."
"And
he told you about it?"
"Not
exactly. I pay attention."
"Remind
me never to cheat on you."
Before
she ducked to enter the small space behind the fireplace, she shot him a
questioning look.
A
few seconds later, she emerged waving a leather notebook. "Here it
is." She plopped it on the desk and pulled the desk lamp closer.
He
read over her shoulder, then cursed, and paced halfway across the room.
Her eyes followed him - like a pair of
damning lasers. "He wants you to succeed him as head of Raven Force, and he's putting a billion-and-a-half
dollars at your disposal for its operational expenses. The papers governing the funds are all in Switzerland. That's
why you're here! First you prove your loyalty by not killing him, then you take over after someone else
does." She slammed the book closed. "God, how serpentine is that. And so damn like him!"
She turned on Tanner, eyes blazing. "And it gives you a powerful reason to want my father dead."
He
strode towards her, pulled her to him and kissed the spite out of her. When he
finally lifted his mouth from hers, he said, "What I want,
Laine Derek, is you. You figure I have a chance at that if I murder your
father on the road to our happy ending."
She
shook her head. "Not a chance in hell."
"Then shut up
and let me kiss you." The kiss was rough, then soft, and about the time he
thought he'd drown in it, he pulled back. He was damn pleased that she looked
dazed and confused. "I told you we couldn't be friends.”
Silence.
"So you did." She gave him an unreadable look, half frustration, half
confusion. "I just didn't believe you.”
"And
now?” He let out a long breath, frustrated that he didn't have time
to take the kiss where it was meant to lead. But, given he had a
killer to stop, sex just wasn't on the agenda. Yet. He stepped away from her.
She
gave him a hard but thoughtful look. "I'm getting it. Not sure what to do
about it, but I'm definitely getting it."
"Then
hold that thought, because right now we have to talk about your father."
He took a couple of steps. "He's scheduled to go to the
hospital—"he looked at his
watch"—in thirty-one hours. Right?"
"Right."
"Then
the kill has to be set for tomorrow night."
At
his use of the word "kill" she turned ashen.
He wanted to take her in
his arms, tell her everything was going to be OK. He also didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep. Right now they both
needed to think, not feel. "No one wants to die a second before
they have to, plus he's planned a dinner for, according to Collier, his closest
friends." He looked at Laine, who'd
put a hand over her mouth, as if to contain her distress. "Joe Derek
doesn't plan to wake up."
Laine leaned heavily on the edge of her father's massive
desk. What Tanner said made perfect sense. Her father had been planning tomorrow night's dinner for a month now. A
reunion dinner, he called it. He'd flown
old friends in from Chicago, New York...
Damn
him, he was saying goodbye!
"What's
wrong?" Tanner asked, taking a couple of steps towards her, then stopping.
"Thinking
about him . . . planning all this, while I fussed and worried about him coming
through the surgery." She shook her head. "Bringing you
here. Hiring his own killer! Damn it, I could kill him myself! When
he gets home, I'm going to call him on it and—"
"No,
you're not." He came to stand in front of her, lifted her chin. His blue
eyes were dead serious. "I need to know if he's hired a Raven for this
job. You tip Joe off and that won't happen - he'll find another way.
Maybe cancel the surgery."
Her stomach sank. He
was right. If her father was anything, he was determined. "Then what? How
do we stop this insanity?"
He
took his hand away from her face. "We play his game. But starting tomorrow
night, after the dinner, your father doesn't leave my sight until he's on that operating
table, meaning whoever he's hired has to get to
him through me. And that's not going to happen. That's a positive. OK?"
"You're
sure?”
"I'm sure. But judging
from that look in your eye, you're not. So you're welcome to keep those
suspicious eyes on me if it will make you feel better."
"It
will."
"Fair
enough." Brushing her hair back, he took her face in his hands and kissed
her forehead in the way he'd done so many years ago. Then he touched his lips to hers, and
her knees turned to rubber.
"I
don't entirely trust you, you know." She sounded too breathy. "No
matter how much you kiss me."
"I
wouldn't trust me, either." He kissed her then, softly, slowly, his mouth
whispering over hers. Her arms went around his neck, pulling him
closer, until the hard length of him was flush between her hips.
He
felt so good, so right...
"Have I told you how beautiful you
are," he whispered, taking the kiss deeper. "How much I love your mouth, that soft sound that purrs from the back of
your throat when we kiss." His mouth hovering over hers, his voice hoarse, he said, "I want to
make love to you, Laine. I ache with wanting you." He lifted his head,
looked into her eyes. "When this is all over ...is that going to
happen?"
She should have
hesitated, done at least a second or two of the I'm-not-that-easy routine. She
didn't. "Yes. That's most definitely going to happen. If—"
"Shush."
He put a finger to her mouth. "I know the 'if."
The dining room was
immense, the table a mile long and the guests formal. Tanner donned the tux,
which, thankfully,
was soft-structured. He was comfortable enough at the dinner party in the role
of "old friend", and the swirl of
conversation, clinking glasses and occasional bursts of laughter provided
enough distraction for him to keep a close eye on the dinner guests.
Other than an initial clap on the shoulder, Joe Derek kept his distance. No surprise.
Wearing
some kind of soft pink body-hugging satin thing that had him drooling, Laine
sat at the far end of the table near her father. Tanner feasted his eyes on her
every chance he had.
Definitely
going to happen. If... her father stayed alive.
Speaking of whom, Joe
Derek was one hell of an actor. Watching him in the role of gracious host,
you'd think he was planning a holiday, rather than a meeting
with the grim reaper.
Collier
stood in shadowy attendance, his face grim.
Holister was the last to arrive and, not
surprisingly, he was seated next to Tanner. They'd played casual acquaintances
for the last couple of hours. Finally, Holister leaned closer and whispered,
"Everything on track, Cross?"
Tanner didn't answer,
just picked up his water glass, took a sip, and asked, "I assume you're
staying the
night."
"No. I’m
heading for the airport. As a matter of fact—" he glanced at his watch "—I'd better move
on. Say my goodbyes to Joe and Laine."
Tanner
watched him go, greatly relieved he could remove him from the suspect grid.
Holister's departure
initiated a flurry of leave takings and within a half-hour, Joe and Laine were
in the grand foyer saying goodbyes to the
last of the guests.
The Derek staff descended
on the table like a school of piranhas on speed, and within minutes the table was cleared and its brilliant floral table centre
perfectly repositioned.
Tanner intended to
be equally as efficient dispatching Joe's hired killer. He headed for Joe
Derek's room on
the third floor and let himself in. Not a second later, the barrel of a gun was
lodged against the back of his neck.
"What the fuck are you doing in here, nosing around where you don't
belong?”
"Collier.
I was really hoping it wasn't you. Figured we might get to be pals, you
know?"
"Fat
chance. Turn around, Cross, and make it fast."
Tanner never argued with a gun -
particularly one in a position to splatter his brains over Persian rugs. He turned.
The
sound of voices filtered in from the hall. "Fuck!" Collier appeared
to panic, glancing left then right. He grabbed Tanner's
shoulder, spun him. "The window. Behind the drapes. Now!" He shifted
the gun to Tanner's back.
'You're
kidding me. Behind the curtains?"
"Shut
up and move."
He
moved. In seconds they were both hidden by rich damask, a second later Derek
and Jacobsen walked into the room. Tanner had a half-assed view
of the room through the panel break in the draperies. He guessed
Collier had about the same.
Joe said clearly,
"Have you got it?" He took off his jacket, placed it on the bed and
started rolling up his sleeve.
"Yes,
sir." Jacobsen opened a small box and pulled out a syringe.
"You
can leave it," Joe said. "I'll do it myself tonight."
What
the hell...
Ignoring
the gun Collier had parked on his left kidney, Tanner threw back the curtain.
"Stop right there."
The
men froze in place: Joe with his hand holding his shirt up above the elbow;
Jacobsen, the hypodermic in his hand; and Collier, his gun now pointed
at empty space.
Tanner
strode to Jacobsen and grabbed the needle from him. Turning to Joe, he said,
"Game over. Nobody's dying here tonight."
Jacobsen looked faint.
Fainter still when Collier stepped from behind the curtains, and pointed a gun
at his gut. "Stay put."
Joe
Derek closed his eyes a moment then let out a long breath. "Let him
go," he said to Collier. "He thinks it's a B12 shot.
I've been taking them for months now."
"But
this one's not B12, is it?" Tanner said.
"No."
"Let
me guess ... a heavy-duty barbiturate, like maybe enough
to kill an elephant?”
Joe
rolled down his sleeve and did up his cuff. "I knew you wouldn't kill me,
Tanner, but I didn't expect you'd ride in on a damn white horse - figuratively
speaking." He glared at Collier. "What the hell are you doing here? And get rid of that." He nodded
to Collier's gun.
Collier
shrugged, holstered the gun. "I didn't like the way this guy's been
sneaking around. Plus he made one too many trips to buy Pharmaceuticals. I
figured whatever he was up to, it wasn't good."
"I have not been
'sneaking around' as you put it. I have been following instructions."
Jacobsen came to life and turned on Joe, his back valet straight. "Mister
Derek, I have been happily in your employ for ten years, and it pains me to submit my resignation, effective immediately.
But what pains me more is that you would
use me in such an underhand way. You were selfish to do so, and cowardly in the
extreme. Before I go, may I suggest
you do the honourable thing? Face your fate from your surgery with courage and
resolve. And, as they say, let the chips fall where they may." He looked
around the room, his chin high. "Gentlemen, I bid you goodbye."
Three
pairs of eyes watched Jacobsen leave the room. Then Collier gave a curt nod and
followed him.
When
they were alone, Tanner nodded to Joe. "Couldn't have said it better
myself."
Joe
gave a shaky laugh. "Looks like Robbie Burns was right - 'The best laid
plans of mice and men often go awry.' Including mine." He walked to a cabinet near
the window; atop it was a decanter of brandy and some glasses. He lifted the decanter. "Drink?"
"Sure."
Joe brought him his drink
and they sat in the two chairs in front of the fire. "Does
Laineknow?"
"Yes."
He
cursed softly, put his head down, rubbed his forehead with the glass. "Now
what?"
"You're
asking me?"
"About now I'm
supposed to be a dead man, so I'm fresh out of ideas." Joe downed his
Scotch in one jerky
movement.
He's finding it
harder to face the unknowns of the surgery than death itself, Tanner thought.
He got that, figured he might be the same in his shoes.
"You
want a plan, here it is. First, I don't leave your side until they wheel you
into that operating room. Then—" he took a drink, leaned back in his chair
"—we take Jacobsen's advice, 'let the chips fall where they may'." He gave Joe a steady-on look.
"And if you're concerned about the Raven Force, don't be. I've got your back, for as long as it takes,"
"I
arranged for you to take charge, you know. The money, the contacts, all of
it."
"I
know."
Joe
raised a brow.
"Laine
found your notebook.”
He
cursed, rubbed his forehead again. "That girl is so smart it's
scary."
''Won't
argue with that."
"About
the surgery . . ." Joe looked at him a long time, his expression that of
man who wanted to be convinced, but wasn't. "The best 'chip'
would be my dying on the table. Better for the Ravens."
"Negative
that. The best chip is your waking up at a hundred per cent, and a few months
from now, giving me your blessing to marry your daughter."
Two months later
Laine rested the back of her
head on the tub's porcelain rim and closed her eyes, fragrant minty bath oil wafting
up her nose. "I think there's a law against this. Has to be.
Somewhere."
Tanner,
occupied with massaging one of her soapy feet, said, "And what law would
that be?"
"I don't know . . . something about
not being allowed to be this happy. Like, Thou shalt not have more than your share of bliss/"
"Nope.
No such law. You can have all the bliss you want."
"We're
not really right for each other, you know."
"I
know." He gave her foot a nip before releasing it back into the water and
rested his arms along the sides of the tub. "I knew you were wrong
for me the minute I met you. Trouble, that's what I thought."
Laine pulled herself
up, happy to see Tanner's attention gravitate to her naked breasts. Breasts
were a nuisance when you were trying to fit a damn bra, but
absolutely great at times like this. "You like trouble, Tanner
Cross." She lowered herself over him, and he did what she wanted him to
do, cupped her breasts. So good...
He
licked each nipple, then kissed them. "That I do."
"I
taste like soap."
"You
taste like heaven."
She knelt between his
legs, and took the length of him in her hands. His inhalation was sharp and powerful.
"God, damn it," he whispered, "I love your hands on me." He
closed his eyes, and she stroked him until his broad chest quaked
under his short, rapid breaths. Finally, he grabbed her hand, inhaled deeply, and
in an urgent tone said, "Let's get out of this tub and—"
Her
own breathing no better than his, she managed a smile, "—go find some trouble?"
Returning
her smile, he said, "All you can give me."
Two hours later, the
only light in the room from the dying fire, Laine woke up to find Tanner
looking at her.
Did his dark-blue gaze wake her? She didn't know, but with the firelight
dancing across his features, she'd never
seen him more . . . beautiful - or intense. His face, cast in shadow and gold,
appeared almost stern.
She
touched his cheek. "Tanner?”
"I
love you, Laine."
The
words took their place between them, whole, fresh and full of promise.
What
took you so long, you mule-headed male! But, oh, she loved him for
waiting. "I love you, Tanner," she said, her heart near to
collapsing under the weight of it.
"Thank,
God. I'd have felt like an ass, if you'd said I was just your boy toy."
"Well,
you're that, too."
He grinned, took her
hand from his cheek to his mouth and kissed her palm. "I've been waiting
to tell you. Actually, I've been biting back the words since that
kiss in Harrods' dressing room."
"Why?"
He
propped himself on an elbow, looked down at her. "I thought if I said it
too soon, the words would... lose value. And because I wanted to be
sure your father was in good enough health for us to make plans."
She
laughed at that. "My father, it seems, is indestructible."
He
nodded, turning serious again. "You understand I’ll be taking over the
Raven Force? Your father asked, and I've accepted."
"Uh-huh."
"You
know what that means?"
It
means danger, separations, distance and endless secrets. It means I have to
share you with your job —
your calling. "Yes, I know what it means."
'You're
good with it?" He held her with his eyes. So blue, so intense, they
burned.
"Negative
that." She smiled, touched his jaw. "But if my boy toy promises to
spend every hour of every day that he's not saving the world with me, I'll make
it work."
"We'll
make it work," he said, kissing her again.
"Yes
... we'll make it work."
The Grey Man
Caitlyn Nicholas
"Oh.
Shit. Ow." Amelia dropped the sea snail on to the sand.
Stunned, she looked
from the barb buried deep in her hand to the pretty shell it'd come out of. An intense
painful itch that grew and burned until it was unbearable made her whimper.
Panic blossomed. Those things weren't venomous, were they?
She
took a step and almost collapsed. The same unbearable, itching, burning pain
sped up her leg.
Must.
Not Panic.
She
dragged in a breath. Her chest felt like it had tight elastic bands wrapped
around it, squeezing. Slowly and deliberately she limped up the
tropical East Timorese beach, putting one foot in front of the other until she
got to the path that led to the Maubara orphanage. Breathing became more
difficult with every step, and when the glaring white walls and
red tin roof of the orphanage came into view, she tried to call for help. But
she couldn't pull enough air into her lungs to get the words out.
Must.
Not. Panic.
She
made it to the cool dusty porch, grabbed the cord of the bell used to call the
children in from lunch, then sank to her knees while the bell rang.
"Amelia, what
is the matter, child?” Clara Eisenberg appeared at the door, and was
on her knees beside her in a second.
"Shell...
my foot..." wheezed Amelia. "Can't... breathe."
This
could not be happening.
A
creeping numbness settled over her shoulders and crept downwards towards her
heart.
"A
pretty shell? Gold-coloured, with black and white? You stood on it then picked
it up?"
Amelia nodded - that
was exactly what she'd done - then rested her head on the rough cement and concentrated
on trying to breathe. Clara was shouting something in Tetum - the local
Timorese language -to the orphanage staff. Her voice had become
distant, and Amelia could not follow what she said. Grey spots
appeared at the outer edges of her fading vision.
"I'm
calling your father,” said Clara, her face summing close. "No,"
gasped Amelia. It’d be the end of everything. The world faded to black.
"Ahh,
shit."
Mick
was halfway across the river when the downpour hit. Seconds later an odd rumble
beneath his feet made him glance upstream. He had a moment to
realize that there was a wall of black water hurtling towards
him, before he - still attached to his forty-five kilogram pack - was sucked
into a churning, whirling hell. No oxygen, not even sure which way was up. His
rifle was ripped out of his hands by the torrent.
It
was 3 a.m.
Somewhere
in a river in the depths of the Liquica district of East Timor.
And
he was about to drown.
Screw
that.
The
need for oxygen began to nag.
His
webbing vest, loaded down with ammunition, and the backpack were making it
almost impossible to get to the surface. He tried to lose the backpack, but
something cannoned into the side of him with bruising force,
knocking the remaining air out of his lungs and sending his arm numb and
clumsy.
He
broke the surface and dragged in a desperate breath before being sucked back
underwater.
Finally the backpack came
off and he struggled upwards again. In the manner of all flash floods, the torrent was ebbing around him and it was easier
to surface this time. He tried to get his bearings, but it was pitch
black. The gush of water eased more, solid ground scraped beneath his boots. He
kicked sideways, found his feet and, within
seconds, managed to crawl on to the muddy shore. Panting heavily. He was torn between
frustration that he;d just potentially screwed up a mission and
relief that he was out of the water and not
dead.
Below
his elbow, his left arm felt prickly and strange.
The cloud cleared as
quickly as it had appeared and a huge gibbous moon lit the area. He pushed
himself up
to sitting and examined the damage as best he could. Blood - he could smell its
sharp metallic odour -and quite a lot of
it. Black on his fingers. His forearm had been laid open from his elbow to his
hand, and a gash spiralled across the
veins of his wrist.
"Bugger."
He downgraded "not
dead" to "not dead yet". Aware that in the Timorese tropical
climate a wound like that would fester
incredibly quickly, if he didn't bleed to death first.
It started to throb and
sting, and the pain gathered momentum.
He
dragged off his soaked shirt, wadded it up and held it against the wound. He
needed help. The rest of his team would find him, eventually, but the
terrain between them was steep, covered in thick jungle and likely
swarming with Indonesian patrols. It could take a while.
He
paused. Listened. Sniffed the air. He could smell smoke. Wood smoke. He scanned
the area more carefully
and, sure enough, he could see a distant dim glint of a light, barely
perceptible against the bright moon. He
dragged himself up to his feet and, stumbling in the flat moonlight, made his
way towards it. Could be a village.
Could be the Indonesian army. Both had numerous pitfalls.
What he hadn't been
expecting was a nunnery.
Amelia drifted in a
semi-conscious daze. Her heart stuttered and jittered in her chest, every
breath was almost impossible to take as the paralysis took its
hold. Voices came clearly through the haze. It was true, what
they said, about hearing being the last sense to go. Clara, unusually
high-pitched and upset, was desperately trying to get medical help, though Amelia
couldn't hear the children, their chatter was silent. She'd miss them. They'd taught her so much. She couldn't speak,
couldn't swallow, couldn't blink, couldn't move. Death hovered. She could sense it. It had never looked so good.
Aware that he hadn't washed
in the three weeks that he'd been on patrol, and that he was dripping blood all
over their immaculate porch, Mick hammered on the door, below a small statue of
Christ on the Cross. He heard movement on the other side and a small peephole
opened at eye height. For an insane minute he was reminded
of getting into a very dodgy club in Kings Cross last time he was on leave in
Sydney.
"Ajuda.
I'm Australian. Ajuda," he said, summoning the
Tetum word for "help" from somewhere. Languages had never
been his strong point.
"Espeva"
she said. Wait.
So
he leaned his forehead against the door and waited, listening to the pat,
pat, pat of his own blood dripping on to the ground.
An
age later the peephole opened again.
"Are
you in trouble?" asked a calm, precise voice. He felt soothed just hearing
it.
"I'm
sorry. I got caught in a flash flood and I'm badly cut. Do you have bandages?
You could throw them out here. I don't need to come in."
The
door opened to reveal a nun, neatly dressed in a white habit despite the hour.
Her lined face looked older than time itself, and deeply wise.
"We have never
turned away a person in need and are not about to start now, young man,"
she said in perfect English.
"I'm sorry. I've
bled on your porch." He held out his arm. It was the first time he'd seen
the wound properly
and it took him a moment to realize that the white glint amongst all the blood
was bone. A wide strip of flesh had been
ripped away and was dangling from his arm. It looked so horrific that his brain
was having difficulty processing the
fact that it was his arm. A weird disconnected feeling kept telling him that it
must belong to someone else.
He
pressed his shirt back on to the wound, afraid he'd offended the nuns with the
sight of it.
"No!" There was
a gasp of consternation, and he realized that behind the nun who had opened the
door there was a small group of women.
"That rag is filthy. Don't do that. Come in at once,” said the
nun.
They
ushered him through the dark halls of the nunnery. It was large. He guessed it
was the one in the hills behind Maubara. Which meant the flash flood had
dragged him a long, long way from his patrol. They'd come to find
him. Without doubt. But the mission was screwed. They'd spent the last three
weeks in the
Timorese jungle, on patrol as part of Operation Astute, a United Nations
initiative led by Australia to keep peace in
East Timor. And now, just when they'd had concrete reports of the militia
stirring up trouble, this accident
would drag them away from where they could do any good at all.
He
groaned, quietly, deep in his chest.
There
was going to be hell to pay.
"Not
far now,” said the nun, misinterpreting his groan as one of pain.
"We're going to the infirmary. We'll stitch you up there.”
The thought of
stitches made him queasy and he glanced at his arm again. Everything had a
strong dreamlike sense of unreality about it. He realized he was in shock and
shivered suddenly, the movement making the horrific wound
tense and stab painfully. This time he did groan in pain.
In
the infirmary they irrigated the wound to clean it and stitched the hanging
flesh into place as best they could. They had no pain relief to offer
him, and he would not have accepted drugs anyway. Alone, in an area where
there may be militia activity, and where local violence could break out at any
minute, he wasn't taking anything that'd slow him down.
He
sat in a hard wooden chair, arm laid across a table draped in a clean white
sheet. He squeezed his eyes shut, but found it only made it all
worse, so instead distracted himself by telling Sister Mary Francis -the
nun who'd opened the door - about his home in Sydney. A younger sister worked
on his arm, and he had to stop speaking each time she pierced
him with the needle.
When she'd finally finished, and bandaged
him from wrist to elbow, Sister Mary Francis offered him a room with a bed to wait until his patrol found
him. He accepted gratefully.
"Wash
first,” instructed Sister Mary Francis, flaring her nostrils and
directing him to a utilitarian bathroom. He washed carefully in a basin
of cold water, keeping his bandaged arm dry. The pain made him hazy
and he had to concentrate to stop it becoming overwhelming.
A
sister tapped on the door and he yelped in fright.
"Clothes,”
she said. The door opened a crack and clothes were dropped on the floor. He
pulled them on. They were far too small. But he zipped up the trousers and decided
that if he had to sit down, the pain of squashed
testicles would take his mind off his arm.
Sister Mary Francis
waited for him when he emerged in his new outfit. A ghost of a smile flittered
over her lips when she saw him. "This way. You can sleep now. I'll send a
sister in with some herbal tea. It will help with the pain."
"Thank
you," he said.
He
glanced out the window of the room they'd given him. Dawn was creeping over the
hills to the east. Another nun came quietly in. Shy and withdrawn, she didn't look at
him. He stepped back into the corner, cradling
his arm and trying to give her as much space as he could.
Being over six-foot
tall, he was keenly aware that his size often frightened the local women. Poor
diet and practically no modern medical help meant that the average
height of a man in Timor was around the five-foot mark. His
dark-red hair made them hesitate as well.
Hoping that no one
else was planning to visit, and unable to stand the tight trousers a moment
longer, he
peeled them off awkwardly and slid between the clean sheets of the narrow bed.
It felt like lying on a cloud after weeks
of roughing it.
The pain in his arm
intensified quickly when he lay down, clawing at him, so he struggled up to
sitting, and that seemed to ease it a little. Under the bandage,
it felt like a thousand ants were biting him, and he was
sure it was infected.
He glanced at the
tea, realizing how thirsty he was. It was herbal - how much harm could it do?
He sniffed it. It smelled like hay. Grassy and outdoorsy. It
was a nunnery, for heaven's sake! They were hardly going
to be giving him something laced with opium.
He sipped the tea. It tasted completely
innocent, so he finished the cup. After a few minutes the pain in his arm began
to fade rapidly and as day broke outside the window he drifted into a weird
semi-conscious sleep.
When he woke it was pitch dark again. He'd been
dreaming vividly about ants crawling into his arm and biting him, and he'd
woken with a start. Heart pounding, his skin felt hot and tight. A breath, cool
against his cheek and smelling like mint,
made him reach out.
Someone
was there.
Something
was very wrong.
He never slept deeply
enough for someone to creep up unawares. He tried to sit up and jarred his arm.
Pain screamed through him. The covers slid
off his heated body. He reached out again. Silken hair brushed against his
fingers, and the velvety curve of a breast.
Hazy desire shot
through him. This was one weird dream. It must be a dream . . . What the hell
was in that tea?
She
pressed her lips to his. Any sense of reality7 vaporized into
mind-numbing desire.
When he woke again there was soft
daylight in the room, giving everything a surreal feel. The woman was there. She stood, with
her back to him. As he watched through half-closed eyes, she shrugged into a
long white dress that slithered over her
round bottom and long legs. Beautiful body. Her hair was long and blonde;
her skin tanned. Her hand was bandaged, just up to the wrist.
It
hadn't been a dream. There had been no hallucinating. The unforgettable night
was real.
He realized what had woken him: the sound
of a motor. It was getting louder and louder. A helicopter, but not one of the
army's Black Hawks -he'd know that sound from miles away. He shifted a little
and she glanced around, almost frightened.
"Who
are you?" he whispered.
Her
eyes widened. There was a blankness there, an emptiness, like nobody lived
behind those incredible eyes. "I'm not sure," she said in an
Australian accent. "I can't remember.”
She looked out the window at the
helicopter, descending noisily into the clear area beside the nunnery. "They're here for me. I have to go.”
"I'll find
you," said Mick, raising his voice over the sound of the machine. He would
find her. Just because.
Then she hurried from the
room, lithe and light even though she was limping, barely putting weight on one foot. It was bandaged as well, he saw.
Mick sat up slowly.
The room rocked and swayed, and it felt like the helicopter blades were
ricocheting off his forehead. He peered out the window. A sleek black
machine - a corporate number with AUSTRATIMO OIL emblazoned on the side - had
landed. A man climbed out, ducking low under the slowing blades. He reappeared
moments later, his arm protectively around the blonde woman's shoulders,
hurrying her along. She stumbled and sank to the ground. Mick stood quickly,
nose millimetres from the glass, as if he
could leap through it to help her. In a swift movement the man scooped her up
in his arms, her head lolling
against his shoulders.
"Look after
her,” Mick muttered as the helicopter roared into the sky. Movement
from the jungle at the periphery of the nunnery drew his attention.
He smiled faintly as he saw his patrol materialize from the dense
scrub. The medics would have antibiotics and would get him home. They waited as
the helicopter took off then headed purposefully towards the nunnery.
Sitting
at the computer, even with the air conditioning on and the curtains closed
against the unrelenting Sydney summer glare, Amelia was too hot.
Midsummer pregnancy in Australia sucked. The baby wriggled, as if to say, "Hey,
it's thirty-seven degrees in here all the time, what the hell are you
complaining about?" She smiled and
stroked her belly. "Hey,
sweetie. Are you awake?"
The
baby stretched, making Amelia's belly undulate. She continued her
email to Clara.
So the pregnancy
continues to go very well. My parents are still extremely angry; they think I'm
keeping the identity of the father a secret and that my time in Timor was spent
having some illicit assignation.
But they're coming around
slowly. At least my friends have stopped telling me to give her up for adoption. The very thought of losing my little
girl makes me feel stabbed in the heart.
Give my love to everyone
at the orphanage. The baby and I will be visiting just as soon as we can. And
thank you once more for your love and support.
She hit the Send button
as the door to her study was pushed open.
"Joss, you are
the best," she said to the housekeeper, who had appeared with a cup of
peppermint tea. Trotting along behind her was Kissy, Amelia's Pomeranian.
"Hello, beautiful," she said and snapped her fingers. The little dog jumped up on to her lap, scrabbling for balance
when she found less room than she'd expected.
"How
are you feeling?" asked Joss.
"Good. No nausea at
all today. I'll take Kissy out for a walk later, before I go up to the big
house for dinner with Mum and Dad."
Joss
nodded. "I'm heading up there now. Your mother is unhappy with something
Chef produced for last night's dinner party, and I want to be on hand
when they discuss it. Just to make sure nobody kills anybody."
She grinned and rolled her eyes.
"She was here this
morning moaning about it. Serving sardines to the Premier of New South Wales or
something? Knowing Chef I bet they were
spectacular."
When
Joss had gone Amelia tried to concentrate on sorting out her latest fundraising
scheme for the orphanage, and drank her tea as the baby
shifted and moved languorously. But the twinges in her back changed from
annoying to painful and soon it was unbearable to sit still any longer. The
sun's scorching midsummer rays had lengthened into afternoon and the intensity of
the heat had waned a little.
"C'mon,
Kissy," she said and went to find the lead.
Mick stood outside the tall
iron gates of the north-shore mansion. She hadn't been difficult to find. The nuns had told him that
she was Amelia Dubonnier. Of the mega-wealthy Dubonnier family, who owned almost every oil rig in the stretch of ocean
between East Timor and Australia. Nobody had been quite sure how she came to be in Maubara.
The
fact she inhabited the upper echelons of society did not really penetrate his
brain until he saw where she lived. The massive garden was surrounded
by a high brick wall, the top studded with broken glass.
Distantly, set in the middle
of the lush oasis, was a mansion, white and ornate. It looked like a wedding cake,
and was surrounded by smaller buildings - garages, no doubt, housing a huge car
collection.
There
was movement at the front of one of the nearest buildings. The door opened and
his heart stopped dead in his chest. There she was. Amelia. The
woman who had haunted his thoughts for the past six months. Blonde hair
pulled back from her tanned face. Wearing a dark top and three-quarter-length
jeans.
He'd
tracked her down out of curiosity. With no more intention than to see where she
lived, he'd continue
to hold her in the corner of his heart where it seemed she'd taken up permanent
residence.
She had some kind of
fluffy dog on a lead that she was taking for a walk. She bent awkwardly to pet
it and his only recently started heart stopped dead again.
Amelia
was pregnant, the bulge obvious beneath her loose top.
Disappointment shot
through him, driving a spike into the centre of his heart, and he walked
quickly away. She belonged to someone else. He should never have
looked for her. The entire idea had been insanity.
He'd
only gone a few hundred metres up the street when the fluffy dog shot past him.
Reflexively, he stepped on the lead, bringing the pooch up
short with a strangled yelp. He bent and picked up the lead slowly,
giving his shell-shocked emotions a few seconds more to settle themselves.
He
was going to have to talk to her.
He
was going to have to look at her, and finally find out the colour of her eyes.
His
mind went blank and he couldn't think what to say.
She made her way
slowly up the steep street towards him. Large sunglasses covered her eyes, but
she was smiling. Every bit as stunning as he'd remembered.
He walked down to her, nerves churning in the pit of
his stomach.
"I've
got your dog," he said and cleared his throat. Excellent start. She could
quite plainly see that.
She
grinned as they stopped, a few metres apart. "Thanks. She's a pest."
"No
worries,” he shrugged, taking in every detail of her face: the fine
straight nose, full red lips and smooth creamy skin.
"Nice dog. Very, er, fluffy."
"Have we met
before?” she asked. She pulled the sunglasses off. Beautiful soft
brown eyes, just like he'd hoped. "It's just you seem so familiar.”
She kept smiling,
curious, friendly and polite. And likeable. So likeable. The warm feelings he'd
kept quietly in his heart expanded.
"No,"
he lied. "I'm based in Perth. Just on my way to visit the zoo."
'You’ve
come the wrong way then," she said. "You need to go back to ..."
He
shook his head. "It's OK, I know where I am. I was just admiring the real
estate."
She
raised an eyebrow at this. "Well, have fun."
She started to walk away,
and suddenly he couldn't stand to never see her again, couldn't bear that this would be the sum total of their communication.
"We
have met before," he called after her. "In Timor. I thought you were
a nun."
She
froze. The dog looked up at her in question and whined.
Mick
stood and waited. Unwilling to approach her, afraid he might frighten her.
She
turned back to him, eyes wide with shock, hand curved protectively around her
round belly. His eyes dropped to it again. A question blossomed in
his mind. A rather startling one.
Amelia stared at the tall
red-haired man. The familiarity began to make sense. He was the man in her dream - that vivid dream
she'd experienced at the nunnery.
As she'd hovered at
death's door, Clara had given her a local herbal remedy for the snail sting. It
had worked and the paralysis had been immediately halted.
But the side effects had included appalling seizures and hallucinations, so to
combat them they'd kept her doped up on opium tea.
When
she'd woken up in Darwin Hospital, all she could remember was a disconnected
passionate dream about a redheaded man, his skin burning hot
against her own cool flesh.
"Who
are you?" she asked him.
"Michael Avery,
but everyone calls me Mick. I'm in the army, with the Australian Defence Force,
Special Operations Command. I was washed away in a flash flood
in Liquica and was injured." He gently pushed back his sleeve to show
her the bandage. Six months on and it wasn't even close to healing. "That's
how I ended up at the nunnery."
The baby fidgeted and kicked. A bus sailed
past, on its way to Taronga Zoo and then Mosman Wharf. Suddenly she really needed to sit down.
"I
thought you were a hallucination."
He smiled, and
something inside her, that'd been frozen solid since she found out she was
pregnant, started to melt.
"When
is your baby due?" he asked.
"March.
And she's a girl."
"A
girl?" He grinned, with such warm delight that she couldn't help but smile.
"A daughter—"
Her
smile disappeared into the shocked void that opened in her chest.
He
knew. He'd guessed.
"—I mean, for you. A daughter for you and
your husband," he clarified.
A
myna bird chattered obnoxiously in a nearby garden.
"I don't know who
you are," she said, jerking on Kissy's lead as the dog strained towards
some morsel in the gutter. Kissy gave Amelia a reproachful
look.
"And
I don't know who you are," he said. "But I mean you no harm. I only
needed to find out if you were OKL"
He fished out a worn
leather wallet. "Here, this is my card. Check me out, call my Commander,
whatever you want."
She
took it and read it.
"I'm in Sydney
for a few weeks. Call me. My mobile number is on the card. But if you don't
want it, then it's fine. I won't seek you out again.”
She watched him walk
away. An insane part of her wanted to hurry after him, stop him. Talk to him about
the shock of the pregnancy, her ambivalence about how she became pregnant.
About how that unforgettable dream from that night at the nunnery may not be a
dream after all. How he could be the father of her child.
Everything.
That night she slept
little. Going over and over their conversation in her mind. Trying to figure
out if he'd guessed. Berating herself for liking him, and remembering
his smile and the broadness of his shoulders and the gentle
wariness in his blue, blue eyes.
Early,
as the sky began to lighten she phoned him.
He
answered on the first ring.
"It's
Amelia," she said.
"I
hoped it was you."
Then
there was a short, tense silence.
"I
think we need to talk," she said.
"I
know."
"Do
you want to come over? Today. Now. For breakfast?"
"I
do. You have no idea how much," he said. She winced. Waiting for the
"but". "But I'm at Royal North Shore Hospital. They're operating
on my arm in a few hours. Removing the infected skin."
It
had not been what she'd expected to hear. "That sounds really awful. Good
luck," she stuttered.
"Thanks." She could hear the
smile in his voice. "Your number came up on my phone, shall I call you when it's all over?"
"I'd
like that."
There
was silence again. She didn't want to hang up, but there was nothing left to
say.
"Bye,
then," she said.
"Bye,
beautiful."
She sat, in her quiet
house, with the phone in her hand for a long time as the baby swirled and
danced beneath her skin.
'Your
daddy has found us," she said, patting her stomach. "And I am desperate
to see him again."
She
called the hospital four times during the day. First Michael Avery was in
surgery, then in recovery, then he was doing fine and, at
last, he was ready for visitors. She jumped in her car and made impatient
progress through
the traffic that always seemed slower during the long, hot, energy-sucking
December days before Christmas.
She found her way to his room without
trouble. Clutching a huge bouquet of blue and yellow flowers, she hesitated at the door. He lay in the bed, white
as the sheets beneath him, his arm bandaged from shoulder to fingertips.
He saw her immediately and a smile, singularly happy, crossed his face. The
other six people in the room turned in one
movement to see who had garnered such a response. To say that they looked surprised was quite an understatement.
"This is
Amelia,” he said, voice strong and confident, belying his ashen
complexion. "Amelia, the ones with red hair are my
brothers, the one with dark hair is a friend and this is my mum, Colleen.”
A small stout woman stepped forwards, with
the same crystal blue eyes as Mick but hair that had faded to a rich white. "Such beautiful flowers.
You've put us all to shame. We didn't think to bring any. He's never been one for flowers really.”
"I
thought it"d cheer up his room.”
That's very
considerate,” said Colleen, with more than a hint of speculation.
Her eyes dropped to Amelia's round belly. "And a baby?”
She stepped forwards and placed a hand on Amelia's tummy. Amelia stared
into the woman's eyes and could only think that the child was her grandchild,
that it had her genes.
"I
have to go,” she said, stepping back and shoving the flowers at one
of Micks brothers.
"Mum,
stop it,” snapped Mick from the bed.
But Amelia fled. Hurrying
through the hospital corridors and out into the baking car park. Mick wasn't just some dreamy fantasy, he was real, with a
family and parents.
Mick rang twice, but both times she ignored the
phone. Terrified by the reality that this stranger, with his own life that she knew nothing about, was the
father of her child.
That night she dreamed of
the nunnery. Her dreams were vivid and stunning.
She woke early,
drained, restless and wanting to see Mick, yet uncomfortable and unsettled at
the thought. Angry at her own confusion, and uncomfortable
in her own skin, she sat in her quiet sitting room, staring
sightlessly into the garden as a board report lay ignored on the coffee table
beside her.
Eventually, still cursing
at her own indecision, she prised herself out of the armchair and forced
herself into the car. She'd never been one
to hide from confrontation. Mostly, she relished it. Mostly.
He was awake in his
hospital room, gazing out the window at the view across Sydney. Her flowers sat
in a glass vase beside his bed.
"How
are you feeling?” she asked.
He
turned and looked at her for a long moment. "Glad that you are here."
"Last
night, I dreamed again of making love to a red-haired man in the nunnery.”
He
nodded. A ghost of a smile on his lips.
I’m not . . . I’m not
. . . Not in a relationship. Since I went to Timor. There's been nobody. I'm
not married.
When they said I was pregnant I had no idea how it happened—" she looked away from him, the view blurring, awash in tears "—then I started remembering the
dream, but it didn't help. Made things even worse. I don't go around ... I don't just seduce—"
"It
was the opium, in the tea."
"Do
you remember ... us?"
He
nodded. "I couldn't forget it. Ifs why I came to find you. I needed to know
you were OK."
"Didn't
expect this, I bet," she said, running a hand over the bump. "Scary,
huh?"
''Come
here." He beckoned with his good hand. "Can I touch you?"
She understood
immediately what he wanted and grabbed his hand, pressing it to the spot where
the baby had last kicked. They waited, both watching their
joined hands. "There, did you feel?"
"Yes,
olives."
She
squeezed his hand.
She stayed at the
hospital until lunchtime when his family arrived. And then hurried away,
floating. He was just so, just so ...
wonderful and amazing. And OK so they didn't know each other, but they'd work things
out. Though she knew full well that there'd be challenges ahead, Amelia was
walking on air.
That evening she endured
her weekly dinner with her parents.
Early the next day, just after the nurses had
finished their rounds and Mick had stoically borne the torture of having his bandage changed, his commanding
officer appeared at the hospital room door, flanked by two military policemen.
Mick had been thinking
about Amelia. In fact, he thought of little else. She was perfect and wonderful
and having his child. He was going to be a
father. It was all too good to be true.
But
at the sight of Major General James Rochester his mind went blank with shock.
What
the hell was going on?
"How’ve
you been?" asked James Rochester, by way of opening comment.
Mick
didn't reply, knowing it was not expected.
"Avery.
There is no easy way to say this. There has been a charge of gross misconduct
laid against you."
"I drank the
opium tea at the nunnery without realizing what it was. I've already made a
full report," said Mick tightly.
The
Major General shook his head. "No, this is concerning the daughter of
Pierre Dubonnier. He claims you assaulted her in the Maubara nunnery."
Shock
sucked away anything Mick had been about to stay.
Amelia
had done this.
Pain,
worse than anything that had ever come from his arm, screamed through him.
James Rochester lost some of his official
air and sat abruptly. "I've known you for many years, Avery, and your conduct has always been exemplary. We
know that you arrived at that nunnery with your arm practically skinned and I personally will vouch
for your good character. However, Dubonnier is threatening to take the story to the press. That would cause
huge diplomatic problems between East Timor and Australia. The Foreign
Minister and the PM have been apprised of the situation. Therefore, these
military police will keep you company until
you are discharged, and you will then be transported to the infirmary of the military remand centre, where you can get on
with your rehab."
"So,
I'm arrested then?"
James
Rochester glanced at the military policemen and scowled, "No, not
precisely.”
Mike nodded. He got
it. Loud and clear. His career was over. One wrong step now and he'd have
twenty or so years in the military detention centre to think
about it.
With a nod, the
Major General departed quickly and the military police settled themselves outside
in the corridor.
Mick
tried to think logically and calmly. Damn that sneaky little bitch. Obviously
Daddy hadn't liked the thought of his granddaughter being fathered by some unwashed
soldier, so they'd decided to drop him into a
political storm.
He
picked up his phone to call Amelia, tell her what he thought, but then
hesitated. He'd only say something he'd regret. He thought of his
daughter, the happy family that he'd been dreaming of just half an hour
earlier, and felt sick.
Amelia
Dubonnier an army wife?
Pierre
Dubonnier's grandchild an army brat?
He
might be able to survive on his wits in some of the most challenging terrain in
the world, but clearly when it came to the world of the wealthy and the
ruthless he was nothing but a lamb to the slaughter.
There
was a commotion at the door, and he heard Amelia's voice, high-pitched and
confused.
He
squeezed his eyes tight shut and pressed back into the pillows propping him up.
It was like a rusty can opener was prising open his chest. He
flexed his bad arm and a wave of razor-blade pain washed over him,
a welcome relief.
"Go
away. Haven't you done enough?" snarled one of the military police.
There was a wretched
silence outside the door. All Mick could hear was his heart, thundering. Then
slow footsteps, fading down the corridor. He clenched his
hand into a fist, until the pain made him see stars and fresh blood soaked
through the bandage.
"Screw this."
He had to talk to her. He couldn't just lie there and let his daughter be
whisked out of his life.
He
jumped out of bed. His arm throbbed and the room spun, but he ignored both.
"Amelia," he shouted down the corridor.
A
nurse looked up, startled, and one of the military police reached out to stop
him. He ducked away from the man's grasp and took off down the corridor. The lift would be
too slow, so he crashed through the fire escape
door, hurried down the stairs, then burst out into the emergency room. An
elderly lady shrank back.
Aware
that the military police would be only seconds behind him, he hurried out into
the glare of the car park.
"Amelia,"
he bellowed. He saw her in the distance. She was climbing with difficulty into
a sporty-looking Mercedes.
One
of the military police came up behind him. "C’mon," he said.
"This is just making it all worse.”
A
black van with dark-tinted windows shot past them, its tyres squealing on the
baked tarmac. It made a beeline for Amelia.
“What
the hell?" murmured the military policeman.
Seemingly
oblivious, Amelia hurtled backwards out of the parking spot and screeched out
of the car park,
wheels spinning, into the busy traffic on the Pacific Highway. The black van
had stopped to avoid hitting her car, but
now it too accelerated, following her into the traffic.
The pavement was burning
Mick's bare feet, and the heat haze that shimmered over everything seemed to
become more intense.
"Steady.”
The military policeman grabbed for him as he swayed, but the man jarred his bad
arm. Mick wondered if he was going to throw up from the pain, and
the world blinked out.
Amelia seethed all the way back to
Mosman. The words of the military policeman revolved around her brain. Haven't you
done enough? His sneering derision crawled under her skin, making her feel
small and stupid.
She was second in
command of her father's oil company, people went out of their way to be nice to
her, and she went out of her way to be nice to them. Feeling
small and stupid did not happen very often.
She wondered what
her father had done. To say he'd been upset by the news that Mick was the
father of her
baby was something of an understatement. He'd hit the roof. He had been furious
because Amelia had finally destroyed his dreams
of marrying her off. She'd never really bought into his talk about dynasties
and marrying the right kind of man. She'd decided a long time ago she'd
marry for love and no other reason. Consequences be damned.
She
scowled into the rear-view mirror. Why the hell did that black van have to sit
so close on her bumper?
Still, it seemed
she'd underestimated her father. Pierre Dubonnier had moved swiftly against
Mick, quicker than she'd expected, even before she'd had a chance to warn him
and let him know she would fix any fallout from Daddy's latest little
temper tantrum.
She
pressed a palm to her forehead as she pulled into the gateway of the Mosman
house. The black van screeched away up the street, but she barely
noticed it. Mick would trust that she'd never do something like this
to him.
A
small doubting voice whispered that he didn't know her at all.
"Is Dad home, do you
know?" she asked Joss, who was in the midst of bathing an almighty
pissed-off and bedraggled Kissy.
"He
and your mother took the jet up to Cairns for the weekend.”
"That
bloody coward,” snapped Amelia.
Joss
snorted in humourless laughter. "That is exactly what your mother said. I
reckon they'll be back tomorrow. She's making his life hell.”
"Tell
me what you heard.”
"Your father phoned
the Chief of Army late yesterday night and told him that a certain Michael
Avery had assaulted his little girl.”
Amelia
sank down on top of a white laundry hamper. "Assault?"
"It gets worse.
He also rang the Prime Minister, and told him the story. Then threatened he'd
go to the Indonesian Prime Minister and tell him that Australian
troops taking part in Operation Astute were spying on
Indonesia from Timor, if steps weren't taken against Michael Avery. Which, of
course, could trigger one of the biggest political battles since Timorese
Independence - if not all-out war.”
The
baby kicked, hard, and Amelia felt a low uncomfortable pressure deep in her
back. "I know the Prime Minister's wife well. FH call her.”
She shook her head slowly. "He's really done it this time, hasn't he?”
Mick
woke up on a stretcher in the Emergency Department. A nurse, dark and pretty,
bending over him.
"Pain relief,"
she said. "We need to check your wound.” She waved a hypodermic
needle at him. He focused on the drip of
milky liquid hovering on the sharp tip. Then she stuck it in his arm, hard. He flinched despite himself and narrowed his eyes at
her. She had an air of contempt that gleamed through her professional
mantle, and she behaved as if touching him was possibly the most repugnant
thing she'd ever had to do.
He
closed his eyes and sighed. So news of the assault charge had got out. Well, in
a hospital, armed guards were hardly going to go unnoticed. He wanted to
reassure the nurse that it wasn't true. But aware that
it'd fall on deaf ears, that she'd already made up her mind about him, he said
nothing.
Rapist.
She thought he was capable of abusing women.
His
shattered heart cracked just a little more.
An orderly wheeled him back to his room
in a wheelchair, the military police following casually a few metres behind.
When Mick arrived in his room his mobile phone was ringing, but he let it go
through to answer
phone, only checking it when
the orderly had gone and the police were settled outside his room. Then he slipped into the bathroom
and returned the call. It was from the commander of the patrol he'd been part
of in Timor.
"I
heard about the charges,” said Brad Smith without pausing for
niceties. "The men and I will back you up totally. We saw the state you were in when we
picked you up. You weren't capable of any assault. I've just a lodged a report to that effect.”
'Thanks,"
he said, "I appreciate it."
"Look,
there's something else you might have an interest in,” said Brad
Smith.
"Oh
yes?"
"I've had
reliable intelligence from Timor that there's to be a kidnap attempt on Amelia
Dubonnier. Given that she's the one that laid the assault charges, I
thought you might like to know. It's something to do with
Pierre Dubonnier - opinion of him has taken a real downturn lately. Someone is
stirring up trouble over the oil under the Timor Sea.”
Mick
had not doubted that what he'd witnessed in the car park was untoward. He
trusted himself and his own instincts beyond anything else. But
still, confirmation of his suspicions brought with it a fresh wave of worry.
Amelia and his child were in danger. He was getting tired of not being able to
assist them.
When
he finished his conversation with Brad Smith, he called his brother Nick.
Mick walked past the two
military policemen. They barely spared him a glance, so he continued calmly to the
lift and then down to the hospital entrance where his mum waited in her car - a
small, rusty blue number that did zero to sixty in about ten
minutes, with a following wind.
As
escapes went, it lacked the dignity of a special forces extraction, but beggars
could not be choosers.
"Am I going to
have to bail out your brother?” Colleen slid him a glance and ground
the gears. It wouldn't be the first time.
Mick shook his head.
"When they realize Nick's not me they'll give him a stern talking to and
send him on his way. They won't waste their time with it."
He
hoped.
His brother had not hesitated when Mick
had asked him if he'd swap places in the hospital- to see if he could sneak away. The idea had appealed to Nick's
troublesome streak. The one that had garnered him a criminal record.
"And
she's worth it, this Amelia? She's accused you of assault. It's going to
destroy your career."
"They're going
to kidnap her, Mum, and . . ." He hesitated. "She's earning my child.
Your granddaughter.”
To her credit the
traffic light had only just turned red as she sailed through the intersection.
"Bloody hell,” muttered Colleen, nodding as though
he'd confirmed her suspicions.
Mick
left it at that. The full details of the events at the Maubara nunnery were
going to come out eventually- they'd have to if he was going to clear his name - and
Colleen could find out about it all then. God knows his brothers were going to
have a field day. It'd been bad enough when the story of his patrol finding him stoned on opium in a nunnery had done
the rounds of the Special Forces base in Perth. He'd had to put up with good-natured ribbing for
weeks.
His phone started to
ring and his heart hitched in his chest as he saw the number. It was Amelia.
Had something happened? Was he already too late to protect
her?
He
answered. "Just tell me you are OK."
"I'm
fine. It's you I'm worried about. I'm in the hospital car park. I just saw your
brother in your hospital room after I had to argue with the MPs to get
in there. What are you doing?"
She
sounded slightly exasperated.
"Don't worry
about me. Are you in your car? Lock the doors and drive straight home. Don't
stop for anything OK?"
"No,
not OK. Don't be ridiculous. What's going on?"
"I've
had some humint. There's a possibility that someone is going to attempt to
kidnap you."
"What's a 'humint'? And nobody is
going to kidnap me, that's just ridiculous." Her exasperation spilled over into outright irritation.
Mick
felt his blood begin to boil in response. How could she not take him seriously?
"'Humint'
is 'human intelligence' and if s an extremely reliable source of information in
Timor. Didn't you see that black van yesterday? It nearly hit your
car."
She hesitated for a
tiny second. "No, I don't know what you are talking about. Now get
yourself back to the hospital. I'll fix the assault charges
and the problems with the government, it'll only take me a couple of calls.
But if you go AWOL then there's nothing I can do for you."
"Don't
threaten me," he growled.
"Well,
stop being an idiot then," she snapped back.
'You
and my daughter are in danger. Just have enough sense to listen to me." He
was dangerously quiet.
"Me and my
daughter are perfectly safe, and if you don't go back to the hospital then I'm
calling your commander and telling him you're absent without
leave."
Mick drew in a slow breath. He'd been
trained to not react emotionally in any situation- and anger had never been something he'd had difficulty with.
However, even he had his limits.
It was crystal clear that
few people in Amelia's life had ever told her what to do, and that ordering her
around was only going to make her dig her
heels in. He'd wanted to think she wasn't a spoiled princess but it was becoming obvious that was exactly what she
was.
"Fine, Amelia,"
he said, "you win. I'll head back there right now. But only if you get
yourself home immediately."
She paused, thrown by
his capitulation. The silence lengthened between them, tense, uncomfortable, dripping with unspoken
words and uncertain emotions.
'You
don't really think I'm in danger?” she asked eventually.
"All
I am saying is that something's up and that you should protect the baby."
"All
right.” She sighed. "I'll have Dad look into it.”
Then
there was nothing else to be said. Silence again.
"I'll
talk to you soon, Amelia," he said.
"Oh,
OK then. Bye."
He
clicked his phone shut. "Does Nick still have that old car?” he
asked his mother.
"He's hidden the
keys so you can't use it. He said there are some things he is not willing to
sacrifice for his brother.”
Mick
snorted in amusement. "Keys have never been a problem.”
He refused lunch at his
parents' house and, armed with a cordless drill and a screwdriver, headed
outside to the
front yard to hotwire his brother's dark-green car. There was a sticky note
stuck to the steering wheel, which Mike
could read through the window: "Mick, you bastard. Put down that
screwdriver and do NOT damage anything. The keys are in my room, bottom
right-hand drawer. This car has no air conditioning. I hope you roast and die.”
An hour later Mick was parked outside
Amelia's house under a large shady tree and out of view of the mansion's surveillance cameras. It was late
afternoon, the time when the heat of the sun always seemed to intensify
as it hit the horizon. But Mick didn't mind, he'd worked under much worse
conditions. Frankly, just having a car to
sit in, rather than lying in a bug-infested swamp, was a luxury.
Amelia noticed the
dark-green car parked near the entrance of the mansion as soon as she drove
out. She was going to the Opera House for a performance of Carmen. Three
hours. She didn't know how she was going to make it from one
interval to the next with a bladder that held less than a teaspoon. Amelia had been
a patron of the opera since she was sixteen, but lately she didn't enjoy it as
much as she once had.
She
glanced back several times as she left the driveway, but the car didn't move,
and though she kept an eye out through the traffic across the Harbour Bridge
she didn't notice anyone following. The double helix car
park of the Opera House was busy and Amelia had to drive down the ramp to find
somewhere to park.
Mick's
warning had unsettled her and she could feel the hairs prickling on the back of
her neck. Though she checked behind her again and again, there was never any
good reason to be afraid. She parked her car, and then hurried to
the lifts, keenly aware of the sound of her heels echoing dully. Keenly aware
that she was alone.
The
lift arrived promptly and she stepped in, relieved. As the doors slid shut she
leaned back against one
wall and slipped off her shoes, hoping
to relieve the pain in her back for just a second. Clearly any shoe with even
the smallest heel was soon going to be a thing of the past.
Her heart flew up
into her mouth as a hand appeared through the small gap left between the lift
doors and with a click they slid open again. She shrank back
against the lift wall, hands wrapped around her belly.
"Mick,"
she gasped.
He didn't smile.
"Don't be scared. No one would be dumb enough to snatch you here. Far too
many surveillance cameras and only one exit which you have to
pay to get out of."
"Oh," she
said shakily, pressing one hand to her heart. The fright he'd given her swiftly
morphed into anger. "What the hell are you doing? Are you
following me? Why aren't you in hospital like you said?"
"I think - if I
remember correctly - you said I'd be in hospital."
She
scowled at him. "Don't be obtuse. Was that you in the green car outside my
house?"
He
nodded but didn't explain further. The lift doors slid open at the main floor
and she stalked out, trying to gather together her shattered composure.
"You
forgot your shoes." He scooped them up in a hand and followed her.
"Are you sure someone in your condition should be wearing heels
this high?"
"My
condition is none of your business," she snapped.
He
grabbed her wrist, stopping her from snatching the shoes and storming away. On
the concourse outside
the car park crowds ebbed and flowed enjoying the early evening. "Your
condition is entirely my business. I am not
letting your selfishness put my child in harm's way."
"Let
go of me immediately."
He
released her without hesitating and handed her the shoes. "Just reminding
you." Though his tone was pleasant enough, there was steel
beneath it. Goosebumps prickled along her arms and she shivered. "Are
you cold?" he asked.
Damn
him. He knew full well she wasn't cold. It was a blissful balmy evening and it
was uncomfortably warm standing at the pedestrian entrance to the car park.
"No,
I'm late. So you can—"
"I'm
not going anywhere." He folded his arms across his chest. An extremely
immovable object.
She
slipped on her shoes and walked away. Arguing with him was a waste of time.
After a minute or so, with the hair prickling on the back of her
neck, she turned to see if he'd followed. But the crowd moved around
her. He was nowhere to be seen amongst the people.
She met her usual
opera buddies for a light dinner, but was distracted throughout the meal,
scanning the crowds
passing the restaurant on the concourse, looking for Mick or alternatively
someone who might be planning to kidnap her. She tried to be chatty and
interested in the conversation, but the sideways looks of her friends told her she was doing a poor job of
it.
By
the time they'd got ten minutes into the performance, Amelia knew she wasn't
going to make it to the
interval. The baby had
started to stamp on her bladder and her lower back felt like someone was
digging a knitting
needle into it. Still, leaving the opera mid-performance was unheard of. She
glanced towards the end of the row. Eight
seats. It might as well have been eight hundred. The baby kicked hard again and
she stifled an involuntary yelp.
Several people turned to stare.
So, as Carmen came to
the end of her first aria, Amelia girded her fidgeting loins and made her move.
A hiss of disapproval followed her progress as she tripped over bags and
trod on people's feet. "I'm sorry, I'm sorn%" she muttered as
she went along.
"Madam,”
intoned an usher who hurried out into the foyer after her. '“I’m sorry but you
won't be allowed back in. I mean—"
"Oh
get a life," she snarled and stalked down the stairs and out into the
Opera House forecourt.
The
sun had set completely - though heat still radiated from the ground - and the
breeze drew her over to lean on the railing and watch the brightly
lit ferries dart to and fro as the darkness of the night overwhelmed
the vast harbour. She could hear Carmen, echoing tinnily off the Opera
House's concrete surfaces.
She
heard nothing else, no breath or footfall, when suddenly Mick materialized
beside her, as if that was where he'd been all along. He didn't
even startle her.
"This
beats a patrol in the jungle anytime," he said, gazing at the harbour. He
leaned both arms on the railing and cocked his head towards her.
"Haven't been here for years though."
"I
should be getting back inside," she said, turning away.
"I
wasn't expecting to see you until the interval. Luddite that I am, even I know
it's really bad form to leave the opera early. Unless you're the King
of Austria or something."
She'd been about to
walk coolly back inside and take her chances with the irate usher. She knew
that one snide remark from him and she'd start snapping again, though. Frankly,
she wasn't in the mood. But Mick's comment stopped her.
"You've
been waiting for me? Do you really think I'm in that much danger?"
"Or
am I using it as some lame excuse to stalk you and control your every
movement?" He grinned. Teeth white and even, a dimple flashing
in his tanned cheek.
A
slow burn uncoiled itself in the centre of her chest. Damn heartburn.
"If
the shoe fits ..." she said lightly. "Actually, that hadn't occurred
to me, but it sounds about right."
"I
would not be wasting my time if I thought the threats against you weren't
serious."
"And
you'd sacrifice your career, to look after me?"
For
a moment he said nothing. A ferry, reversing out of its berth in Circular Quay
behind them, sounded its horn three times to warn other boats,
and the echo ricocheted off the Opera House's walls.
"My
career bit the dust the moment there was an accusation of assault against
me."
"But
I would never have—"
"Not
even to get rid of the troublesome army lout from the blue-collar background?”
"How
can you even suggest that?" The moment of warmth had evaporated, leaving
growing anger.
"I
have no idea if it's the truth or not, Amelia. All I know is that you are
earning my daughter.”
"Yet
you trust me about that? How convenient.”
"Well, no. But
once the baby is born we'll have the DNA tests done to find out for sure, and
until then I'm not taking any chances.”
"You prat.”
Hot tears gathered and, terrified he'd see her cry, she walked quickly away in
the direction of the car park.
"Running
away, Amelia?” His taunt followed her.
The next morning Amelia had a board meeting at
the AustraTimo Oil headquarters in the city. She'd been up the moment the sky had begun to lighten, cursing the fact her little
house did not have a clear view of the
road outside the high walls.
Was
Mick still keeping watch out there in his car?
She
hoped if he'd spent the night there that it'd been really horribly
uncomfortable.
Despite resolving not to
look, as she drove out of the gates she glanced to see if the green car was
still there. It was not. She couldn't decide
if she was glad he'd gone or if she was just a little disappointed.
The
journey to her father's lavish company headquarters in Gold Fields House did
not take long, and she was early. Rather than head upstairs to the
meeting rooms where she'd be trapped all day, she wandered to one
of the small cafes that lined Circular Quay. The morning was beautiful and she
wanted to sit, watch the people go about their business and carefully
consider how she was going to handle her father.
He'd got back from
Noosa late the night before, but after her conversation with Mick, she was so
keyed up that any confrontation with her father would've ended with her beating
him to a pulp. Exertion like that could not be good for the
baby.
Instead
she resolved to spend the day needling him, while he'd be forced to remain
polite in front of the other board members. She smiled slightly at the thought and sipped
the peppermint tea she'd ordered. She was
going to make her father's life hell today.
She
scanned the area for any sign of Mick - it was turning into a nervous habit. No
sign. Maybe he really had taken her advice and gone back to the hospital. She'd
held off making any calls to his superiors herself. Afraid
she'd make things worse for him. But she'd make sure that her father had done
no damage to his career. The very thought of that made her
feel ill.
She finished her tea
and it was time to go to the meeting. She wandered slowly back to Gold Fields House.
A black van emerged from
a side street. She glanced nervously at it then quickened her pace slightly. Didn't you see the black van? Mick's warning came back to her. The vehicle swung
across the road directly
towards her, but then
accelerated harmlessly past. She slowed slightly, feeling like an idiot and
walked into the cool shadow of the rail bridge that crossed over the top of the
road.
The traffic lights in
front of Gold Fields House changed to red as she came to the kerb. She stopped
to wait for the pedestrian walk signal. The
black van had been stopped by the lights as well, but she didn't spare it a glance until its side door slid open.
She gasped in horror when she realized that two men, both in balaclavas, were coming at her.
One
lunged. She had a split second to shriek before he grabbed her around the neck
and clamped a piece of fabric over her mouth. She kicked and
struggled as together they manhandled her back into the van. There was no thought in
her mind except that she must not get in the van.
Suddenly
the men froze with her half in and half out of the vehicle.
Then they dropped her.
It was so unexpected that
she didn't even have time to put out a hand to break her fall. She hit her face
on the van's running board and landed heavily on her pregnant stomach. Pain
lanced through her, and she curled into a
protective ball on the pavement. Despite the agony, her only thought was that
at twenty-six weeks there would be
little chance for her daughter if she went into labour now.
"Amelia."
Mick's voice penetrated the haze. "Amelia, get away from the van. Crawl if
you must." There was something about the tone of his voice that made her
do as he asked without question.
Mick
was here. Everything would be all right now.
On her hands and
knees she crawled away from the van. Sirens wailed close by and she could hear uneasy
voices muttering. A train roared overhead, thundering into Circular Quay
station. She came to alow wall, which bordered the pavement. She
glanced up briefly at the gathering crowd, but her attention was focused
inwards. She ran her hand over her belly, the baby hadn't kicked, hadn't moved.
Was she OK? She felt winded and nauseous. The pain was intense and she leaned
forwards. A woman, an ambulance officer, appeared next to her.
"Tell
me what happened," she said, neutral and matter-of-fact.
She
focused on Mick. He was standing beside the black van, holding the two would-be
kidnappers at gunpoint.
"Just
get me to North Shore Hospital. My obstetrician is there. At North Shore
Private."
"Sure
thing, love, we'll get you there in a jiffy."
Amelia
nodded, not taking her eyes off Mick. The police had arrived and his weapon was
now nowhere to be seen. As if he felt her gaze, he looked
and their eyes met.
"Thank
you," she mouthed.
He
nodded, then with a glance around he slipped into the crowd, away from the
authorities. By the time the ambulance doors crashed shut, Amelia had already
lost sight of him.
Loneliness
descended on her. She wanted him there, in the ambulance with her. She wanted
to feel safe.
The ambulance had her
at the hospital within five minutes and she was whisked to the delivery ward where
the nurses attached her to an EGG machine. Amelia relaxed as the baby's
heartbeat, thundering away at high speed, came loud and clear
through the microphone. Though she fought to hold them back, tears
trickled down her face.
"Hey,"
said the nurse, patting her hand. "Baby is OK. But we need to do something
about your nose."
Another
nurse stuck her head in the door and interrupted. "Mick Avery is here.
Your partner?"
Amelia
nodded.
Mick
appeared behind the nurse, his eyes searching troubled.
"Listen,"
Amelia said. "That's the baby's heartbeat. She's OK."
"Thank
God,” he muttered and sank into a chair beside the bed. "Never
do that to me again.”
“I’ll
try my best," she said dryly.
"I'll leave you hooked up to the EGG
for another twenty minutes. Your obstetrician will be over to see you after that and then we'll fix the rest of you
up,” said the nurse before she left the room.
For
a moment neither of them said anything. Both too shell-shocked from the events
of the morning.
"I
reckon your nose is broken," he said.
She
raised a hand to touch it.
"I
wouldn't do that,” he said. "It'll hurt.”
She touched it anyway. It felt double its
usual size and when she squinted she could see a lot more of it than usual. She pressed gently, and pain shot
through her face, expanding quickly into a headache that had probably been there all along. "Ah,”
she gasped. "I hadn't realized.”
"No,
you were too worried about the baby.” Affection flashed in his eyes
and warmth blossomed in the centre of her chest.
"You
know my father offered to buy me a nose job when I turned eighteen?”
"I
think your nose is perfect the way it is."
She
laughed. "What, squashed?”
Mick
shook his head. "If they set it now it'll be fine."
I’m
not sure they'll do that. I mean I'm not having any operations or anything
unless it is life or death. Way too risky ..."
"..
.for the baby.” He grinned, so quickly she might have imagined it.
"I'm proud of you.”
The tears, still
close to the surface, threatened to spill over again. "I'm not proud of
myself. I'm so ashamed about what my father did to you.”
Tour
father?"
"Well,
you didn't think I accused you of assault, did you?"
The
brief silence spoke volumes.
"Did
you?” she asked again. But then, why wouldn't he?
"I
have learned not to jump to conclusions,” he said neutrally.
"We’ll talk later. I promise.”
Amelia's obstetrician
came into the room just as her mobile phone sprang into life. She checked the number,
but knew it was her father, wondering where the hell she was and demanding she
get to the meeting. Kidnap attempts and busted noses would not be
considered reasonable excuses. She hit the Off button.
Let
him sweat.
The
obstetrician gave her and the baby a thorough examination.
Mick
melted when he saw his child on the grainy screen of the ultrasound for the
first time. He reached for Amelia's hand, his grip warm and
reassuring. He didn't let go until the baby was given the all-clear.
After
a short discussion with the obstetrician about her nose and the risks of having
surgery to get it fixed, Amelia was discharged. Mick drove her
home.
When they arrived
Joss and her mother kicked up a huge fuss until Amelia snapped at them.
"Both of you, stop,” she snarled. "Mick looked
after me. The baby is fine. But I'm in pain and the only painkillers I can
take for this broken nose are these very mild ones. Please, go - cook, knit, do
whatever it is you do -and leave me the hell alone.”
Amelia's
mother turned a sympathetic smile on Mick. "She's all yours. I wish you
luck."
"Mum,”
growled Amelia.
"So
like her father," was her mother's parting shot.
"I'm
going to bed." Amelia squeezed Mick's hand.
"Good
idea."
"Will
you..."
"I’ll
be here. Don't worry. Nothing is going to hurt you. Not on my watch."
Mick inspected the fridge.
He'd been doing some research via his phone on what pregnant women could and
couldn't eat. He'd never dreamed it'd be so complicated.
There
was a tap on the front door, and Joss - whose role in the family he hadn't
really figured out -backed in slowly. She pulled a trolley in after herself, a
self-heated device that you'd find in a swish hotel when you ordered room service.
"There's
chicken soup for Amelia when she gets up. I thought something easy to eat would
be best after her fall. And I've done steak for you, with hollandaise
sauce. You do like hollandaise sauce, don't you?"
"Indeed
I do," agreed Mick. It smelled divine and he realized that the can of soda
and packet of chips, which had been the only food he could find at
stupid o'clock that morning when he'd taken a short break after
another night in the car, were now a very distant memory.
"Sit,
eat. I'd like to talk to you."
Mick
did as she suggested. "Melia and I will figure things out," he said
conversationally, but with enough
finality
to suggest that he would not be discussing his relationship with her any
further.
Joss started in. I’m
an army brat, you know? My father died in Vietnam after a long and
distinguished career.
I know, Mick, more than her parents will ever understand, how badly Amelia
needs someone like you in her life."
The steak cut like
butter and melted in his mouth. He let the silence lengthen, but it didn't seem
to bother Joss much, she waited for him to speak.
"Why
was she in Timor in the first place?” he asked to change the
subject.
Joss's whole
demeanour changed. She relaxed and grinned broadly. "Because she is just
the most amazing girl. Her mother is a great one for charity work,
and has instilled in Amelia the notion that you must give back
something to society. Of course, in her mother's terms, this is mostly organizing
and wafting about at high-profile charity events. In Amelia's terms,
however, it means rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands
dirty helping, not just writing cheques."
"So
she was doing volunteer work?"
Jocelyn nodded.
"The orphanage at Maubara is a particular interest of hers. You'll know
there was a terrible massacre there in 1999, the year Timor became
independent from Indonesia. More than 200 people killed by the militia
and, as a result, the town has a very high number of orphans."
Mick nodded. There
had been so many atrocities in that dreadful time. It was only one of many.
"I was there, in Timor, in 1999.1 know what it was like."
Joss
paused, obviously groping for some word of commiseration, but then gave up.
After all, what could she say?
"Well, Amelia
took the orphanage under her wing. Money, books, computers, good food. She does
everything
she can for the children. Two have even passed the International Baccalaureate
and now she's mentoring them through
Australian universities. Hang around a few days and you'll meet them, they come
for dinner once a week. Lovely
kids."
"I'm
not sure how welcome I'll be," said Mick.
Joss rolled her
eyes. "You didn't ask me what I meant when I said Amelia needed someone
like you, did you?"
Mick
lifted a shoulder. "I figured you'd get around to it."
"I
know something of the Special Forces. I know your calibre, Mick. You operate
under the radar. You are very good at blending into the
background. People like you are called 'grey men'."
"Or
chicken stranglers," he interrupted with a grin. He wasn't happy with the
direction of the conversation. He just did his job. What he'd been trained for. A
lot of the time the romance and mystique attached
to men in the special forces just made him feel deeply uncomfortable.
"Amelia needs a grey man. Someone who
is willing to step back, let her do her thing. She'll be running AustraTimo Oil before you know it, and doing a
damn sight better job than her father. She needs someone
to love her and support her. Her idiot
father is still trying to marry her off as some trophy wife, and have her
husband take over her role in the company.”
"And my father
couldn't bear the thought of all his plans ruined because I was having a
baby," said Amelia from the doorway.
Joss
jumped visibly. Mick didn't. He'd heard her walk down the passageway.
"There's soup,"
said Mick, pointing at the covered dish with his fork. He whistled low.
"Your bruise is going to be amazing.
How are you feeling?”
"Horrible,”
she said. "And this bandaging they've stuck all over my face is itching.”
"Well,
I think you look beautiful. I believe black is the new black, and surely that
applies to eyes.”
"How's
the baby?” asked Joss.
"Kicking.
A lot."
"That's
good to hear. I'll see you in the morning, love. Night, Mick."
Joss
slipped out of the door.
"I know that you didn't go to the
authorities and make claims of assault. I only thought it for a few minutes. Then
you turned up at the hospital, and I knew that something else was going
on."
"I
was so furious with my father. He went to Cairns to hide from me.”
Mick
nodded. "Impressive.”
"Oh,
I'm not nearly done with him yet. Trust me. I'll fix things up for you as
well."
"These
things stick, I'm afraid. The fact we are having a child that was conceived
under unusual circumstances is going to come out.”
"Do
you want to want to quit the Special Forces?”
He
hesitated long enough that she knew the answer was no. But then said,
"Shit happens, Melia. After all, I'm getting a daughter
out of the mishap.”
"Mishap?”
She smiled for the first time, then flinched and put her hands up to her
bandaged nose.
'Your
men, the men you work with, they won't believe any of this, will they?”
"They'd
know I'd never hurt an innocent civilian. It would never occur to them.”
"My father will
retract his charges and explain the whole thing was fiction to the necessary
people. His slander will not affect you any further,” she
said sincerely. Phillip Dubonnier would lose a daughter - and a grandchild - if he refused.
"Here, eat.
You'll feel better.” Mick stood, put his empty plate in the sink and
took the chicken soup to her. "My arm was very badly damaged in
Timor. There's been a real improvement but, after the first operation,
I accepted that my days of active service were basically over.”
She
frowned, "Let's talk to some surgeons before you quit your career so
quickly, no?”
He
looked at his arm. "Maybe you're right. I mean, I don't really feel like
I'm finished yet. There's so much more I'd like to achieve in the
field before I hang up my boots.”
"That's
settled then. How is your arm? Does it hurt?"
He shook his head.
"Nah." But then he hesitated. "Joss was right. I am a grey man.
I slip under the radar. I'm trained to go unnoticed. I don't admit
to being in pain, emotional or physical. In my world you need to overcome
these things very quickly and then deal with them when the crisis is over.”
“You
can be honest with me. I think we will have to be. If we ... If something
..."
"Well.
I'll show you mine if you show me yours.” He grinned and she smiled
gingerly back.
"We've already
seen everything," she said, and then clutched her bandaged nose as she
tried to laugh without moving any facial muscles.
Mick
threw his head back and laughed. "Yes, but we were both stoned. It doesn't
count."
"I
thought you were too good to be true, until you turned up and were real.”
"I couldn't forget
you. You haunted me. Horrible operations, hours in hospitals watching daytime
TV, you were never far from my thoughts.”
"So
does it hurt?” she asked again.
He grimaced, "like
you would not believe. And I've spent two nights in my brother's wretched car,
and I'm exhausted, and still terrified that
something could've happened to you.”
"You
mean the baby?”
"I mean you.
Mother of the baby. And that is more than I have admitted to anyone about
anything in years. Now, if you would be so kind as to show me where
I can sleep. Fm shattered.”
"Oh,
my car is in the garage—”
"Don't
mess with me. I already figured out where your room is. Care for company?"
"I
snore," she said quickly. "C'mon. I'll show you the guest room.”
It
was a balmy day in Maubara.
The orphanage
children tried to keep quiet, but couldn't help giggling and whispering about
the three helicopters
parked in their playground and all the well-dressed people who looked like
movie stars. They quietened though when
they saw their beloved Amelia, dressed in a white dress and looking even more
like a princess than usual.
The
older girls sighed, envious of tall handsome Mick, in his army uniform, waiting
for her with Clara. Balanced on Amelia's hip was her grinning red-haired baby,
Maggie. She reached for her daddy, gurgling and chattering as she was handed
over.
Clara Eisenberg read out the solemn words
of the ceremony. The children understood them all - they'd been getting ready for this day for weeks and
weeks.
After
the blissfully happy bride kissed the groom, everyone cheered, and the music
started. But the bride and groom barely noticed. They only had eyes for each
other.
Good Guys
Liz Muir
"I like watching you
fight." Jimmy flashed a grin at Summer as she wiped the blood from her cut
lip. "You're doing quite well today.” He handed her some ice
for her eye.
Summer
shook her head at her friend. "You do know that you're a freak,
right?"
"And that's why you
love me. Now, get back out there and punch him hard in the ribs. You've hurt
him real good the last round so he's
protecting them a bit. Just hammer in there and he'll go down in the next round or so."
"What next
round or so?" Summer pulled her shoulders back. "I'm finishing it
now. I’ve got to get home in time to do some research for our new
gig."
Her opponent, Mike Hill, was maybe
twenty-five, perhaps a year older and quite keen to make a good show for his
friends who were all outside the ring, cheering him on loudly. To be paired
with a girl, in his first fight at his new
gym, was embarrassing. You could read the anger and annoyance in every line of
his body.
Summer waited for the bell before she
closed in on her opponent. He was the new guy, from one of the local
constabularies, and clearly fancied himself a bit of a brawler, having taken a
few lessons here and there, along with a bit of martial arts training at
whichever academies would let him in. He had no real technique but he was fit and
he easily outweighed her by around thirty pounds if not more. Summer didn't see the extra weight and superior size as a
problem. She was faster than most guys in the ring and had a good eye for placing her shots where they
mattered.
"Come on,
little girl, show me how you pretend to fight." Mike bared his yellowed
teeth at her in a leer. "And afterwards, I might even take you out for a drink first
before I really knock the life out of you. And when I'm done, I'll let my mates have you."
Summer paused for a
second. "I wouldn't even pee on you if you were on fire, Hill. Now shut up
and fight."
Mike
lunged at her, fist flying high and loose over her head as she ducked below it
easily. Taking advantage of his wide-open side, she landed a
quick jab and spun out of the way, keeping her guard up.
His friends were
shrill in their derision and a flush of anger spread across his face. Mike
threw a jab with his left hand, which Summer dodged, letting
it fly past her head to the left. At the same time she brought her right hand
up and slammed it into the side of his jaw and neck. As he stumbled back,
Summer rolled her hips, drew her right hand back and swivelled. She
drove her left foot into Mike's face so hard she threw him back several feet.
Stunned, he landed hard,
off balance, and rolled to his knees. He looked at her in shock and rage while his friends crowed their disgust in the
background. Leaping to his feet he launched himself at her.
Summer dodged out of the way, spinning to
come up behind him. Planting both hands in the middle of his back, she shoved him hard, into the ropes. He
tangled there for a moment, cursing loudly and promising that he was going to kill her.
For a few moments,
Summer believed he meant it. She glanced outside the ring and saw that Jimmy's uncle, Vince, was
watching the fight from his office. He had a smirk on his face as he waved to
her. She acknowledged it with a slight nod.
Mike stood again,
then came at her more slowly, trying to keep his hands up and use his size and
reach, only now getting cautious after the battering his ego had
taken. He threw punch after punch. Summer dodged or blocked them, giving ground easily and
drawing him into the middle of the ring. He started to sound like a broken Darth Vader mask.
Incredibly,
Summer still felt fast and strong. Her breathing was regular, her mind calm.
The extra energy that ran through her body as she danced
around him came from her anger at being talked down to by this idiot. She hated trash
talking. If opponents did not take each other seriously, then there wouldn't be
much of a fight.
"Stand
still, you stupid little bitch, so I can hit you." Mike grunted through
his teeth as he came at her with another flurry of blows and
half-hearted kicks. Summer stood her ground, moving her arms just enough to block
everything he threw at her. Then, when he was gasping like a bellows, tired and
worried, she struck back.
Her right fist flew forwards,
firm and hard, sliding through his defence like a hot knife through butter. It
connected, and blood gushed from his nose.
She lifted her knee
into his stomach hard enough to raise him from the mat. Before he could fall,
she swept her leg out and knocked his feet from under him.
He hit the mat with a thud.
A
smattering of applause came from the regulars and other onlookers.
'You're out of here,”
said Summer in a low, angry voice. "Next time, show your sparring partner
a little respect. Idiot.”
The moment Summer pushed
the front door open she knew that someone was in the house.
Used to being on her
own, she could sense the disruption in the flow of the air in her private
space. That and
the fact that the kitchen light was on, while the rest of the house was in darkness.
She could smell the scent of strong coffee
in the air. She left the door slightly ajar behind her and reached for the 2 lb
6 z Gunn & Moore Catalyst cricket
bat she kept handy by the door. Its grip felt comforting in her hand.
She
easily navigated the few bits of furniture in her lounge and soft-steppedher
way to the door leading to the kitchen.
He was sitting at her
breakfast nook, flicking through the most recent copy of National
Geographic, looking for the entire world
like he belonged there. A stack of various other magazines she subscribed to
sat at his elbow. He wore a pair of
dark jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged the shape of his upper body. An informal jacket was slung over the back of the
chair. Nothing in the way it hung indicated that it held weapons.
"Can I help
you?" she asked, keeping her voice low and steady, stepping into the
kitchen, making sure that she had enough
space to swing the bat.
He
stood and although he was not that much taller than her, he had presence. Thick
black hair curled to his neck and contrasted wildly with the white of his teeth
as he smiled. His hazel eyes shot to the bat in her hand, then to her face.
"A
cricket bat?" His voice was rich and deep and it held laughter. "I've
been threatened with many things before, but not a cricket bat."
"Glad
I could be your first.” She lifted her chin, not appreciating the
way his eyes took in her too short T-shirt and jeans. "As
I said before, can I help you?"
"Would you like
to take a seat?" He gestured to the high stool opposite his. "I’ll
pour you some coffee and we can talk."
"Talk
first, coffee later," she intoned, letting her boredom show in her voice.
She adjusted her hold on the cane grip. "Who are you and who sent
you?"
"My
name is Kevin Hunter. I've been sent to find you because you have a set of
particular skills that Her Majesty's Government would very much like to make
use of."
The business card he
slipped towards her across the tabletop looked impressive. She glanced at it
but didn't touch it. It appeared real but all it really
proved was that he had good stationers. She had a variety of business cards of
her own.
"What
do I get out of it?"
"Not
to go to jail."
Summer pursed her
lips, taking in the planes of his face, those amazing eyes and shoulders. He
was careful to stay quiet as she considered the situation.
His eyes trailed to the bat she held ready. He could tell she
knew how to use it and would no doubt be very good at doing damage to him. He
shifted slightly, making sure his hands stayed in view.
Summer stared at him,
past him, considering her options. Eventually she walked to the far side of the
breakfast
nook and poured herself a coffee from the percolator. It smelled heavenly.
Kevin had taken his seat and was staring at
her with an expression that was a mix of amusement and consideration. His gaze lingered on her cut lip and bruised eye.
"So,
tell me more," she prompted after taking a sip and putting the cup aside.
'You're
interested?” he asked, sounding surprised.
Summer
bit back nervous laughter. The cool front she was putting up made it appear as
if she encountered spooks offering her life-altering deals every
day. She was glad he couldn't see her shaking. The dimmed
recessed lights weren't good enough to show that.
"Not
yet. But I really like not going to jail,” she answered glibly.
"So, tell me a story."
He
sipped from his own cup and for a moment she had to bite her tongue. Her dainty
flowered coffee cup looked ridiculous in his strong hands.
"Where shall I start?”
She
was leaning against the sink, the bat by her side. She liked looking at him.
This stranger in her house appealed to her. She had to be out of her mind.
Afraid, and out of her mind.
"An auction is coming up and we'd
like you to attend and bid on our behalf, if you are satisfied that the goods are real.”
"That's
it?” she asked, her expression incredulous. "Somehow I don't
think that's the whole story, Kevin Hunter from Her Majesty's Government.”
"The auction is very real. And, to be
fair, some of the items on sale would make lovely additions to the British Museum's collection. That is why you will
be going along. We need you to determine if the items we will be buying are bona fide.”
"And
then?”
"Then,
once you're certain the items are genuine, we will bid on them."
"Can
you tell me the type of collection we'll be looking at?"
'I’m not at liberty
to say at this time.” He hesitated, an impatient frown between his
eyebrows. "Egyptian, Roman, maybe some Greek.”
A
whirlwind of emotions tore through Summer. "Where will the auction take
place?”
"I'm
not at liberty to say at this time.”
"So let me get
this straight: you want me to go somewhere foreign and no doubt dangerous, to
bid on something I don't know anything about. It sounds risky
and probably life threatening. Why on earth would you
think I would say yes?”
"Because
we'll throw away your file and give you five-million quid as a nice little nest
egg.”
That
took her by surprise. She had always suspected that the British government had
a file on her but she tried very hard not to be too optimistic or arrogant about
these things. She strived to remain under the radar
and keep her nose clean, but it was so difficult these days with electronic
surveillance and
international agencies sharing
information. She had clearly slipped up somewhere. She would have to have a
talk with Jimmy.
The
fact that they had a file on her, and that they were prepared to delete it,
spoke volumes. Whatever they were up to was dodgy, and for them to
contact her for help reeked of desperation. A job run by MI5 -or
the Spook Squad, as they were commonly referred to in familiar terms - meant
that there was more at stake than just an object or two. And no one ever accused them of
being an altruistic bunch: she doubted that
the British Museum was high on their list of charitable organizations. What
were they up to? Belatedly, she
registered the amount of money she was being offered. It was a nice little
figure, one that if handled correctly
could keep her nicely for a good couple of years. But then, her tiny cautionary
voice said, what's to stop them from taking her out after the deal was
done? It was a package deal, with no one the wiser if she quietly disappeared off the grid never to
resurface again. It was a challenge with insane odds she was wary of, but the thrill of the chase was on.
"Just
like that? No strings attached?” she stalled, already knowing that
would agree.
"Well,
you could get shot at and maybe abducted ..."
Summer shrugged.
"Been there, done that. What's the real catch?"
'You
and I will be posing as a married couple on honeymoon. You are keen to buy some
antiques for investment
purposes and, as I'm terrifically wealthy and love you dearly, we hunt out
unique auctions and spend stupid amounts of
money on old junk.”
Summer snorted, a distinctly unladylike
sound. "I always work alone. Or at least with back-up from a remote location.”
"Not
this time around. You play by my rules.”
"That
will cost you more.”
His
smile widened and his lingering gaze brought heat to her cheeks.
"A
million more," she stated, firmly, testing the waters.
"Get
me your bank account details and we'll transfer the first half. You get the
rest on completion."
Summer followed the perky air hostess on
to the runway where the jet sat. She was shown to the seating area
and found Kevin already ensconced in a large comfortable leather seat. He had
several folders open in front of him and looked up when he heard her enter.
He looked gorgeous,
dressed casually in fitted jeans and a crisp white shirt. She stared at the
tanned V of skin his shirt exposed and had utterly impure thoughts of
unbuttoning that shirt to see if the rest of him was as tanned. And
toned and kissable.
"Hey
there. You're early." He stood up and put a hand on her arm, leaning
forwards to brush a kiss across her cheek. His lips seared her skin with heat and she bit
her lip at the frisson of electricity shooting through her. "Grab a seat. I'm just checking some paperwork. I'll
be with you in a few moments."
Too stunned by his kiss
even to respond with a quick jibe, Summer sank into the chair beside him. The air hostess appeared again, a wide smile on her
face.
"Would
you care for some champagne, Mrs Hunter?”
Summer declined with a
quick movement of her head and watched the air hostess stroll off to speak to the pilot and co-pilot.
"Here we go, some papers for you to
look at." Kevin handed Summer a blue folder. "The details of the auction are in there, along with our background
story. And before I forget." He reached into his jacket hanging from a hook beside him. "A further
formality." He held out a black velvet box. "For you. I hope you like it."
"Thanks."
Summer took the small box from him, utterly unprepared for the set of rings it
held.
"Here, let
me." He slid the classic solitaire on to her finger, following it with a
plain platinum band. "What do you think, Mrs Hunter? Did I
choose well?"
"These are from
the De Beers classic collection? Very nice." She smiled at him, sliding
her hand from his, ultra-aware of how close he was to her. He
smelled of expensive cologne and she inhaled deeply. She turned
her face so that their lips almost met. "Do I have to give them
back?"
"Government
property, just like me."
Neither of them moved away. She kept her
eyes on his mouth for the longest time before looking up at him. "Shame," she breathed. "They
are very pretty government property7."
His hazel eyes widened in
surprise when he realized that she was flirting right back. He moved away slightly, with a reluctant sigh and a smile.
Summer
sat back in the chair and flicked her hair behind her ear. "So what
exactly aren't you telling me?"
Those
hazel eyes snapped towards her in surprise. He quirked an eyebrow.
I’m
not stupid, Kevin. I know there's more to this whole trip. I think maybe you're
tracking some criminals, maybe even some terrorists and the easiest way
to get in is to pretend to be something you're not. How many people are waiting
for us in Egypt? What's your back-up plan?"
The silence in the
plane was deafening. The air hostess came striding towards them, a professional
smile on her pleasant features but one look at Kevin's stony face and she
veered off towards the back of the plane, where she took her seat and
buckled herself in. The plane started taxiing along and Summer strapped herself
into her seat. She kept her features blank and smiled widely at Kevin.
"Cat
got your tongue?" she murmured, flicking open the file and shooting him a
sly look.
"I am wondering
how you gained access to our system?" he said, dangerously soft. "I
do not appreciate being spied upon."
"And
I don't like being threatened."
He
swivelled her chair around so they were face to face. The air vibrated around
them with intense energy. Summer felt her nipples stiffen in
response to his proximity. She curled her hands around her armrests.
"I'm
not afraid of you," she rasped out. "Don't think you can intimidate
me."
"You
realize you may have compromised the mission.”
"What
mission?” she shot back, irritated. "You seriously can't tell
me that you think there won't be agents from other countries there doing the
same thing as us? What makes you think our little ruse will work?”
"Because,"
he ground out, wrapping his hand around her wrist and pulling her closer,
"we've got you. You're our trump card. You are a very talented lady, one who
knows her Early Kingdom from her New Kingdom.
And a variety of other weird archaeological stuff. You are also a good fighter
and a thief. A very dangerous
combination: talented, intelligent and dangerous.” His hand cupped
the back of her head, his long fingers tangling in her short hair. "Also,
you are pretty. No one, especially not the men we will be dealing with, will suspect you of anything wicked.
And it won't be hard to pretend to like you.”
His
lips pressed against hers, searing them with his heat. Summer made an
involuntary moaning noise at the back of her throat and leaned in
for a deeper kiss, straining against her seat belt. Her lips parted, inviting
him in, but suddenly the force of their take-off was pushing her back into the
plush softness of her own seat.
She
found him staring at her. His eyes burned like coals.
"You
will not jeopardize this mission.” It wasn't a warning; it was a
statement.
"I will help you as
much as I can," she conceded, closing her eyes and concentrating on her
breathing. "And I get to keep whatever
we buy—” she opened
one eye to see if he'd go for that "—because collecting art is definitely not what this mission of yours
is about.”
She wanted more than
anything to contact Jimmy to let him know to hide the money, as much of it as
he possibly could. She had very bad feelings about this
whole thing. Most of which concerned the welfare of her
heart.
The plane eventually
levelled out and the air hostess appeared, offering drinks. Summer ordered a spritzer. She unbuckled
herself, took her glass and the folder and strolled to a comfortable-looking
couch, opposite Kevin. There was a small
table between them so she could limit their physical contact. Her wrist ached
where he had grabbed her and she looked down to notice red marks there. She
rested the bottom of her cold glass on them for a few moments. It relieved the
burning sensation. It did nothing for her aching lips, however. She touched her tongue to the healing cut at the corner of
her lip, courtesy of the boxing match,
and winced slightly.
"I
want you to be up to speed with everything in that folder before we land. Make
sure you study it well."
Summer
couldn't resist. She pulled a face at him. "I've been doing this for a
long time. I won't be a liability."
The
silence between them stretched. Summer bent her head over the paperwork in the
folder. It would
appearthataselectionof items that would give
museums the world over palpitations were up for sale to the discerning buyer.
She flicked backwards and forwards through some pages. It was maybe an hour
before she spoke.
"These are gorgeous. Really good
quality." The words were out before she could help herself. "See?
These anklets are of incredibly high workmanship. The winged scarab here is
holding the solar disc aloft and beneath is
this hieroglyph, the start of the mummy's name. It looks like Aakheperre. It's
at least twenty-first dynasty." She tapped the next picture of a
solid gold collar in the form of a vulture. "No one knows who this one belonged to. The pharaoh's name
was erased so scholars have no clue whose this is. Some say it may very well belong to the heretic
king Akhenaton.”
She
smiled at him, unguarded, her earlier tension dissipated.
"Can I ask you a personal question?”
When she nodded, he continued. "Why do you do what you do? You obviously have a talent and affinity for
historical fact and data. Why aren't you a lecturer or a historian or even an archaeologist?”
Summer pretended to
fall asleep and sat up again. "Sorry, what?" She shook her head.
"No, I've genuinely tried, believe me. I spent seven
years of my young life studying all kinds of things and then discovered
that deskwork is not quite my forte. I did it for one summer, helping out at a
university in Italy on my father's insistence. I almost died of
boredom. It was the first museum I stole from.”
The news was nothing
new to him but he clearly appreciated her honesty and nodded his head. "I understand
what you mean. You’ve become addicted to the thrill."
'Yes!" Her smile
was wide. "There is nothing on earth like it. The planning and execution
of a well thought out raid. I love it. It makes me feel..."
"Alive.”
"Yes,
alive. If s the best feeling in the world,"
"Better
than sex?” he quipped.
"Definitely,”
she shot back, laughing.
'You
are clearly not doing it properly then."
The light banter was
in complete contrast to their earlier conflict. She liked it. She liked his
smile but she loved
his kisses. The random thought made her sit upright and she shifted
uncomfortably.
"Are you hungry?
We have a fully stocked kitchen." He gestured to the air hostess who
obediently popped over. "What would you like?”
"A coffee and a
sandwich?” she ventured hopefully. "I didn't have a chance for
breakfast before your driver called at my
house.”
"A
selection of sandwiches and a pot of coffee, please. Thank you, Lois."
Summer
watched her go. "Is she an agent?”
"No,
she came with the plane.” His eyes roved over her face, came to rest
on her lips for a few seconds, dipped down, taking in the plunging neckline of her crisp
blue shirt, hiding yet revealing the swell of her breasts. "Do you have any questions about the assignment?”
"Just
an observation, really. It's too easy. Did you ever think you were being
set-up?"
"Not
particularly, no. There is no reason for the targets to expect that we know
anything.”
"Kevin."
Summer drew a breath. "I hate to break it to you but these types of guy
are born paranoid. They would have checked both of us out the moment your agency put our
names down as interested parties for the
auction.”
"All they would have
found if they bothered to investigate is photos of our wedding, pictures of us
on holiday in the Alps and one or two
social snaps in the media.”
Summer was impressed.
"Well now, that's interesting. And it's taken a certain amount of
forethought. How did you know I'd agree to the scam?"
"We
didn't. It was a huge risk. We had no one else lined up to help."
"Am
I allowed to see the pictures?”
"Yes,
here they are.” He spun the small laptop around so that she could
scroll through the photos herself. Someone had done an amazing
job in Photoshop. Looking at the pictures she could almost believe that they
were real.
"I'm impressed.
I like this one. This is the wedding reception, right? I love the tiara I'm
wearing. Nicely cut diamonds too.” She spun the
computer back to him. "Someone at your agency had fun doing this.”
"I
know, I had to drag him away from it. I think he maybe has 300 photos of you
and I doing a variety of social events.”
"That
is enthusiasm.”
Lois carried over the
tray of sandwiches and coffee. She smiled at them both as they hastily pushed
the laptop and papers out of her way. She left them to their food and quietly
slipped away to go and feed the pilots.
"Do
you know any of the people in your folder?” Kevin asked as he popped
one of the sandwich triangles into his mouth.
"I
recognize the names. Some of them are very well known in my ... uh, field ...
as buyers. I haven't met any of them. I made sure never to be seen. I
had my guy take care of all the face-to-face stuff. Till now.” She flipped
through a series of photos. "There are some very wealthy people in here.
Are you sure this auction is legitimate?”
"As legitimate as it can be.
Documents of provenance are available to view as a matter of course. The authenticity of the items for sale has been
verified by a variety of professionals.”
"Hmm.”
"Was
it your guy who hacked into our computer and found out that the auction is in
Egypt?"
Summer
shrugged, sipping her coffee. "Maybe. It's just a detail now."
Cairo was hot. They were escorted off the plane,
their passports hastily stamped by the customs officials before they were whisked away into a black SUV.
Summer raised an eyebrow at the matching sets of Italian luggage in the back of the car. Kevin brushed his
lips over her temple when he saw her querying look.
"I
have to make sure my bride is fittingly attired.” His palm skimmed
her arm. "I've got a good eye when it comes to dressing my
woman.”
"If
I like anything, it stays mine,” Summer warned, only half jokingly,
suppressing a shiver as his hand reached for hers. She
watched him curl her fingers around his and kiss her wrist then her palm.
"Whatever
you want, Mrs Hunter. You only have to ask,"
Her lips quirked into
a smile. She caught the gaze of the driver in the rear-view mirror. They were considering
and intelligent and very interested. She lowered her own gaze and turned
towards Kevin.
"In
that case, can we hurry to the hotel so I can try on all my new clothes for
you?” she murmured, having no problem making her voice
husky.
A huff of laughter
exploded from Kevin. He spoke to the driver through the intercom and the car
picked up speed as it wove through the already insane Cairo
traffic.
Kevin drew her to his
side and draped an arm around her, the fingers of his hand doing lazy circles
on her hypersensitive flesh. "I can't
think when you do that,” she confessed, squirming against his side. "Please stop.”
"I don't need
you to think right now. Just act like you love me," he murmured against
her hair. "It will make everything far easier.”
Summer let out a
breath she didn't realize she had been holding. She sank against him, loving
the feel of him
against her.
"This
is dangerous, you know."
"I
know." In response he pulled her even closer, nestling her fully against
the line of his body. "But Hike it.”
The driver's gaze
flickered to them throughout the journey to the hotel. They crossed the Nile,
passed a variety of checkpoints and eventually pulled up outside of the most
amazing hotel Summer had ever seen. It
looked like a palace.
She
gasped, laughing in delight. "It's gorgeous!”
"Nothing but the
best for my bride! I've arranged for us to have one of the presidential suites.
The auction is tomorrow and I want to make sure you get a
good night's rest.”
The
concierge smiled widely when he saw them. The way he reacted to Kevin it was
clear that they had known one another for a long time.
"Mr Hunter! So
good to see you again. And this time you've brought your beautiful wife.”
He was an attractive gentleman in his late fifties, immaculately
dressed, with ink-black hair and smiling eyes.
"Welcome
to our hotel, Mrs Hunter. We hope you will like it here."
"Thank
you!" Summer leaned against Kevin. I’m sure I will."
"Your
suite is ready, Mr Hunter. Well arrange for your luggage to be brought
upstairs. Please let me know if you need anything else."
"Thank you, Hussam. I’ll speak with
you later. We may need a car tomorrow.” Kevin put his hand out and Summer almost didn't spot the exchange of
folded notes between the two men, it was done so subtly.
Tucking his arm
around her, as if afraid she might disappear, Kevin steered them to the lifts.
The hotel's opulence left her speechless. She tried not staring but the amount
of marble and gilt surrounding her could easily have fed a small
African country for years.
They stepped into the
mirrored lift, which whisked them up to the top floor of the hotel at
breathtaking speed. He linked hands with her
as they stepped out of the elevator. "We've not swept the room for bugs,
so play along for a moment," he murmured to her, leading her to one of
only two suites on the whole floor.
"I think we've got a
view of the Nile." Kevin unlocked the doors and ushered her into the
suite's foyer. He held up his hand and from his pocket he brought out a small
electronic device. Summer watched as he went
around the suite, sweeping for listening devices and cameras.
"We're
clear." He pocketed the device; it looked no larger than a PDA.
Summer
entered the main room of the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the
Nile and downtown Cairo.
"If s stunning.
You sure know how to spoil a girl." Summer turned, taking in the lounge
and kitchen. "This place is bigger than my entire house!"
"Just enjoy it.
Come here." He loosely grabbed her by the waist, making it clear she could
easily withdraw from his grip. When she willingly moved towards him he bent his
head over hers. "Can I just say, for the record, that you have the most
sinfully wicked mouth I have ever seen on a woman? I wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you."
"Oh."
Summer reflectively licked her lips. "Well, that's a new one for me."
He
nuzzled her neck, planting tiny feathery kisses up towards her jaw, working his
way to her mouth. He bit her lip gently, keeping his eyes open,
staring into hers. Slowly, so slowly it felt like a millennium passed, his lips lowered to hers
and he kissed her gently, slowly deepening the kiss. Summer, totally engrossed
in this intimate act, swayed closer to him, draping one hand around his neck,
resting the other lightly on his hip. She
could feel his heart thundering against her and shifted her hips so that she
was pressed tightly against him.
Kevin's hands spanned her waist and she became hyper-aware of his fingers
skimming the bottom of her breasts.
She moaned softly, pressing closer, trapping his hands between them.
A
discreet knock on the door had them separating quickly, if only for a few
centimetres. Summer swayed dizzily, trying to focus on her surroundings.
Eventually she gave up and sat down on the nearest couch, her legs refusing to
hold her up any longer. Her heart was racing and she felt high.
A
young bellboy rolled in a trolley stacked with their luggage. His gaze swept over
Summer, taking in her slightly dishevelled state, Kevin busying
himself in the small kitchen, pouring two glasses of chilled water from
the fridge. Summer wasn't entirely sure how Kevin got across the room as fast
as he did.
"You can leave the luggage in the
bedroom,” he told the bellboy and walked back to the couch to give Summer her glass of water.
She
accepted it gratefully and gulped it down. He settled next to her, looking at
ease and relaxed. Only the light flush across his cheekbones indicated that
anything was amiss.
The
bellboy exited without a word, ducking his head in thanks as he noticed the
American twenty-dollar bill on the small table by the door.
"Why don't we
unpack? I want to show you around the hotel and then we can go meet some of my
old friends who live in the city?" He stood and stretched. "The
auction and party is tomorrow and we may as well
enjoy ourselves till then.”
Summer
nodded, relieved that her heart rate was slowing down. She followed him across
the living area to the main bedroom. The room was the size
of a rugby field. The bed in the middle of the room managed to dominate
its surroundings. It stood on a raised dais and, even if it had been illuminated
by a spotlight, it couldn't have been any less obvious.
"That
is a big bed,” she managed. "Do they expect their guests to
entertain harems in here?"
His
lips quirked. "It's been known to happen. This used to be a palace. Its
conversion to a hotel is only its latest incarnation.”
He
swung the bags on to the bed.
"There
is a smaller room, connected through there, which is yours. But I thought,
since we were married—”
his smile was lazy "—we could share this one.”
Summer nodded, not
trusting herself to speak. She unzipped her suitcase and started lifting out
designer clothing, all in her size: blouses, shirts, trousers,
jackets, dresses, skirts, shorts, T-shirts and lacy camisoles.
"You weren't
kidding,” she said to Kevin. "You do like your women well
dressed. I like my new wardrobe!”
"Woman. Singular, woman," he
corrected her, turning away from hanging up a dark suit in the walk-in closet. "Do you like them?”
"Yes,
of course I do.” And she did. She recognized the majority of the
labels because she had seen them in the wardrobes of the rich women she robbed.
"Although I am not entirely sure when you expect me to wear this.” She swung a skimpy negligee
out to show him. "This is going just a bit too far, isn't it?”
Kevin shrugged, a
wide smile on his face. "Oh, I don't know. I think we should be prepared
for any eventuality."
"What?
Posing for Playboy?" she quipped back, stifling hysterical
laughter.
His
shrug was melodramatic. She chuckled to herself, relieved that she could still
see the humorous side
to
the situation.
"Aren't
there people who usually hang up your clothing for you in places like
this?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes, but I
don't like other people touching my things.” Kevin lifted the last
suit from his suitcase. "I'm extremely possessive.”
Humming to herself,
Summer tidied her clothes away, and then stowed her suitcase in a compartment inside the wardrobe.
"The other
reason why I choose to unpack my own luggage is because of this." Kevin
closed the lid of his suitcase, ran his fingers over the combination
lock on the front, found the right sequence and popped it open
again.
Summer leaned in to
look and shook her head. "Are you crazy? Have you ever seen the inside of
an Egyptian prison?”
Strapped to the lid
of the suitcase was a variety of fighting and throwing knives. The bottom half
of the case was taken up by two matt-black Heckler & Koch
USP handguns. Summer ran her fingertips over them and
whistled softly.
"Very pretty.
But I prefer the blades.” Whippet fast, she flicked two of the
knives from their sheaths and spun them in her hands, going into a defensive
crouch. The metal blinked dully in the light coming through the
windows. "Very nice. These are Dark Ops knives, aren't they? Fantastically
balanced.” As she spoke she spun and flung both knives.
They thudded into the wall, one on either side of a dramatic painting of windswept
desert sands.
"Remind me not to
venture into the kitchen with you," Kevin said dryly, walking over to the
wall and levering the knives out of the
plaster. "Here, if you can hide these on your body, by all means, have
them.”
Her
smile was wide. Summer ignored the fact that he looked shocked that she
appeared happier with the gift of the knives than she did when he
gave her the rings on the plane.
"Well, what next?”
she asked, sliding the knives into the two sheaths she had modified to fit
inside the boots she wore, hiding them under her jeans.
"Next,
we go talk to a man about some new phones.”
The Scarab was
a privately-owned leisure cruiser moored just off the Corniche el Nil. The
Mercedes had no trouble parking and a liveried attendant
hastened to open the doors for Summer and Kevin. Dressed in a classic
black Chanel trouser suit and Manolo pumps, Summer felt decidedly underdressed
as she spied the lavish clothing of some of the other female
guests. Kevin wore a fitted dinner suit, sans tie, and looked every inch the rich
playboy. He kept hold of her hand as their names were ticked off the guest
list. A man handed them the seating plan for the auction and waved them aboard.
"Something's
not right.” Summer's smile was bright and vibrant as she brought a
champagne flute to her lips. "I feel itchy.”
"Maybe
it's the thought of all those valuable treasures below," he teased.
"Do
you think we can go and view them?"
"I
don't see why not. We are here legitimately after all."
They made their way
down the stairs, following the discreet signs to the auction room. Two burly Egyptians
stood guard outside. Kevin flashed their invitations and the guards used
hand-held metal detectors to search them for concealed
weapons. When they found none, the two men stepped aside to allow
them entry.
The
room was lavishly decorated in cream and gold. A small podium with a microphone
was set up at the front of the room. Thirty seats were arranged
in neat rows before the podium. One of the attendants noticed them and hurried over.
"Mr
Hunter, it is such a pleasure to see you. I expect you and your lovely wife
would be keen to see what we have on offer?" He gestured.
"Please, come this way." He handed them a catalogue of items on
display. "Let me know if there is anything here that you would like to put
a pre-emptive bid on."
Summer kept the smile
on her face as they followed the man through to a smaller room. A variety of boxes
and glass cases were arranged around the room. She wondered how they got some
of the larger objects in here. The statues from the Middle and Far
East had a variety of interested guests examining and discussing
them in various languages. She could hear German, French, Italian and Russian
and she recognized three of the men in the room. One of them she
had even recently robbed. It brought a grin to her face.
"I really think this
would look good in the foyer," Kevin was saying, nodding his head at an
Egyptian bronze figure of Osiris from the
Late Period, so ugly it made her eyes water.
"No, sweetie,
this is how it works. I choose what I want for the house, you pay." Her
patient admonishment
brought laughter from some of the other people in the room.
Kevin wore a resigned and
much-put-upon face. "You're the expert." And then proceeded to follow
her around, taking great delight in pointing
out the ugliest objects there and recommending them for installation in the blue guest room, the main
lounge, second foyer and, once, even the kitchen of their imaginary house. By her estimation their house
must have been the size of Versailles.
Summer felt like
strangling him. Until, that is, she walked up to a small display case holding a
single Sumerian clay tablet covered in cuneiform, the world's
first written language. Everything around her faded away
and she focused her attention on the tablet. Her heart thumped in her chest and
her palms became sweaty. She knew the history of cuneiform
better than she knew her own name. She looked past the fact that
at least fifteen different peoples including Sumerian, Babylonian and Assyrian used
cuneiform to write in. What interested her was that cuneiform was
succeeded by Aramaic script, which was then in turn replaced by Arabic in the
seventh century. This example looked innocent enough, but it was the tiny marking towards the
bottom of the tablet which was making her heart race. She recalled seeing a
series of articles on objects looted from
the National Iraqi Museum in Baghdad. Among them were a series of clay tablets, not unlike this one. Admittedly, a clay
tablet was a clay tablet but few contained the x-marks-the-spot factor.
"Make sure we
bid on this. It will be ideal for our collection,” she murmured to
Kevin, strolling away to the next exhibit. He nodded, barely glancing
at the clay tablet and made a note in the catalogue. They continued
their stroll and made several further selections in the catalogue, among which
was a large statue of the goddess Isis.
Kevin spent a lot of time chatting to
other people, and a variety of business cards were exchanged. He pressed palms with many acquaintances before
collecting Summer from where she stood admiring thick gold tore-style hoop earrings from an Etruscan
excavation.
"Success?"
she asked.
"I
would like to think so." He steered her out of the large room and on to
the upper deck where they nibbled on canapes and sipped champagne
and made small talk with various people attending the auction. Kevin
enthusiastically engaged in conversation with an American couple and earnestly
discussed the merits of hiring interior decorators, the costs and
anguish associated with self-decorating.
Summer wasn't fooled
by the charming playboy persona Kevin displayed. There was an underlying sense of
tension about him and when she spotted him staring distractedly at a newly
arrived group of men, she knew that they were the real reason for
the whole charade.
"Do you need a
reason to pop downstairs again?" she murmured to him over her shoulder.
"I'm feeling a bit faint."
"Honey?
Summer?" He took the champagne flute from her and handed it to a passing
waiter, while placing a steadying hand at the small of her back.
"Sorry.
I’m not sure what's going on." Summer kept her voice low but panicky.
Several guests were staring at her in concern. "I'm feeling
dizzy, can I sit down somewhere?"
Kevin's
concerned expression was enough to move the other guests out of their way. He
helped her down the stairs and she leaned heavily on him, her hand
over her mouth, doing her utmost to look ill.
One of the attendants
from the auction room spotted them and rushed over to help.
"I don't know
what's wrong. Is there a room where she can lie down in for awhile?" Kevin
asked, playing the anxious new husband to a fault.
"Certainly,
Mr Hunter. Please, this way."
They were shown into a
small suite. The attendant made sure that they had water and clean towels before
discreetly withdrawing.
"I
could kiss you, you know?" Kevin muttered into her hair, letting her go.
"I
know." She didn't bother looking anything but smug. "Now what?"
"Now
you stay here, quietly, while I go snoop around and plant some bugs that could
put a nasty man away for a long time."
"Oh?
That's a bit dull."
He
chuckled. "I'm sorry to say that a lot of covert jobs aren't exactly guns
blazing and Bourne shenanigans."
"More's
the pity," she murmured, resting on the bed. "I like a man of
action."
The look he shot her
was dark and inscrutable. "Don't go anywhere." He had his hand on the
door handle. "Don't steal anything either."
"That
wasn't part of the contract," she sniped back with a grin, settling in.
He
was still smiling when he slipped into the passage. The two bulky security
guards standing by the doors to the auction room were preoccupied
with a rich American oil tycoon and his overblown wife. They didn't look up as
Kevin slipped down the passage on the far side, to the next flight of stairs.
Kevin paused at each door, listening intently for any noise.
He had his mobile in
his hand, with the battery case halfway open. The sheet with the two dots - one
for tracking, one for listening - came out easily enough and
he put each dot on a finger of his right hand, before slipping the
mobile back into his pocket.
He was approaching
the final cabin when the door suddenly opened and a tall, dark-haired man in a
light linen
suit stepped into the passage. His face was flushed with anger and Kevin could
hear raised voices in the room behind him.
When he saw Kevin a heavy scowl drew his brows together.
"What are you doing
here? This part of the boat is not for party goers."
"Oh,
I know that. I'm sorry. My name is Kevin Hunter. One of the attendants upstairs
said I could come down here. My wife's taken ill and they told me there's a
doctor on board." He kept his tone solicitous and slurred
a few of his vowels. The man regarded him with distaste.
"I'm
sure there are several doctors on board but none of them are here. Now, I must
ask you to move along." The man's tone was civil but impatient. He blocked
the door behind him with his body, using his arm
to indicate that Kevin should be on his way.
"Fine,
fine, I'm sorry." Kevin raised his hands in apology before patting the man
on the shoulder, deftly sliding the GPS dot and state-of-the art
listening device beneath his lapel. "Thank you anyway."
He made a show of
retreating down the passage and up the stairs again, swaying a bit more than
the gentle undulation of the river could account for.
Summer was stalking
back and forth in the room, checking her watch. Her instincts told her to run.
She felt unsafe and missed Kevin's presence. Those men who had
come on board, she knew them from somewhere. She definitely
recognized one of them as a high-powered businessman with connections to one of
the important Saudi families. What was this really about? She trusted Jimmy
with her life but she was starting to doubt his research into Kevin Hunter's background
at MI5 and the details about this job. It all
seemed very low key. Too low key. And it panicked her. If she had the chance
she would ring Jimmy but she couldn't
risk it right now. Jimmy had gone dark after Kevin made his first contact with
her. Having a government agency
after them was not the best of birthday presents.
The
door opened and Kevin breezed in, smiling. "Job done. Let's go bid on some
pretty shiny things."
"If
you move, you will die."
The voice was low and
urgent in her ear. A heavy hand pressed across her mouth, stilling her movement
before she
could even attempt it. Summer snapped her eyes open. She could make out one
dark silhouette standing at the foot of the
bed, another crouched beside her.
The small alarm
clock in her line of vision told her it was 3.35 a.m. Who, besides criminals,
operated at that hour?
"Do you
understand?” the voice hissed again. Fully awake now, Summer got a
nose full of garlic and bad body odour and hastily shook her head
affirmatively.
"I
am going to move my hand, and you will tell me where your husband is. Is that
clear?”
She nodded again. Her fingertips found the
knife she always slept with under the pillow. As he moved his hand, she surged
upwards, bringing the knife with her. She used a controlled slicing movement to
his face. The blade caught him above his
eyebrows, slicing deeply, peeling the skin away. Blood gushed from the small veins and covered his face within
seconds. He let out a yelp of terror and flung himself backwards, crashing into
a writing desk and gilded chair.
The second man was no
less stunned but had the chance to react to her unexpected manoeuvre as she took out his colleague.
He launched himself at her across the bed and grappled madly for the blade in
her hand.
Summer bucked and
squirmed as violently as she could within the bedclothes, thrashing against the
man's weight pinning her down. She flung the knife from her, knowing that there
were other weapons stashed around the room that she could use if
only she could get to them. She used her nails to scratch at the
man bucking on top of her. He pulled away to mutter a curse as her nails gouged
satisfying cuts across his cheek. Seeing her chance, she reared up
and head-butted him, silently thanking Uncle Mike for showing
her the deadly move shortly after her thirteenth birthday. Her assailant fell
back with a curse, grabbing his nose. Using her legs, she
wiggled out from beneath him and rolled off the bed, away from both men.
She
landed in a tangle of sheets and bedding. Kicking free, she stumbled to the
walk-in closet where she remembered Kevin hiding a small snub-nosed
.38 in the pocket of one of his jackets. She felt around in the dark and, after
a few moments, she palmed the gun.
Summer
widened her stance, enjoying that both of her assailants were still moaning and
crawling around. She flicked on the lights, flooding the room
with brightness. The gun never wavered in her hand.
"Now,
can you kindly tell me what the hell you are doing in my room?” she
grated out. "I'll count to three before I start shooting
and, trust me, I am a very good shot."
“We only want the clay
tablet, that is all," one man said in pained tones. He still had his hands
cupped around his bleeding nose.
The
other guy had managed to staunch some of the blood flowing from the cut above
his brow with a piece of the torn bedding.
"I'm not quite awake
yet but I have trouble understanding how you can demand anything if I'm
the one with the gun," Summer pointed
out. "It seems, I don't know, like I should be the only one making demands."
"You have no idea
who you are dealing with," the first man said again. "We will be able
to find you wherever you go. Just give us
the tablet and we will go away. Pfft, like that, forever."
"No, my friend. I
know exactly who I'm dealing with." She casually waved the gun and watched
them both flinch. "You can certainly
tell Mr Alexandrov that I am not happy with his highhanded ways at all. We
bought the items at auction, legally. If he has a problem, he can take it up
with our lawyer."
She watched the
words sink in and satisfied herself that they realized she wasn't just a bit of
eye candy on Kevin Hunter's arm.
"Now would be a
good time to leave. "She stepped out of the closet completely and advanced
on them. "Please,
leave quietly and with a minimum of fuss. I don't want my husband's people to
become aware of this little misunderstanding."
She
saw them out of the hotel suite and locked the door behind them. In the
kitchen, she obsessively washed her hands to get rid of the skin and
blood beneath her nails. She drank several glasses of bottled water quickly, wishing
for strong tea instead. For a few moments, she stared blankly into space, her
mind racing. She was jerked out of her
reverie by a thunderous knock on the door.
Keeping
the .38 by her side, she approached the door and shot a quick look through the
peephole. It was Kevin and he looked fit to murder. She unlocked the door and
stepped aside as he bulldozed his way into the room.
"What
happened?" he demanded. "Who were those men?" He spun around the
lounge area and eventually focused on the gun by her side.
"I saw them leave from this floor. The other suite isn't occupied. What's
going on?"
"If
you cared so much, Mr Hunter, you should maybe have hired some bodyguards to
guard me and the goods you bought tonight. Those two idiots
who broke in here were sent by Mr Alexandrov to steal the clay tablet."
"Alexandrov?"
Kevin echoed. "But he's not the one we ..." He held out a hand.
"How do you know they were his men?"
"I recognized
him at the party. I know him very well as I've done business with him in the past."
She shrugged,
pretending nonchalance, enjoying his discomfort, "I know what he was after
so I made sure we
got
what he wanted instead."
"I
can tell you're dying to tell me what we managed to accomplish tonight.”
"Well, we only made sure that one of
the biggest crooks in the antiquities trade did not get his grubby little paws on a very important piece of an
ancient puzzle. The little clay tablet we bought tonight outlines the final location of the fabled lost treasures
of Sargon of Akkad."
"And you can be sure
about this because ..."
"1 stole the other pieces for him
from a variety of collectors and museums over the past five years. The tablet we bought tonight had been looted by
soldiers from the museum in Baghdad during the Iraq War.”
"Oh.”
Kevin looked nonplussed. "Well, I have to admit your evening turned out a
lot more exciting than mine did.”
"And
what did you do?” she asked, amused by his glum expression, thinking
she could cheer him up.
"Well, there was
a brief shoot-out between us - the good guys - and the other guys - the bad
guys. In the end, we won by superior force - and working with the
Egyptian government - and managed to make some arrests. Hopefully
they'll languish in a jail for a long old time.”
"Oh.
There was actual shooting?” Summer asked, feeling a bit jealous.
'Your night was definitely more exciting than mine.”
"But
I can see blood, which means you got to beat up some bad guys of your own.”
"Yeah,
that part was pretty cool.”
"So.
Tell me more about the clay tablet.”
Summer
blinked. "I think they took it with them."
"Are
you lying to me?”
"Yes."
Her smile was wide. "I am. What about it?"
"I
think a heavy interrogation session is in order." Kevin grabbed her
slender waist and pulled her to him. "Are you up for
it?"
Summer's
answering smile was wide and cheeky. "I can tell you are."
His kiss was long and
deep and sweet. He bent and picked her up, cradling her to his chest. She flung
her arms
around his neck, letting the gun dangle down his back. He walked through his
room with its bloody bedding from Summer's
recent fight, and kicked open the door to her bedroom with its slightly smaller
bed.
He
stripped her knee-length nightie over her head with practised ease. As he lay
her down on the soft covers, he looked at her and smiled.
"I have to warn
you that I am well versed in interrogation techniques." He placed
butterfly kisses along her jaw and down her throat. "My
subjects always talk."
"I
like a challenge," Summer murmured as she untucked the shirt from his
waistband. "Less talking," she instructed him
fiercely, "more kissing. Just remember, I have a gun."
Kevin
bent his dark head over hers, only too happy to comply.
"Miss
Summer!”
Summer pushed her
hat back from her forehead with the back of her hand and looked up at the
scrawny kid
running towards her through the excavations. He picked his way through
carefully, as nimble as a mountain goat.
"There
is a man here, he wants to see you."
"Did
he give his name, Adnan?"
"No,
but he did say he was your husband.”
Several of the
workers around her stopped working to look at her with curiosity. With an
impatient gesture,
she brushed away the loose strands of hair that clung to her neck. It's been
over a year, what was he doing here?
"Let's
go meet him.” She followed Adnan to the entrance of the dig where
she could see Kevin leaning against an impossibly clean 4x4. He looked better
than ever. Maybe a little more slender, but it suited him. His
eyes were hidden by a pair of expensive wraparound glasses.
"You
left me,” he said by way of greeting, his voice low. "I didn't
like that.”
"Well, you know
how it goes. A bad girl meets a good guy, they take down some scumbags ... it
was never going to work out.” Her flippant reply
was out before she could stop it.
"Is
that your excuse for stealing government property?”
'I’m sure the government
will get over it,” she shot back, irritated. "If s really taken
you a year to track me down?”
"One year, four months and fifteen
days.” His tone was measured, dangerous. "It's the strangest
thing. We heard about this young
archaeologist out here in the wilds of what used to be ancient Mesopotamia. She's
not funded by any known agency or university and yet she seems to know all the
right people in the local government who
are happy to give her permits to dig in places where no one ever thought of
looking for any sign of civilization
before. And then stories start leaking out about this massive funerary hoard belonging to some long-forgotten king that she's
discovered.”
"Imagine
that,” she said, suppressing a grin. She could tell how worked up he
was about her walking out on him. His face was white with anger.
"Yes, imagine
that.” He moved closer, his long fingers reaching for her waist,
settling there with familiarity. "So I thought it would be a good idea to come
out here to check if it was indeed my long-lost wife. And look! Here you are.”
Summer
held up her left hand. "It was only pretend, Mr Hunter. I left the rings
behind when I left you in Cairo. The onlything I took was the
clay tablet and I told you I would.”
"Which is why I'm
here.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans. "I don't really
care about that tablet. And I think this
belongs to you.”
Before Summer could
respond or withdraw her hand, he slipped a glittering ring on to her finger.
The diamond blinked in the bright light and
she caught her breath.
"It's
beautiful!"
"Not
quite the De Beers classic collection.”
"Oh no, this is
much prettier. Circa late 1800s if I'm not mistaken? Look at that classic cut.
If s perfect.” His laughter made her grin ruefully. "Sorry, I
can't help it. I like shiny things."
"Yes,
I could tell.” He folded her fingers over his and raised her hand to
his lips. "My grandmother was an extraordinary woman. She
gave me that ring and made me swear never to give it to someone who didn't challenge
me. And I am pretty sure I found her. But are you sure you want to marry me?”
"I suppose I can give it a try. I
have to warn you though - I'll have you sign a prenuptial. And no more government work!”
"Fine
by me.” His grin was wide but she could see the pain hidden there.
Her hand snaked down
to link with his and her smile was brighter than the blazing sky above as she
led him to the mess tent. She was aware of all the looks they
were receiving from the workers around them. The ring on her
finger felt heavy but her heart was light. Kevin looked down at her and she
realized that his pursed lips were simply from suppressing the
grin bubbling up inside him.
"Does
this mean I can hire you as security?” she asked, pouring him a
large glass of water. "Do you have any references?”
"I'm
sure we can work something out." He put the glass down on the table beside
him and drew her into his arms, then kissed her with scarcely contained
passion.
"Yes,
I think we can definitely work something out."
Code Word: Storm
Sydney Croft
One
Annika Svenson loved her
job. As a special operative for the Agency for Covert Rare Operatives, she was
given awesome assignments - lots of danger, action and really freaky situations.
Because ACRO didn't
employ the average agent. No, ACRO specialized in people with unique talents, like
Annika's electric eel-like ability to shock the hell out of whoever she
touched. Her skill, combined with the fact that she'd been
raised to be a secret agent from the age of two, made her someone every ACRO operative
wanted to work with.
It also made her
someone those very operatives avoided when they weren't working with her.
Annika wasn't the nicest person on the planet, but she couldn't care less what
anyone thought of her. As long as she had the support of Devin O'Malley, ACRO's big
boss, and the man who'd rescued her from the CIA's clutches a couple of years ago, she had all she needed.
Her cell phone rang
and, speak of the devil, Dev's "Carry on my Wayward Son" tone jingled
in her pocket. As she dug the phone from her jeans, she glanced
outside the window of the East Seattle house ACRO had rented. The
mansion across the street looked back at her like some kind of million-eyed
monster, which was appropriate, since the man hiding inside was a beast in his
own right. All was annoyingly calm, which was the first thing
she said to Dev when she answered.
"Nothing going
on," she said. "Mikey-boy hasn't so much as opened the front door to
get the paper in two days."
Dev
sighed. "You tried to gain entry again last night?"
"Yep.
And I have a lump on my head to prove it."
Normally,
nothing could keep her out of a secured building, but Michael Bender wasn't
your usual arms-dealing,
bank-robbing, terrorist scum. No, this slimeball sold his services to the
highest bidder, and he used the spirit world
to do his evil work. He left behind no proof and no footprints, which had made charging him with any crime impossible for regular
authorities. But ACRO had the resources to nail his ass to the wall, and now they were certain he'd been
responsible for several consulate bombings and assassinations, he'd become ACRO's number one target. They'd been after
him for months and now that Annika had trapped him, he'd used those same
talents to make his house impenetrable - anyone trying to break in was going to get their ass kicked by
things they couldn't fight... or see.
Sure,
Annika could charge her body up to such a voltage that she could dissipate even
a ghost's energy, but apparently the entities Mike had enslaved
could actually manipulate electricity, and the last time Annika
had gone up against them they'd drained her power and whacked her on the head
with a brick.
"Understood,"
Dev said. "I've got back-up on the way. Play nice."
Play
nice. The way her boss said it sent tingles of both dread and
anticipation up her spine, because she knew exactly who he'd
deployed to join her on this mission.
"Creed?"
she breathed. "You're sending that—"
"I
know there's no love lost there," he interrupted, "but you two need
to deal with it." The sound of Dev tapping on his computer
keyboard came over loudly on the secure line, followed by a curse. "Gotta
go. Creed should be there any minute. Don't kill him."
Don't
kill him.
Yeah.
OK. Whatever. She'd tried once - the last time they'd worked together in a
haunted mansion. Turned out that he was the one person in the
world who was immune to her electric surges. Which made him
the one person in the world she could have sex with. Oh, she could control her
power, but sometimes, like when she was startled, or when she had an orgasm,
her body lit up like a neon sign and short-circuited whatever she was touching.
Including
people. Except Creed.
Her cheeks heated as
those memories roared back in excruciatingly vivid detail. He'd taken her
virginity at
the mansion, and afterwards they'd barely spoken for weeks. Until last month
anyway, when he'd been sent to her for
martial arts training, and they'd done just a little too much rolling around on
the mat.
Once again, they hadn't
spoken since, though not for lack of trying on his part. Their lack of communication
was her fault, and she could admit it. She didn't need him, didn't want him,
didn't even like him. That crazy fluttering in her belly and skipping of her
heart meant nothing.
A
heavy pounding on the back door made her jump. Dammit. She was never jumpy.
"Annika?"
His deep, low voice rumbled through her, and she resented the way it made her
pulse race.
Casually, as though
she wasn't trembling on the inside, she turned away from the window and the
rainy Seattle
evening. Creed stood at the entrance to the living room, the dim glow of the
single candle casting more than enough
light for her to get a good view of all six foot five of him, wrapped in black
leather from his biker boots to his
pants to his jacket. His shoulder-length, dark hair fell in unruly waves
against his face, the right side of
which was covered with tattoos that decorated that entire side of his body.
Her
mouth watered as if getting ready to lick every one of them.
"Creed,"
she ground out, more angry at her body's response to him than at the fact that
he was here when she'd told Dev she didn't want to work with him ever
again.
He strode into the
living room like he owned the house, then scanned her from head to toe as
though he owned her. "Nice seeing you, too.”
Arrogant jerk. She wasn't
going to let him get to her this time. No way. "I hope you brought your
little ghost girlfriend with you - what's her name . . . Kat? - because we're
going to need all the help we can get on
this one," she said crisply, all business.
"Wow,
You're eager to get to it, aren't you?" He smiled, the cocky one that made
her want to slap him. Or kiss him. Maybe both.
"I'm
always eager to work." She turned to the table next to her, where she had
the plans for Bender's house laid out. "As you can see—"
Creed's
hand came down on her shoulder and spun her around. "Oh, I can see,"
he said, in a husky, rich voice. "I can see that before we take down this scumbag,
we're going to have to get something out of the way."
Swallowing dryly, she
took him in - his dark, heavy-lidded eyes, his full lips and the eyebrow
piercing that inched up higher the longer
she stared like a dolt and said nothing.
Finally, she cleared her throat and said
with a calmness she didn't feel, "What do we need to get out of the way? Do you need me to kick your ass? Because
that I will happily do."
"Always with the
attitude," he murmured, as he thrust his hand into her hair and held her
immobile more with the force of his will than his grip.
"This is what we need to get out of the way."
Before
she could protest, he lowered his head and kissed her.
God, Ani tasted good. Like crisp black
cherry soda on a hot summer's day. Like sin too, because the piercing in
his tongue picked up the electricity she naturally threw out when she felt
attacked. Or in the mood.
Ani
would deny the last part, of course, but Creed was prepared for that. He'd
given himself a nice long pep talk as his Harley roared up the bends of the old
mountain road to the ACRO-rented house across the street from the piece-of-shit mansion that housed yet another piece of
shit, kind of like those wooden Russian
nesting dolls.
He never understood the
point of those dolls anyway, but Ani in his arms, her breasts rubbing his chest
and his thigh between her legs, that was a point he always understood. And, he
noted with satisfaction, it took her quite
a while before she jerked her mouth from his.
Her
normally lush lips were swollen. Her hair remained in its perfect blonde
pageboy, her eyes an icy
blue that made him fucking
hot. His erection strained against the confines of his leather pants and he shifted
but did nothing to hide it. Til help, Ani. You just have to do one more thing
for me."
"Yeah?
What's that? And stop calling me Ani." Her arms were crossed in her
familiar I-will-kick-your-ass pose, and why wasn't taking her right
here on the table an option?
Lightning
cracked the air over the house and got his attention. Yeah, right, ghosts. Bad
guys. Missions.
He
turned back to Annika. "All you have to do is tell me how much you want
me. Because when this is all done, you're going to show me."
Her
lip curled. "Not going to happen, Ghost Boy. Grab a Hustler and use
the bathroom if you need to get off, because that's the only way anything's
going to happen."
But
Ani's words were lost on him because Kat froze - and so did he. His ink
tingled, head to toe and every place in between and, for the moment,
sex was forgotten.
This
was heavy shit.
"Creed?"
Ani asked, tapping his arm. But he shifted away from her, because right now,
her touch was too much.
"Demons,"
he murmured, more to himself than to her, as his body rattled with the complete
and utter sinister nature of this job. He knew that, even though
ghosts didn't carry guns, there was always the possibility when dealing with
the supernatural that he might not get out alive, no matter how much otherworldly
protection he carried with him. "More than one."
"So
we'll go kick their asses. If your girlfriend will cooperate."
"Kat
is not my girlfriend," he muttered, even as Kat pinched him hard.
Kat
was the spirit who'd been with him from birth. At once fierce protector and
monkey on his back, there would be no relief from her until he
died. She was as much a part of him as the tattoos he'd been born with.
The
piercings? Well, those he'd added himself. And Annika had enjoyed the hell out
of them.
They
hadn't been together since last month. He'd thought about her every night
since. Looked for her on theACRO compound. Practically jumped at the
chance to work with her.
Until now, there was
no possibility of having any kind of relationship beyond a quick roll with any woman - maybe twice if he
was lucky - before Kat got up in arms and made his life miserable. She was
jealous and possessive and, until Annika, he'd been resigned to remain a man
who slept around and never got close to
anybody.
Until
Ani. Because, fuck me. there was no getting over this woman. Ever since
he'd slept with her on their last mission, his body burst into flames whenever he thought
about her.
Kat wasn't
happy. Granted, she didn't seem worried, because Annika made it clear - crystal
- she wanted nothing to do with him.
Of
course, she was protesting way too much. Which turned him on and made him more
determined than ever to mate this much more than a series of one-night stands.
But
all that was no longer a concern at the moment He barely realized he was out of
the house, walking across the lawn while staring up at the haunted mansion, Kat
whispering in his ear.
Evil.
Unnatural. The man called it and now even he can't control it.
"We're
going to have to."
There
are too many to count.
"Creed, we need a
plan." Annika was literally grabbing the back of his leather jacket to
stop him from continuing his march to the
house. He'd already crossed the dirt road that separated the houses and was almost
at the front door of the mansion without really remembering the walk. That was
the way it always happened. Between his ghost-calling abilities and Kat, he
went into near trances when he was on the job, which made it tough to work with anyone human.
He
remembered he'd scared Ani the last time he'd tranced out. And still, he
couldn't help it. "When it comes to the supernatural,
plans never work. I prefer to just go in—"
"-half-cocked."
He
turned to her, his mouth pulled into a half-smile even as he felt himself drift
away again to focus on the house. "We don't have time to talk about my cock now,
Ani. But later - I promise..."
Two
"Creed?"
Annika tugged on his jacket. "Creed, dammit, answer me!"
He
just stared through the rain at the other house, even as the hairs on the back
of her neck rose and she got that feeling she'd gotten yesterday, just before
the invisible things attacked her and zapped her battery. This
was so not cool. They were too exposed here.
A shadow appeared in
the front window of the creepy mansion. In one swift motion, Ani gripped
Creed's jacket with both hands and wheeled him behind a hedge. He
shook his head, coming out of his weird trance.
“Hey."
He blinked down at her. "What are you doing?"
"Keeping
us from getting killed.”
Blinking
again, he took in their surroundings. "Damn," he muttered.
"Shit. Sorry, babe."
Babe.
In any other situation she'd have kicked his ass for that,
but right now, his pet names were the least of their worries.
"What's going on, Creed? Are you OK?"
Lightning
flashed overhead as he wiped rain out of his eyes. "Yeah. I'm good. But
there's something really wrong here."
"I
know. Michael Bendouer is a chickenshit scumbag who has holed himself up and
enlisted demons to
watch
his slimy back."
"He's
lost control."
"What?" she
yelled over the boom of thunder that shook the ground beneath them.
Creed scrubbed his
face again. "He's lost control of the demons. Damn, Annika, this is too
big for me and Kat-"
A shot rang out. Annika
threw herself at Creed, and they both hit the soggy ground. Cursing, she drew her pistol from her shoulder harness, rolled, and
came up on one knee behind a brick barrier between the driveway and the yard.
Creed joined her, keeping low. The window where she'd seen the movement was open, but whoever had taken a shot at them was
gone. Still, the mansion's north wing wrapped around behind them, leaving them too vulnerable to
remain in place.
"We've
gotta go,” she breathed.
"Back
to the house?”
She
cast a longing look at the rented house, and shook her head. "I don't like
it. We could get picked off while we're out in the open. We need to get into
the mansion. I couldn't do it by myself, but if you and Kat can
deal with the hellspawn, we're good."
"Let
me give ACRO a call first. Tiffany specializes in demonic activity." Creed
fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and cursed. "It's not
working. They're blocking us."
Annika
checked hers. "Mine's hosed too. Stupid demons."
She tugged on Creed's
arm and, crouching, led them to one of the places she'd scouted out earlier as
being a potential entry point. Another shot rang out, and chunks of brick
exploded just inches from her head. Spinning low, she returned tire,
putting a bullet through a window in the north wing.
"Cover me,"
Creed said. As she drilled more shots into the target, he slipped away, and she
heard the shattering of glass, followed by the screeches of
something very inhuman.
The high-pitched,
hellish screams crawled up Annika's spine. "Creed?" A shadow passed
by the north-wing window and she tired, blowing out the last
remaining shard of glass that clung to the frame. "What's
going on? Talk to me."
She turned in time to
see Creed disappear through the basement window he'd broken out. With one final
shot at the
north wing, she darted to the window Creed had gone through. Gunfire burst
apart the air, and on its heels came a flash of lightning and crack of thunder
so loud Annika's ears rang. She dived through the
hole, tucked, and hit the cement floor with a bone-jarring impact to her
shoulder.
Sucking air against
the pain, she rolled, and she'd barely come to her feet in the darkened
basement when
something slammed into her gut. Instinctively, she struck out, but her fist
sliced through empty air. Another blow
cracked into her jaw and sent her wheeling into a support beam.
Out
of nowhere, Creed grabbed her and pulled her hard against him. "Don't
move!"
"No
problem." Man, she hated this supernatural crap. Give her a dozen bad guys
with guns, and she could handle it. But this ... this was like cheating.
Creed tucked her
behind him and began some sort of monotone chanting. His head moved as though
he was tracking something, and then, in a motion so fast she barely saw it, he
hurled a handful of what looked like rock salt. An agonized, high-pitched
scream jolted the fillings in her teeth, and a few feet away, where the
salt had landed, a twisted, spindly shape took form. Red eyes pierced the
darkness, and then disappeared. Annika swore the very air
breathed a sigh of relief.
"Is
it gone?"
"For
now. We need to get your terrorist. He bound these things to him, so until he's
dead or the object he used to bind them is destroyed, we're
screwed.”
"OK,
then,” she said, heading towards the staircase, "we find
Bender.”
"Not
so fast, babe.” Creed grabbed her by the elbow and swung her around.
"Ground rules."
"Shoot
to kill.” She jerked out of his grip. "Those are my ground
rules.”
Creed caught her
wrist again. "Listen to me, Annika. I know you can handle the human in
this house blindfolded and with your hands in your pockets, but
you've got to promise to stick to me like Velcro.”
She
snorted. 'You will do anything to get into my pants, won't you?”
"You
bet.” His voice was gruff and full of authority, so sexy. "But
this is about keeping you safe. Kat and I are going to handle the
demons so you can get Bender.” He fished around in his jacket pocket
and removed a vial of liquid. "Take it. It's holy water. I've
got salt, too.”
Salt. Holy water.
Annika rolled her eyes. She was so much more comfortable with guns and knives. "Fine.
Let's go.”
"Annika..."
The warning in his
tone had her spinning back around to him, but not without a huff of
frustration. They were never going to get Bender at this rate.
"What? We need to get moving."
"Promise
me you'll stick close."
"Yeah,
yeah. Can we go now?”
"One
more thing.”
Dammit.
"What now?"
"When
we're done with this, we finish what we started at the house.”
"Dream on, Ghost Boy.” She
started up the stairs, heart pounding, but not from the impending danger. No, it was Creed's dark chuckle behind her that
scared the crap out of her, because she had a feeling he was deadly serious.
She
shouldn't be here.
"She's going to
kill the bad guy, Kat," Creed told her before she began to screech in his
ear again. Always an effective method of getting his
attention.
But
this time, Kat’s words were calm. They bothered him, more than anything. She
doesn't believe.
"She
will," he insisted. Ani will.
"As interesting
as this one-sided conversation between the two of you is, can we get a move
on?" Annika snapped impatiently and, yeah, it must be
frustrating for her to hear only his voice when he was talking to Kat,
but he'd got used to the strange looks from people who assumed he was speaking
to an imaginary friend. Annika glared, the energy in this
house was quickly draining her of any patience at all. Maybe even making
her paranoid. There wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about it.
Kat
helped keep the bad karma off him, but Ani would be powerless. All the same,
Creed began to climb the steps from the basement to the kitchen noiselessly, Annika's
boots slamming the steps behind him.
He turned before they got to the door.
"Listen carefully,” he whispered against her ear. "Demons
can't force their way into your mind or body
- they need permission to enter.”
"I'm
sure not going to give it to them,” she murmured back, the butt of
her Sig pressed against his side. "But I'm going to make
certain you're covered when you go into one of your trances, right?"
"Just
keep your ears open. Don't answer any strange questions."
"Anything
else, Ghost Boy?" Her words were softer than usual.
"No destructive
thoughts. No anger. No resentment. Think happy. Demons hate that."
"Most
of the time, so do I," she muttered.
Without further talk, he
moved aside so he could watch Ani kick the door open with one fluid motion, her body vibrating with energy.
He knew she'd want to
take point, be in the lead - and keeping her happy was right up there with keeping
her safe on his priority list.
Beyond
that, he trusted her with his life. Whether she felt the same way remained to
be seen.
Creed stared over her as she bent at the knee,
hands outstretched and weapon trained, surveying the scene in front of them. An empty kitchen, shrouded in
darkness. Rain slamming against the windows, wind howling. She used a single fingertip motion to
zing electricity7 to the light on the ceiling. It sizzled and smoked.
"Power's
cut," she said. "Probably from the storm. But the room's clear- of
humans anyway."
She
stepped aside to let him pass, her gun still at the ready.
Kat
told him that blood sacrifices had taken place here.
That meant the energy
in this place was corrupt. The majority of the cleansing would have to occur
after that bastard Bender was killed.
He's
in the attic, Kat said. Which left them three floors to
move through. More demons to conquer. The one in the basement was nothing
compared to what was coming.
He
turned back to Ani, who was staring at the ceiling. "If I had an ACRO AK,
I could shoot him straight
through
the floors.”
He
didn't doubt it. Annika had training most special-forces soldiers would kill
for. She'd been practically bred in the CIA with some special child-training programme
and she'd worked on more covert ops by the time
ACRO had taken her in than most agents worked in their entire careers under
ACRO's leader Devlin O'Malley.
She
was strong and sure, handled weapons better than any man - and that was before
she used her special powers. The woman was a force to be reckoned with,
although he'd much rather tussle with her in bed.
Wind
whooshed through, nearly knocking both of them down. He grabbed for Ani but
she'd already latched on to him as they lost their footing. Kat had
begun to chant but she had to be careful of the demons too - their influence
extended to ghosts and, although she and Creed had never been parted on a hunt
like this, they couldn't afford not to be
cautious.
He
actually felt Kat's fingernails clawing at his neck as she held on too.
It's
forming. Kat warned.
Creed
began to chant with Kat as he felt himself fade away. He heard Ani calling his
name, but when he faded out like this, it was hard to come back
until the job was done.
"Creed, I can't
move," Annika persisted. And yes, the demon had taken an opportunity7
to encircle them and bind them to the floor.
"Welcome,
Annika." A smooth male voice. Bender. "I was hoping you'd come
by."
Three
If glares were lasers,
Bender would have had four smoking holes in him. But since Annika didn't have
laser eyes (like one of ACRO's newest operatives did), she'd just
have to make those holes the old-fashioned way.
She raised her
weapon . . . only to have her arm gripped by some invisible force and pinned to
her side. "You son of a bitch," Annika gritted out.
"Can't play fair, like a normal bad guy. Have to hide behind ghosts and
demons."
"Normal?"
Bender laughed. "You're one to talk. Is anyone at ACRO normal? Are
you?"
OK, he had a point.
But still, using the supernatural to do your dirty work was just low. She
opened her mouth to tell him how low, but Creed cut her off.
"Annika!
Don't talk to him. Don't say another word."
Thunder
shook the house, rattling windows and Annika's nerves. She really, really hated
this supernatural crap. And no, she didn't consider special
gifts like hers to be supernatural. Most of the operatives at ACRO,
with their super speed or ability to control the weather, were considered
anomalies of evolution. But the ghosts and demons and freaky
mind-reading stuff? Yeah .. .if Annika couldn't see it, she
didn't want any part of it. "I think I know how to handle a pathetic
little human bad guy, Creed."
"He's—" Creed clutched at his throat, eyes
wide as he struggled to breathe.
"Stop it!"
She lunged at Bender - tried to, anyway. Her feet were frozen to the floor, her
weapon arm still as useless as if it were superglued to her body. 'You son of a
bitch! Call off your dogs . . . hellhounds. Whatever
they are."
Bender gave a
dismissive snort. With his spiky blond hair, emerald eyes and sharply defined
facial features, women probably panted after him. But Annika
thought he'd look so much better with a bullet hole in
the centre of his forehead.
"Tell me,"
Bender said, as he circled them, trailing his fingers over the dusty dining
room table on his way past, "how many
more agents can I expect to show up?"
"Screw
you."
"If you want
your partner to live, you'll answer me." Bender halted in front of Creed.
He cocked his head and, suddenly, Creed's face turned into a crimson mask of pain and
his struggles became more frantic, as though
what little air he'd been getting had been cut off.
Annika's pulse pounded in
her ears as bands of panic tightened around her chest. Not that she'd ever let Bender know she was anything but cool and
collected. "A dozen," she said. "They're on their way right now."
"You
lie." Bender waved his hand. Creed let out an agonized hiss and dropped to
his knees.
Don't
react, don't react . . . "You won't believe me no matter what I say, so
why are we playing this game?"
"Game"
Bender snarled. "This is no game. You will
tell me the truth and, trust me, I'll know if you're lying."
Roughly, he gripped her hand and pressed two cold fingers to the pulse in her
wrist. She resisted the urge to shudder, but couldn't stop her skin
from crawling at his touch. "How many agents are on their way?"
Swallowing dryly,
she glanced at Creed. He was clawing at his throat, gasping for air, but he
shook his head fiercely at her. The message in his dark eyes was
clear: don't tell him anything.
What the hell was he thinking? Yes, every
special operator, whether they were military, paramilitary, government agent or
ACRO, accepted the risks and knew they might have to give their lives in
service to their country. Annika might not
like Creed, but she wasn't going to let him sacrifice his life right now. She'd
been in worse situations than this before, and no way was Creed going to die
over a dumb answer. Besides, she had a plan. She always had a plan.
"None,"
she snarled. "We couldn't call in back-up because your minions screwed up
the signal."
Bender's
evil, twisted smile froze the blood in her veins. "Thank you."
She
smiled right back at him, and fired up her special gift. Electricity rippled
through her, starting somewhere deep inside and forming a circuit through every cell
until she was a giant live wire. Bender's eyes shot wide open as she slammed
10,000 volts into his body. A split second later, in a blast of fire and smoke,
she flew backwards, crashing into a cabinet and dropping, stunned, to the
floor.
In
her fuzzy head, she heard laughter. Inside her head. In her veins, evil
ran like a sludge. Distantly, she heard Creed yelling her
name, and then his hands were on her and he was chanting again. She raised her weapon
to blow his brains out.
No!
Her arm kept lifting, bringing the barrel of her pistol
even with his temple. Noooo!
Her
finger slipped from the trigger guard to the trigger itself. Deep inside her
mind, she screamed at herself to stop, but something else had
taken control. What if it was stronger than her?
More
chanting - urgent, loud - and then, in a whisper of air, the evil was gone.
Creed was holding her tightly. She trembled in his embrace no
matter how hard she tried to control it.
"Annika?
Hey, are you OK?"
Numbly,
she nodded. "What happened?” she whispered against his chest.
"He
possessed you. I tried to tell you he wasn't human.” Creed inhaled
raggedly. "And I told you not to talk to him, dammit!”
He pulled back, gripped her shoulders and met her gaze head-on. Angry red
splotches put
colour in his cheeks. Oh, yeah, he was royally pissed. "I told you not to
answer questions! He was a freaking demon, and you never, ever, want to tell a
demon the truth. When you did that, you allowed him inside your head. When you tried to shock him, you gift-wrapped a conduit
for him to get inside your body.”
Oh God. With that demon
controlling her body, she could have killed Creed. Could have gone on a rampage few people could have stopped. "I'm
sorry Creed. I didn't know.”
"That's
because you didn't trust me.”
The
truth of his statement hit too close to home, so she dredged up some righteous
indignation. 'You were going to die! What was I supposed to do?
Let it happen?”
He
shook his head. "Kat was working on it. And even if she failed to keep the
demon from strangling me, better that than letting it gain control
of your body. What do you think would have happened if a demon was
running around with the freaking power to electrocute people? He could have gotten
inside ACRO by pretending to be you. How much damage could that
have caused?”
Nausea
turned her gut inside out at that last thought. "I told you, I'm sorry—"
He
cut her off with a gentle shake. "Annika, this is my job. I know you're
unmatched at yours, but you've got to trust that I'm just as good at
mine. We're in this together, like it or not, and you've got to listen to me like
you would any other agent you work with. I know you don't like that we've slept
together, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm fucking
great at what I do. Got it?”
Man, it bit to admit she
was wrong, but she'd just nearly got him- and maybe herself-killed. She knew
she'd made all of this too personal, which pissed her the hell off. She was
normally a cold, efficient agent
with no emotions, and the fact that she'd
put that aside the moment she'd seen Creed was inexcusable. "OK,
yeah. I'm sorry. I trust you."
For a long, tense
moment, he just stared at her. And then, with a nod, he stood and held out a
hand. Annika's first instinct was to ignore the offer and get
up without his help. But something told her this was a test,
and one she couldn't fail.
Taking
a deep breath, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet.
One floor down, two to go.
Creed's throat felt like he'd swallowed fire, but otherwise he was all good.
Ani held him by the biceps as if to steady him and he felt Kat leave his side
and head up the stairs, abandoning them for a second. Annika stopped to let
Creed catch his breath.
''What
did that demon try to do with you?" she asked finally. "I mean, was
it really going to—"
"Kill me?
Yeah." Kat had fought with everything she had to keep his protective
shield up, but despite all his warnings to Annika, Creed found it very hard to keep his
mind free of thoughts of her. Right now, she was
his main vulnerability. "Thanks for trying to save my life."
He wasn't sure if it
was his imagination or if her cheeks pinked slightly before she asked,
"Are you ready to move?"
"Ready."
"Good." Ani
took the lead up the stairs, calling, "All clear," when she reached
the top of the landing. “Well, of humans,
anyway," she said with a shrug.
"We're clear of
demons on this level, too. Kat's worked her magic," Creed told Ani, as Kat
crowed triumphantly in his ear. "Bender's definitely on the third floor,
along with two of the stronger demons."
"What does it feel like, when the
demons are fighting with you?" she asked. "Is it like when the demon got inside me?"
"A
little, I guess. Only they don't get inside me. The only way lean really
describe it is that we fight with our minds clashing
together. Hurts like a mother."
She nodded and started to walk, but he
stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes it's worse than others. Adrenaline kicks in, that helps. I'd
imagine it's not much different than when you're fighting."
She
nodded. "Sounds it."
"Ready?" he
asked and she hesitated. He'd never seen her do that before. Typically, she
needed to be held back, as she had a tendency to go
balls-to-the-wall, zero-to-one-hundred, without listening to anyone. "What's got you
shaken about this guy? I thought he was your standard issue, jack-of-all-trades
slimeball. Nothing you haven't dealt with
before."
He waited for her to
turn on him, to get pissed and tell him she wasn't scared of anyone or anything
in this world.
But that didn't happen.
Instead,
she stiffened and her eyes glittered with a harsh flash. "He trafficks
children."
Creed
felt his body go cold. Even Kat stopped her screeching for a second to listen.
"What?"
"He finds the right kid for the
highest bidder - for adoption or sex or whatever the hell someone would want a kid illegally for. Sometimes, it's just for
someone who gets off on torturing and killing them."
He
nodded, waiting for her to tell him more. Because yeah, that was one sick dude,
but for Ani to get this worked up, there had to be something more
behind it. "You're so angry about this."
"Damned
right I'm angry. This bastard. He hurts children. No one has the right
to hurt children.”
He
hadn't even seen Ani... emotional. Not like this. From the little he knew of
her background, her own childhood hadn't been particularly easy - or even much
of a childhood at all.
No,
Ani had appeared to be born a trained operative and soldier. In a way, they'd
both been born into their current professions, with little choice
in the matter. But he'd had a semi-normal life growing up. Adoptive
parents who loved him. Accepted him - tattoos, spirit guide and all.
Whatever
Ani had lost out on in her childhood, the demons were sensing it. Trying to use
it against her.
He
couldn't let that happen, even if it meant sacrificing himself.
"Ani."
But she stood, as
stiff as a board, eyes screwed tightly shut, hands fisted at her sides. And
then she started
shaking her head back and forth, murmuring, "No. no. no," over
and over as if trying to block out voices in
her head. "Bender ... no ... no goddamned way," she whispered.
He
didn't like the shock that clouded her blue eyes. "Annika—"
"Oh my God," she rasped.
"Bender found me. That's how the CIA knew where to find us. He's the one who targeted me, sold my location to the CIA so
they could kill my mother and take me from my family. I was just a toddler. This bastard is
responsible." Her body shook with rage and anger, and the house - the demons - responded to those emotions. They could
bore their way into her brain easily now that her defences were shaken. They could possess her and
then he'd have a hell of a time stopping them.
By God, he wanted to race
up the stairs right now and strangle Bender with his fucking bare hands for stealing Ani from her parents - from stealing her
sense of peace.
Do
something! Kat yelled at him.
"They're talking
to me," Annika whispered. She clamped her hands over her ears and shook
her head but that wasn't going to do her any good. "God, I wish they'd
shut up."
"Stop
listening."
"I'm trying,
Creed. But they're telling me things - horrible things. And I can almost hear
those kids screaming as they're hurt."
He
grabbed her and kissed her hard. Deep. A kiss designed to make him think of
nothing but her touch. Instead of giving her permission to the
demons, she was offering herself to him, pressing herself to his body,
drinking him in.
It
locked her mind to his completely. When she was kissing him, she was happy,
damned happy. And even with the lightning and hail slamming the
house so badly the floorboards shook under their feet, Creed wanted her.
And
nothing - not even demons - would stop it.
He tried to tell himself it was for the
good of the mission- and it was -but that's not why he wanted her. He wanted the curve of her breast in his hand,
wanted to tug her taut nipple between his teeth, to fill her with his
cock until she lost complete control and let the electricity sizzle between
them, bringing both of them to screaming
orgasm.
Yeah, he could come just thinking about
it. And, judging by the way Ani wrapped herself around him, she was pretty damned close herself.
Not
the time. Creed, Kat admonished.
But it was exactly the
right time. And he ignored Kat, who finally left them alone to deal with the
hell breaking loose within them.
He would deal with Ani,
who clung to him as if needing him to make everything right. He pushed her against the wall, spreading his legs to gain
balance while her hands moved between them to stroke him through his leather
pants.
He
moved her shirt up to mouth a nipple, the electricity strumming through her and
catching on his tongue piercing, creating an incredible, mind-bending
buzz that had her calling out his name and wrapping her legs around him.
The
house went completely dark as his mouth met hers again.
Four
God, this was crazy. A hot rush. Danger
was definitely an aphrodisiac. And as Creed's hands roamed into all Annika's
sensitive places, triggering a rush of liquid need, she barely found the
presence of mind to flip the safety on her pistol.
"Creed
. . ." His name was little more than a moan against his lips. "We
can't. Not . . . now. We'll be vulnerable."
"Shh." His
hands tore at her jeans. "Your mind is vulnerable already. Focus on me,
Annika. Focus on me."
"But—" She broke off as horrible images stole into her brain,
scenes from the horror movie that was Michael
Bender. The things he'd done, the people he'd hurt . . . including the
grandparents she'd never known - he'd
tortured them to learn where Annika's mother had taken her. Once he discovered two-year-old Annika's location, he'd given the
CIA the information they'd paid for, and then had moved on to another evil deed, this one involving bombs and
American lives overseas.
"Hey!"
Creed's voice, urgent and demanding, pierced the veil of horror and competed
with the dark
whispers that were telling
her awful things. "Stay with me. We're stronger together. We need to keep
busy while Kat's doing her work."
Creed kissed her
fiercely, driving his tongue against hers and forcing her attention. Boy, he
got it and, as he kissed his way along her jaw and neck,
her thoughts began to clear and fill with only the here and now. With
only Creed.
Before
she knew it, her pants were down with one leg freed, and Creed he was filling
her body as well as her mind. He cupped her butt and lifted her, and, with a groan,
she wrapped her legs around his waist and welcomed
him as he pinned her to the wall.
"You're so
beautiful,” he whispered, and his voice, raw and ragged, sent a
ripple of pleasure from her heart to her
core. Heat licked at her with each thrust, and tension built quickly, like the
storm outside.
Amazing.
Oh, damn, this was good. She'd never liked being touched,
but Creed's hands and lips were magic as they caressed her skin. A gasp escaped
her when he changed his rhythm and ground his hips. Another
fell from her mouth when she met his gaze and saw the hunger and possession
flashing there.
This would be trouble
later, she knew, but right now she didn't care. Her skin sizzled and her core clenched
around him, and, when the storm outside reached its peak in an explosion of
light and sound, she joined it. With a scream, she bucked against Creed and let loose a
blast of energy that would have killed anyone
else. But his big body buffered her spasms and her shock of electricity, and,
as if her climax were a trigger, his
took him hard. He shouted her name and pumped into her mercilessly, and she
loved every second of it. She especially loved how he threw his head
back in pleasure, his neck muscles straining, his teeth bared in masculine ecstasy.
In
the flickering light from the storm, his tattoos writhed and his piercings
sparked, turning him into a wild, fierce warrior who could have
stepped out of a medieval battle. God, it was sexy.
With
a ragged groan, he collapsed against her. "Damn," he whispered.
"Yeah."
She dropped her feet to the floor, and he caught her when her knees buckled.
Mumbling a "thanks", she slipped to the side and out of
his grip.
She was still holding her
pistol. Talk about safe sex... "Hey." She glanced around the
room, which was actually just a huge landing
that led to the attic. "The voices are gone."
Told
you." Creed shot her a cocky, lopsided grin.
She
snorted. "You really will do anything to get in my pants, won't you? 'Hey,
babe, if you don't screw me you'll be possessed by demons.' Does
that really work with women?"
He
winked at her. "Worked with you, didn't it?"
Annika
punched him in the shoulder. Hard. Oh, she knew he was kidding, but he deserved
it anyway. Mainly
because what he'd done had earned her gratitude - and her respect. She didn't
need to be softening towards him at all. It
was business.
Ruthlessly,
she shifted into mission-mode. "So what now? Obviously, Kat handled the
demons."
"Now,"
he said, sobering so fast her gut twisted, "we have to kill Bender and
rescue Kat."
"What
do you mean, 'rescue* her?"
He
scowled as he stared up the dark staircase that led to the attic. "She
fought the demons to get them away from us, but they have her. Up
there. With Bender.”
Annika definitely did not like Creed's
ghost tagalong, but she was part of him, and she'd just sacrificed herself to keep them safe.
"OK,
then,” she said, flipping the safety off her pistol, "since
Bender loves those demons so much, let's send him to hell to be with
them."
Annika didn't bother with stealth as
she mounted the stairs to the attic. Bender knew they were coming, so there
was no point in wasting energy.
But that didn't mean
she wasn't cautious. Moving carefully, crouching with her gun drawn, she eased through
the doorway, Creed on her heels. He had that intense look in his eyes again,
and she knew he was either communicating with Kat or trying to
handle the demons. Whatever he was doing, it kept the path clear
for her to get to Bender, and that was all that mattered.
Leaving Creed at the
door, Annika eased behind an antique wardrobe. A flash of movement in her peripheral
vision alerted her to trouble a split second before the bullet punched into the
wood. Pivoting on the balls of her feet, she returned fire, and the muffled
grunt told her she'd hit her mark. Score.
"Be careful,”
Creed whispered, as she started towards the corner where Bender had gone down.
"I'm ... shitV His head rocked back like
he'd been struck, and then he was launching himself at something she couldn't
see.
"Dammit,
Creed! What can I do?”
"Nothing!"
he snarled. "Go!"
She hated feeling
helpless, but he began to chant and hurl salt at a shimmering mass of air, and
yeah, that was his battle. After casting one last,
regretful glance back at him, she crept towards Bender. The guy was
so going to pay for every evil thing he'd done.
She
darted between two furniture boxes, feeling oddly like she was being followed.
Suddenly, pain, ripped into her side. She whirled around,
but nothing was there. Nothing but claw marks over her shirt and skin.
"Hurry up,
Creed," she muttered. Ignoring the stinging cuts, she cleared the boxes,
dropped to one knee, and fired at the human crouching on the floor.
Bender dived behind a dusty desk, and her bullet only grazed
his hip. Before he could recover, she fired again, but once more, an invisible
force struck at her, this time snagging her arm and sending her pistol flying.
Bender took immediate advantage and
charged her. His shoulder rammed her chest with the force of a damned truck. They tumbled to the floor and - oh,
this asshole was so dead. She fired up her electric talent
and,..
nothing.
Bender's fist cracked into her cheek.
"You are going to die in a storm of pain, you little bitch!" Hatred flashed in his eyes as he hit her again, harder,
and agony spiderwebbed through her face. "Kill the male," he screamed,
andAnnika's stomach wrenched at the sound of Creed's grunt of pain and the
crash of glass and breaking wood.
The
edges of Annika's vision blurred with blood that splashed in her eyes. Bender
was bigger and stronger, and, without her killing
electricity, she was seriously compromised.
But
she wasn't at a total disadvantage.
Annika
had been raised to kill, had cut her teeth on knives, and was hitting bullseyes
with crossbows and small firearms at the age of six.
Bender
was going down.
In a quick, smooth
motion, she rocked her legs up and kicked the son of a bitch in the side of the
head. He bit out a curse that cut off when
she hit him from the other side. Off balance, he rocked backwards, leaving her the opening she needed.
Three hard hits to
his nose, throat and mouth knocked him off her and she pounced. She drove her
knee into his gut and, when he gasped, she jabbed her knuckles
into his windpipe. His eyes bugged out as he clawed at his ruined
throat, desperate for air.
Oh, she wanted to
make him suffer, but the sounds of Creed battling creepy, screeching things
prodded her into action. She flipped Bender over, planted her
knees in the small of his back, and then, with cold deliberation,
twisted his head sharply to the right and broke the bastard's neck.
She
didn't waste time savouring her victory. Not when Creed was still fighting.
"Creed?"
"They're
weakened!" he shouted. "Just another second—"
She
didn't hear the rest. A massive pressure slammed down on her head, and all went
black.
Creed was fighting for his
life, vaguely aware that Ani had killed Bender. Broken his neck. Yeah,
somewhere in the periphery of his mind, he remembered why he never
wanted to piss her off.
But
then . .. she was down. But before he could help her, he had to help himself.
Right now, he couldn't even speak, no matter how hard he tried. Although he'd stopped one
of the demons, the strongest was still active,
controlling Kat and now controlling Creed as well, at least partially.
It wasn't
the first time he'd felt Kat's fear, but it was definitely one of the strongest
vibes she'd ever given off.
Kat had called his
name as he cleared the landing. The attic was unfurnished - old and dusty.
Bender was lying dead in the middle of what Creed thought was a
reverse circle of protection, a demon version of a safety
spell against humans.
Kat
had broken that circle, but in the process, she'd become the demons' hostage.
Bastards.
"You let her go."
She's
ours.
Creed,
they're so strong, Kat told him.
Something clawed down his back. A
ferocious headache hit him and it was like inhaling fumes of fire when he attempted to breathe. He went down on all
fours, thanks to a heavy pressure from above. He began to crawl towards Ani, who lay next to Bender.
But
one of the demons dragged him back.
It
was time to end this shit.
He threw a handful of
salt over his shoulder and heard a hiss and a howl. He smelled something burning.
Must have singed one of the bastards. But it wasn't enough.
With
his eyes screwed tightly shut, he allowed himself to go into a trance, one
where he chanted in strange tongues and was pretty sure that more spirits than just
Kat moved through him. But the spirits had always
been benevolent and had never asked him to host them after his job was done.
“Kat needs all of
you -please," he heard himself say and felt the jolt as spirits travelled
through him. He heard Kat's wails -first of pain, but then followed by a
triumphant yell of freedom.
There
was a squeal, like two cats fighting, and then a demon materialized over Ani.
It was looking down, rubbing its hoofed hands together, like it
had picked her for a meal. Or worse.
It was about to
pounce when Kat went flying at it. She was a tiny spirit, but like Ani, she was
hell on wheels.
No
one fucks with me, she told the demon. Then she proceeded
to show him why, using an enchantment spell that she'd never
revealed to Creed.
Now
Creed - throw the salt!
He did, gagging at the stench the burning
apparition left behind on the fast track to hell. He ran over to Annika, who hadn't moved.
"Ani,
please . . . please be OK." He turned her over and checked her pulse. It
was fast, but that was normal for her. Her colour was all right - a
little pale, but her eyes weren't opening.
Bring
her downstairs. Get her out of the house, Kat told him. He
didn't have time to wonder why the hell Kat was being so nice about
a woman he was interested in romantically. He simply followed Kat's directions,
moving down two sets of stairs and kicking open the massive front doors.
The sun had burst
forth over the house. The grass was still wet but Creed knelt there anyway,
with Annika still in his arms. And then, without thinking, he
brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her. Gently. He moved his
lips to her neck and held them there for a few minutes, until she began to
rouse.
"Creed,"
she murmured.
I’m
here, baby. It's all good. You got Bender, I got the demons."
"Good."
She licked her bottom lip and sat up, still on his lap. "Let's get out of
here."
"I’ll
call in an extract for you, but I've got to stay."
"I
thought you killed the demons?”
"Until this
demon link is broken, the entities Bender's called on will continue to
manifest. They won't be limited to this house. People in the area will
be vulnerable. So this will spread if it's not completely cleansed."
"How
long will that take?"
He shrugged.
"Days, probably. Just let Devlin know I'll be back soon."
But she was dialling her phone - he saw
ACRO flash on her screen and then she was barking an order before clicking off. "I'm staying with
you."
Hot
damn, he wasn't going to argue. "Just tell me one thing."
"What's
that?"
"Before,
when I told you to think happy thoughts - what were you thinking about?"
She yanked him
close, a hand on the back of his neck, at once gentle and strong, 'You know it
was you, Creed. Always vou."
TAG Team
Nicola Marsh
The
woman had balls.
Big,
brass cojones according to rumour circulating the ADF, though the
technical terms in Coralee Keaton's Australian Defence Force file
read "brave, brilliant, resourceful”.
Garcia Diaz - Fox, to anyone who wanted to
walk out of his office without a permanent limp - had witnessed her demonstrate
those admirable qualities first-hand.
Now
she was back.
To
muscle in on his operation.
Again.
"Son
of a bitch," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing the pads of
his thumbs into them, wishing he could obliterate the memory of
this woman and what he knew about her.
It
didn't work.
Her
file was embedded in his brain: Coralee Keaton - Lee, if you didn't want a
Remington 870 shotgun aimed at your head - thirty-four, joined the
4th Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment (Commando) after six
years army service, and became part of the embedded Tactical Assault Group
(TAG) after 9/”.
An integral
part of TAG, if her results were anything to go by. This, on top of her
leadership in 4 RAR Impressive.
Was
there anything the ball-breaking wonder woman couldn't do?
A
brief pounding on the door had his eyes snapping open in time to see her stride
into his office, her expression a study in polite professionalism,
her eyes eerily blank, as if she didn't know him.
Intimately.
"You cut your
hair," he said, throwing his pen on the stack of monotonous paperwork in
front of him, pissed at her intrusion yet
glad for the distraction.
Coralee
Keaton might be a pain in the ass to work with but her taut body, long legs and
impressive D cup more than compensated for the grief.
"You
cut your surveillance on the Ebola job."
She
slammed her palms on his desk, loomed over him. "It nearly botched the
whole operation."
"But it
didn't." Leaning back in his chair, he locked hands behind his head,
thrust his chin up, his smug smile
guaranteed to grate.
She
reared back, her blue eyes as frigid as the Yarra River on a winter's day as
she stared him down.
"You
better not make the same mistake on the ricin job."
He'd had enough of
this crap. Balling his hands into fists, he stood so fast his chair slammed
into the filing cabinet behind him. "I don't make mistakes,
Coralee."
He
deliberately used her full first name, hoping to get a rise.
It
worked.
"Then
what the hell am I doing here?"
“Wasting
tax payers' money?” Stalking around the desk, he stopped a foot in
front of her, invading her personal space, daring her to make an issue of it.
With
a toss of her glorious shoulder-length black bob, she met his taunting gaze
head-on.
"I'm
the best there is." Jabbing his chest for good measure, she smirked.
"And don't you forget it."
Like
he ever could.
He'd tried to
forget, dammit, tried with every rebellious cell in his body, but the memory of
the last time they'd hooked up on a job was burned into his brain.
The Victoria Police
Special Operations Group had requested the semces of an expert from TAG to deal
with a terrorist plot involving the Eureka Towers, Melbourne's tallest
building. He'd resented the inference from his superiors that he
couldn't deal with the case of his own, a resentment that peaked when Coralee Keaton
had strutted into this very office in a tight, poppy-coloured power suit,
packing a lethal smile along with her weapon.
She'd wielded her
sexuality better than her Heckler & Koch MP-5 pistol and it had pissed him
off more than
her cocky attitude.
Resistance
had been futile; and he wasn't just talking about where the bad guys were
concerned. The memory of their one incredible encounter had him hard the instant
she stabbed at his chest.
Gritting
his teeth against the urge to grab her, he said, "What do you know about
the ricin threat?"
As he switched to
business her shoulders loosened slightly, an infinitesimal movement that
would've gone unobserved by the average person. But his highly
honed observation skills picked up on it, along with the
subtle shift in body language as she relaxed off the balls of her feet, settled
back on to her heels. Good, he wanted her off guard when he gave marching
orders.
"When we foiled
the Ebola plot, the same group responsible threatened to release ricin within
the month." She tapped her watch. "Our time's up.
Intel suggests the attack will happen in the next twenty-four hours."
"Any
ideas where?"
He
had his own sources, had an inkling, but wanted her to show him hers before he
showed her his.
Childish? Hell, yeah, but this woman
didn't play fair. She played to win, even if that included making him look like an incompetent jerk.
"Ricin
does most damage when ingested so we think the attack will be via a supermarket
food source.”
He
swore. "Yeah, like we can shut down the whole damn food chain in this
state.”
"It
gets worse.”
He
raised his hands palm up, wiggled his fingers. "Give it to me.”
For a tension-fraught
second he imagined her doing exactly that, the sudden flare of heat in her eyes
garnering an instant response in his groin. But the flicker died before
he could analyse it as anything other than a figment of a wishful
imagination and he damped his libido with a mental curse.
"Liquid ridn can
contaminate water too.” She ticked points off on her fingers.
"Water storages are in danger. Milk
supplies. You name it, this baby can contaminate it.”
"A friggin’ nightmare.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, a habit he’d tried to conquer
and failed. Another thing that pissed him off. He hated failing. At anything.
"So what you're telling me is if we don't stop these psychos, we've got mass casualties on our hands?”
She
nodded, her expression grim. "Ricin's a potent toxin, a phytotox-albumin
protein derived from castor beans.”
He
screwed up his nose, remembering his mum trying to shove spoonfuls of horrific
castor oil down his throat when he had pneumonia as a kid.
"Always knew that castor oil shit was lethal.”
The corners of her
mouth twitched. "Ricin's a waste mash from producing castor oil. It's
created relatively easily and inexpensively.”
"This
just gets better and better.”
She paused, gnawed on her bottom lip, a
strangely vulnerable gesture, which ratcheted up his concern further.
If
the bad guys had kick-ass Coralee worried, he should be worried too.
"Tell
me the rest.”
As if coming to a
decision, she squared her shoulders, nodded. "Ricin isn't an ideal
bio-weapon but due to the fact it's widely available and easily
produced .. .” She shrugged, not needing to elaborate.
He understood the
threat they all faced, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention
as a shiver
of foreboding crept along his spine. "If we don't manage to stop these
bastards, what symptoms do we look
for?"
Fear, potent and
insidious, shimmered in her eyes before she blinked, effectively shutting down
any sign of
emotion. "Fever, coughing and gastrointestinal problems are likely to be
the first symptoms. Ingested, ricin causes
stomach irritation, gastroenteritis, bloody diarrhoea and vomiting, followed by
vascular collapse and death."
His loud expletive
didn't elicit a reaction as she continued. "There's no treatment or
prophylaxis. The good news? If exposure isn't fatal within
three to five days, the victim will usually recover."
"Ain't
that just peachy. So if you don't bleed out your ass—" he bit down on the rest of his
crassness and she frowned "—you
might stand a chance?"
"The
other good news? Because it's a large protein it isn't easily absorbed across
the skin so dermal exposure isn't a problem."
"Meaning
if you're contaminated and I touch you, I'm safe?"
This
time, he definitely didn't imagine the flash of hunger in her greedy gaze, the
hint of hope he'd actually do it.
He reached for her,
trailed a fingertip down her forearm, lingered on the back of her hand before
slipping underneath, tracing her pulse point in slow, languorous
circles, savouring the rampant pounding which indicated she was as
turned on as him.
She endured his caress
for a moment before spinning away, turning her back on him. 'That's right. Any other questions?"
Her voice, so steady
and sure moments ago, held a subtle quiver in undertone that urged him to push her,
to get her to admit the spark between them needed little to ignite.
"Just
one."
Propping his butt on the
desk, crossing his ankles, he waited for her to turn back to face him, knowing she would, with curiosity eating away at her.
She
didn't disappoint, swivelling back to face him, but not before he'd copped a
very nice eyeful of the sensational butt he remembered grabbing during their lone
memorable encounter.
"Spit
it out."
“When
all this is over, want to get together again?"
Lee clenched her
hands, welcoming the bite of pain as her fingers dug into her palms, the faint
sting from
her bitten nails a distraction from the urge to plant both palms squarely in
the middle of Fox's chest and shove, hard.
The
guy hadn't changed a bit. Still insufferable, still cocky, still too damn much.
She knew he'd bait her
the instant she'd landed this assignment, knew he'd taunt her with references
to that one crazy momentary lapse in reason
three years ago.
She'd wiped that
memory, eradicated it along with every other insane impulse she'd ever followed
through
with.
Hooking
up with Fox had been dumb.
Rating
their mind-blowing encounter as the best sex of her life was dumber.
Here,
now, with him radiating that potent masculinity she responded to on a visceral
level – the dumbest.
She
could handle men. Good ones, bad ones, she kicked their collective asses and
enjoyed it.
But
there was something about Fox . . . something about the way he looked at her,
as if he could see down to her soul. That scared her more than
all the terrorists in the world.
"We
need to concentrate on the assignment.”
His
confident grin didn't slip. "And later?"
Eye-balling
him, she said, "I walk out of here and everyone's happy."
"Spoilsport."
He ducked forwards
quickly, his whisper in the vicinity of her ear catching her off guard, as much
as the fact she let him get that close.
The door to his
office flung open and they leaped apart like two rabid dogs doused with a hose,
his expression instantly shuttered as he glared at some guy
in an ill-fitting suit.
"Sorry
to interrupt, boss."
''What's
up, Forbes?"
"Intel
update just in suggests threat escalating."
Fox's
eyes narrowed. "Suggests? What the hell is that? Do we have anything
definite?"
Forbes stiffened and
for a second Lee could've sworn she glimpsed malevolence behind his guarded gaze, resentment in his
thin lips.
"I'll
email the latest report through right now."
'You
do that."
Fox's dismissive nod would've annoyed the
crap out of her so she could only imagine what it did for a resentful subordinate.
"Wound
a bit tight?"
"Him
or me?"
He
dropped into his chair, swung the screen on his laptop into view, waving to the
seat opposite.
She obliged, but only
because her feet were aching from the new boots she was wearing in. "Your lackey's
a little stressed."
"New
guy," he said, his eyes riveted to the screen.
She admired that
about him, his dedication, his ability to switch off to everything other than
the task at hand.
She
was the same. Except around him.
For some insane reason, he was the only
guy she'd ever worked with, defence force or otherwise, who could rattle her. It bugged the hell out of her
and she handled it the only way she knew how.
By
busting his ass.
'You planning on sharing
any of that intel, hotshot?"
His
gaze swung her way, amusement warring with concentration. "That depends.”
"On
what?"
He crooked his
finger, the corners of his mouth curving into a sexy smile that jump-started
every starving hormone in her neglected body.
He wasn't handsome,
not in the technical sense. Nose broken too many times, eyes a muddy mix of greyish
hazel, jagged scar extending from the corner of his mouth to his chin. The scar
should've detracted. Instead, it enhanced the potent ruggedness
he wore like a badge of honour.
Ignoring his
beckoning, she deliberately sat back, raised an eyebrow, pretending his
flirtation didn't excite her, that she didn't give a damn
about his response.
"On
whether you ..."
His
head snapped up at the sound of a high-pitched wail, disbelief slashing a frown
before he leaped from his chair, vaulted the desk and grabbed
her out of the chair before she could say "What the f—?"
"Safe
room. Now!"
The urgency underlying
his deadly calm tone chilled her blood more than the threat sending them into hiding.
"What's
going on?"
"Just
move!"
A
burst of gunfire had them dropping to the floor and crawling commando across
the office at a cracking pace.
She
should’ve been scared. Instead, the crack of gunfire sent a shot of adrenaline
so potent, so addictive through her, she responded by rote. She was
trained for this, had faced worse than some nut infiltrating police
headquarters. Her only regret? This whole thing would be over before she had a
chance to kick some sicko ass.
They'd almost made
it to the safe room when an eerie silence descended and Fox held up a hand,
calling a halt.
Before she could blink
he'd changed direction, slithering across the floor towards the window, half raising
himself to take a peek while she shook her head and made a slicing action
across her throat.
Yeah,
like he'd listen to her, the testosterone-fuelled fool.
Shimmying on her
belly, she joined him, earning a withering glare. She blew him a kiss. He
frowned but couldn't hide the gleam of admiration in those silver eyes.
So
the hotshot liked a bit of sass? Like she didn't know that already. When they'd
hooked up, the wordplay had been just as exciting as the foreplay. As for the sex
. . . when she squirmed on the floor this time,
it had little to do with getting closer to scope out the target and everything
to do with a scorching memory that heated her cheeks. And she never blushed.
Signalling
her to stay down, he slowly pushed into a half-crouch, peeked over the window
ledge and promptly dropped flat to his belly again, his face ashen.
She
raised an eyebrow, asking a silent "what?"
Before
he could respond, she got her answer.
"Get
that useless bitch Keaton out here before we blow this slut's brains out."
Her right hand
automatically reached for her weapon, clenching in fury. The bitch label she
could handle. Calling her useless was just plain untrue and
well below the belt.
"You've
got three seconds.”
Un-holstering
her weapon, she crawled towards the window, ignoring Fox's vigorous shake of
the head.
"Safe
room, now!" he mouthed, as the booming, arsenic-laced voice screamed,
"You want another death on your conscience, bitch? Fine."
Her
gaze darted towards the door. Three seconds wasn't terribly long to fling it
open and pop the psycho holding some poor woman hostage, and that's
without the advantage of casing the scene first.
"One."
She
edged closer to the door.
"Two."
Her
hand hovered on the knob, twisting slowly.
"Three."
But
before she could wrench the door open, two things happened simultaneously.
A gun blast roared in her ears as Fox
tackled her to the ground and dragged her towards the safe room like she weighed nothing.
"You
think they won't do the same to you the second you step out there?" he
hissed, bundling her into the safe room and hitting the electronic button to seal the
door.
As the door clicked shut, she leaped to
her feet and grabbed hold of his shirt, hauling him to within an inch of her face. "What the hell do you think
you're doing?"
She
recognized her mistake a second too late. Having him this close, his shirt
bunched in her fists, touching him, was asking for trouble.
"Saving
your sweet ass."
With
a smile dripping pure sin, one hand snaked around and cupped her butt,
caressing the curve before squeezing gently.
She should've reared
back, given him a swift knee in the jewels for his trouble but the instant he
stroked her,
the latent heat within her exploded.
Without pausing to think
or rationalize, she slammed her mouth against his.
There was nothing remotely tender about
the kiss, just a hungry melding of ravenous souls feeding an unrelenting, driving urge to get lost in the
moment.
Tongues
duelled in a battle of wills, but in this game, she didn't care who won.
Breaking the rules, gaining the upper hand, all meant nothing
with his talented mouth playing havoc, stoking her inner fire, driving
her wild with need.
Desperate
for more, she clung to him, angled her head for better access, moaned, shocked
at how fast he'd pushed her to the point of no return.
As
she ground her pelvis into his, he broke the kiss, his breath ragged, his eyes
unfocused.
Mortified, she shoved him
away, ran a shaky hand across her face, taking valuable seconds to compose herself.
When she was certain her
voice wouldn't shake, she schooled her face into an impassive mask, met his gaze. "Want to tell me what's going
on?"
'You're
the one who kissed me."
"Not
that."
She folded her arms,
paced the claustrophobic space, silently cursing her lapse in judgment, her
lack of concentration.
They wouldn't be in this
safe room unless the situation was serious and not knowing what the hell was going on didn't sit well with her. And the madder
she got, the more likely she'd do something stupid again; like wrap her legs around the sexy SOG commander
with the power to drive her wild with a touch.
"How
the hell did some lunatic breach SOG security let alone bring weapons into the
joint? And who was the poor woman who got killed because of me?" She stopped
pacing, fixed him with a death glare. "And what the hell were you thinking dragging me in here to hide like a mangy
dog when we should be out there busting
asses?"
Sorrow wiped the smugness off his face as
he ran a hand over the back of his neck. "We couldn't have done anything to save her. There's a team out
there, six from a brief head count. The ringleader had Senior Constable Lina Bader in a headlock with a gun
locked on her temple, the rest of the goons had M4A5 Carbines pointed at the other staff. Get the
picture?"
Yeah,
she got it.
If
she'd opened the door in an attempt to save the life of that woman, she
would've suffered the same fate.
Not
that she was afraid of death. She'd faced it several times now, stared it in
the evil eye, won.
But
the injustice of Snr. Constable Bader dying because of her, trading her life
for hers, would eat away at her for many a lonely night yet.
"What
I want to know is what they want with you?"
"How
the hell should I know?" she snarled, racking her brains for a clue, any
clue.
He pinned her with a
searching stare that would've had subordinates squirming. She eyeballed him
back, not giving an inch, a small part of her aching for that senior constable,
a larger part of her mad as hell.
You've
got no idea?"
Muttering a pithy
curse, she swung away, glared at the steel door. "If I made a list of
every freak that had it in for me, it"d circle the Australian
coastline, twice."
"Same
here."
She heard an edge in his
voice, as if he were holding something back. She slammed a useless fist against
the door, winced at the pain, then turned back to face him.
'You're
not telling me everything."
Wariness
clouded his eyes as he compressed his lips.
"Come
on, Fox, spit it out. We're in this together."
She only just caught
his muttered "worse luc"' as he hit a button on the key console,
bringing up a plethora of screens depicting different areas of the SOG
offices.
"See
that?" He jabbed a finger at the top right screen and she squinted,
scrutinizing the scene.
"Some
suit dragging the body away."
"Not
a suit. That's Forbes."
Her
eyes widened as realization hit. "He's your leak?"
Malevolence turned his
eyes brittle blue. "I saw him alongside the perps. He must've let those
bastards in."
Fox
blamed himself.
She could see it in
every tense line creasing the corners of his eyes, bracketing his tight-lipped
mouth, in the rigid neck muscles. And though it was none of her
business, she wanted to offer him some small comfort.
Laying
a hand on his forearm, she said, "It's not your fault."
Pain flickered in
those steely slate depths before he masked it with rage, shrugged off her hand.
'Wrong. I vet all my personnel, so damn right it's my
fault."
She could've offered false platitudes,
more trite apologies, but it wouldn't help. She'd been in a similar position on the front lines once, had a major she'd
personally trained go AWOL after botching a big offensive. He got two soldiers killed in the process.
Though there hadn't
been a thing she could do at the time, she'd beaten herself up over it for
months afterwards until she'd realized her own career was
suffering.
Fox
couldn't change what had happened but she could help him manage the outcome.
"So
what's the plan?"
With
his eyes riveted to the screens, he said, "We wait."
Patience, as well as humility and backing
off from a fight, wasn't one of her virtues. She'd learned the hard way that it
paid to be on the offensive, to have one up on your enemy before they jumped
you. And while being locked away in a safe
room looked like the bad guys had the upper hand right now, she intended on switching the positions real fast.
"Got
a better plan?"
He tore his gaze from the screen, let it
roam her body at will, a long, slow, leisurely perusal that left a tingling trail as if he'd physically touched her.
She didn't move,
didn't flinch. She'd been trained well. But she seethed on the inside with a
terrifyingly potent cocktail of lust and hormones and blinding need.
"They
want you. They're not getting you. So we wait to hear their other demands.”
"What
if there aren't any? What if I'm it?"
"Then
screw them."
She
shivered at the resolute set to his jaw, glad one of them was convinced.
Hostage situations
were a pain in the ass and being in the middle of one - being the prime target
-annoyed the crap out of her. As if she wasn't haying a shitty enough
day.
"You
cold?"
She
shook her head, cursing he saw her reaction.
"Scared?"
His
voice dropped to a low murmur that caressed her nerve endings, smoother than
silk, soothing. For a second she contemplated what it would be like to give in
to the alien impulse to fling herself into his arms and
blot out everything else.
"Cretins like
that don't scare me." She jerked her thumb at the screens, her attention
snagged by the leader waving his gun around. 'You have
sound on this thing?"
He
shook his head. "Only if they come into my office."
"Looks
like you're about to get your wish."
He followed her line
of vision, eyes narrowing as they watched all the perpetrators, bar the leader,
evacuate.
"What's
he up to?" she muttered, scanning the screens to keep track of the
leader's movements as he strode across the outer office, grabbed hold
of Forbes, and held the gun to his head.
"Nothing
the little shit doesn't deserve," Fox said, jamming his hands into his
pockets as he stepped closer to the screens.
"No
one deserves a bullet in the brain.''
Raising
an eyebrow, he darted a quick glance her way. 'You're not going soft on me, are
you?"
"Hell,
no."
She
winced as the leader jabbed the gun barrel into Forbes' head, the traitor
stumbling, falling to his feet, before being kicked along.
Straight into Fox's office.
"They can't hear
us?" she whispered, grateful when Fox shook his head and pointed to a tiny
green button.
"Only
if I hit this. Away to communicate if needed."
"The
bitch in here?”
She stiffened as the leader's booming
voice filtered through the safe room's intercom, took a slight step back despite the reinforced stainless wall
separating her from a potential bullet.
Forbes nodded, his
snivelling whimper eliciting disgust as Fox swore, his finger hovering over the
button but refraining from stabbing it.
"Then
where the hell is she, shit-head?"
Forbes
jerked a shaky thumb in their direction. "S-s-safe room."
As the leader stalked
towards them, his face tilling the screen, a flicker of recognition lit her
conscience. She
knew him, had crossed paths with him .. .but where?
After several useless
attempts at banging against the smooth steel door, he swivelled, strode back to
tower over the cowering Forbes.
"Open
it."
"I
c-can't."
The leader smiled, a
purely evil grin that raised the hackles on the back of her neck, as he
levelled the muzzle against Forbes' temple.
"I
said open it."
"Jeez," Fox
muttered, turning away before the inevitable shot came, harsh, distorted
through the intercom.
"Now
who's going soft?" she said, wanting to offer him support, knowing he
wouldn't take it.
"Just
can't watch one of my SOGs cower like that. Goes against the grain, you
know?"
This
time, when she laid a hand on his arm, he allowed it to linger. "Yeah, I
know."
Kicking Forbes limp
body, the leader turned in their direction again. "I know you can see me,
Garcia. See that?" He toed Forbes' head, what was left of it.
"Your little lackey gave me all the information I needed. I know all about
you and the second-rate hack team you run here."
Swinging the gun
Forbes' way, he fired off a few more rounds into the lifeless body, which
jerked like an obscene marionette. "I'm going to systematically execute
every one of your people unless you hand over that
bitch now!"
"Fox
..." His name hovered on her lips, a pleading whisper. For help? For
advice? For salvation?
He
held his hand up, not even looking at her. "I'll handle this."
Punching
at the green talk button, he growled, "Go to hell."
She flinched, waiting
for another outburst of bullets to riddle Forbes. Instead, the leader grinned
an ice-cold grin that sent a shiver of foreboding creeping
along her skin.
"A
man of few words, Garcia. I like that."
Without
warning, he angled the gun towards the interior glass windows of the office and
fired at random, shattering every one, not caring who stood
beyond them. In that second she knew, no matter what they did or
said, this psychopath wouldn't give a damn.
He
had his own agenda, had no value for life, believed he was God.
They
were screwed.
Dropping
the gun to his side, he leered at the camera. "Much like me. I prefer to
let my actions speak louder than words.”
He
glanced at his watch, evil grin widening. "You have exactly five minutes
left to hand over the bitch before this place blows.”
To
her surprise, Fox chuckled. "Amateur.”
Sidling up to him, she
peered at the screen. "You know something I don't? Or does the thought of fireworks
turn you on?”
"You
have no idea what turns me on.”
He swung and grabbed
her so fast she didn't have time to react. Her, with her lightning reflexes and
superior evasive skills. With all her training.
"Are
you nuts? We're about to be blown to—"
"It’s
a bluff."
Fox jerked his head towards the screens
without releasing his hold on her. "You think he'd be hanging around if this place was about to blow? No bloody
way. He's a redneck punk who has a grudge against you and thinks we're stupid
enough to fall for his tricks."
"He's
killed two of your people."
His expression sobered. "The guy's a
loose cannon. He has about five minutes before back-up uses the subterranean
tunnels to storm this place."
"And
there's absolutely no way he could have the office wired?"
Fox shook his head.
"Nobody can get close to the outside perimeter. Only way he got weapons in
here was through Forbes. As for explosives
..."
He glanced at the
screen again, at the leader pacing his office with an angry scowl. "He's
still here. Even if he had smuggled explosives in, wired this
area, he wouldn't hang around."
It made sense, but she
couldn't shake the trickle of unease prickling her skin. "We should find
out who he is, what he really wants."
"Last
chance, Garcia."
Their attention
snapped back to the screen in time to see the leader head for the door.
"That bitch screwed up my Ebola plans. Not a chance in
hell she's tampering with the ricin."
"Jeez!
That's where I’ve seen him before." She smacked her forehead with the palm
of her hand. "Ansel Aquino. Was on the fringe of the Ebola conspiracy. Nothing ever
connected to him. No one talked. TAG assumed
he was a bit player in the end, didn't pay him much attention."
"Bit
player?" Fox's eyebrows shot heavenwards, his lips compressed in an
unimpressed line.
Not needing to defend
herself to anyone, least of all this guy, she frowned. "Guess we both
messed up, huh?"
"Point taken.”
He grunted, having the grace to look sheepish. "Heads are gonna roll over
this, probably mine."
"These guys are
good. Infiltration takes years of training.” She jerked her head
towards the screen, at Forbes1 corpse. "They're
patient as well as crazy.”
Her earlier unease
spread, roiling up from her gut, upwards and outwards, as she registered the
empty room on the screen. "You know
your theory about Ansel sticking around if the place was wired to blow?”
Fox
followed her line of vision, nodded. "Yeah, I know. The bastard's gone”
"Which
means .. .”
"Either
we're about to meet our maker in a million pieces or back-up will be here in
four minutes."
He
tapped his watch, pulled a rueful face designed to make her smile. Pity she
didn't feel like laughing.
"I don't know
about you, but if these are my last four minutes on earth, I'm going to make
the most of it.”
"By
doing what?”
"This.”
He yanked her into his
arms, crushed her mouth in a devastating kiss that caused more fallout than any
potential explosion.
With her hormones
instantly hot-wired, she kissed him back, desperately, frantically, crazily,
before the reality
of the situation crashed in and she planted both palms against his rock-hard
chest. He didn't budge an inch.
"Are
you nuts? We can't do this—"
'You
want to spend your last few moments on earth scared witless or having the best
sex of your life?”
"Cocky
bastard," she muttered, a quiver of excitement making her hands tremble,
betraying her answer before she spoke.
"Am
I wrong?"
He ran a fingertip
across her bottom lip, not giving her a chance to speak. "As I remember
from our last encounter, you're qualified to judge."
"Jeez,
you're a—”
He
kissed away any potential protest. Any argument would've been a moot point
anyway, as she couldn't fault his fractured logic.
If
she had a few minutes to live, she'd be doing just that - living - not counting
down the seconds to sayonara.
"Stop
thinking,” he murmured against her lips, tracing their contour with
his tongue, nipping, nibbling, teasing her to join in the fun.
"Make
me."
He
didn't need to be asked twice, backing her up against the nearest wall,
devouring her with his mouth.
His
hands roamed everywhere, eager, searching, frisking her better than any border
patrol guard.
"Damn
you're hot."
He
groaned as she arched into him, pressing her pelvis into his groin, wanting to
torture him as much as he was torturing her.
"Right
back at you," she whispered in his ear, biting him, revelling in driving
him wild as he tugged her panties down along with her trousers.
"You
know Td take this slow if we had the time, right?"
"Fast is good," she bit out as
his thumb zeroed in on her hot spot, circling her clitoris while his fingers delved into her wet heat, ripping a moan from deep
within.
Tension
coiled as he picked up tempo, her muscles taut, expectant, stiffeningas the
wave of unbelievable bliss built, sweeping her closer to a mindless ecstasy she
craved.
"Oh
yeah, Fox ... now—"
Her pleasure peaked,
crescendoed, as she rode the crest before crashing over the other side, spent
and sated as she sagged against the wall, her hands
clutching his shirt for anchorage in a world suddenly tipped on
its head.
Surprised
to find her eyes closed, she opened them, the sheer unbridled sexual intent in
his burning gaze plucking an answering response deep within.
The
orgasm had been mind-blowing. She wanted more. Heck, she wanted it all. Now.
"How
many minutes we got left?"
"Long
enough.”
His
wicked grin notched up her anticipation as he grabbed his wallet out of his
back pocket, yanked a foil packet out and fumbled with his belt
buckle.
"Let
me."
She would've liked to
tease him, to prolong the build-up, but they didn't have the luxury of time.
She deftly unbuckled him, making quick work of the button and
zip, the back of her knuckles grazing his erection in the process and
eliciting a low moan before he clamped down on her hand.
"Two
minutes and counting.”
He
sheathed himself in record time, hoisted her up and braced her against the
wall, and, as she wrapped her legs around his waist, he drove into
her with a ferocity that made her gasp.
"Yeah,
just like that,” she sighed, the tension building again as he slid
in and out.
Harder.
Faster. The delicious friction of him filling her, thrilling her, had her
clamping around him, wishing she could prolong the incredible
satisfaction for ever.
"Come
for me,” he said, a millisecond before she did, her tightly wound
tension exploding in a fireball of
sensation, annihilating
everything but this moment, with this man.
His orgasm followed a
moment later as he threw back his head, neck muscles rigid with rapture, his
face twisted in a mask of sweet agony.
"That
was-"
“Friggin'
amazing."
He
had an annoying habit of finishing her sentences but she'd forgive him. This
time.
Allowing herself the luxury of touching
him, she stroked his cheek, savouring the stubble prickling her palm, hoping she could convey her rampaging,
rioting feelings with a simple caress.
If
she were to die in the next minute, she'd go happy.
“Fox-"
A
sudden burst of gunfire drew their attention to the screen and they grabbed
their clothes, redressing in a tangle of arms and legs.
"Gunfire's
good, right?”
She hopped around on
one foot, trying to shove her toes into her trouser leg. He reached out,
steadied her
with a helping hand, his thoughtfulness scaring her more than the intimate
contact they'd just had.
"Yeah.
Means the cavalry's arrived.”
She
picked up an edge of the unsaid in his reserved tone.
"Or?”
"Or
there's dissention in the psycho ranks."
Finally
fastening the snap on her trousers, she said optimistically, "I'm vying
for the first option."
As
if on cue, a SWAT team swarmed his office, looking like ravenous ants at a
gourmet picnic.
"Guess
this means we live to fight another day."
Her voice held the slightest
quiver, the impact of what they'd just faced, what they'd just done, finally
hitting her.
Understanding
gleamed in his dark gaze as it roved her face. "You OK?"
She nodded,
swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. She didn't know what unnerved her
more: the incredible sex, his surprising tenderness or how close
she'd come to death yet again.
"About
what happened—”
"Ssh . . ."
She placed her hand over his mouth, not wanting to hear any trite lines, any
false excuses. "Heat of the moment. Lost our heads.
Let's leave it at that.”
He pressed her hand
against his lips, placed a scorching kiss directly on her palm before curling
her fingers over it.
"You sure you
want to leave it?" He slid an arm around her waist, tugged her closer.
"We're pretty good together.”
Damn
him for being right.
Damn him for tempting
her to feel. To feel anything other than the enforced emotional numbness she lived
with every day.
"Garcia,
you in there?”
Relieved,
she jerked her head towards the console. "Duty calls."
He searched her eyes, looking for . . .
what? A sign that she cared? Some flicker of emotion other than passion? He'd
be searching a long time. She'd learned to mask emotion from an early age, had
learned the hard way it didn't pay to show
weakness.
"We're not finished," he
murmured, brushing a soft, barely there kiss across her lips that reached down to her soul and tweaked, hard.
'Yeah,
we are."
Inhaling a sharp
breath, she jabbed at the button to open the door, marshalling her defences,
slipping her
take-no-prisoners badass mask back in place.
Yet as she stepped
through the door, Fox's hand resting lightly in the small of her back, she knew
that what had occurred in the safe room had rattled her far
more than any bio-weapon threat she'd faced.
Fox
nodded at the chief SWAT. "Place secured?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Casualties?"
“All
infiltrators taken down, sir."
"Their
leader?"
The
chief nodded. "Affirmative, sir."
"Damn,"
she muttered, a small part of her glad the world was rid of vermin like Ansel
Aquino, a larger part annoyed as hell they wouldn't get to interrogate him and
discover how far-reaching this plot was.
"Good
work."
Fox slapped the SWAT
chief on the back, led him away, their heads bent close as they exchanged info.
Info she should be privy to, given the ricin threat.
"Fox,
can I have a word?"
He held up a finger asking for a minute
while she inwardly fumed. She wasn't one of his subordinates, some lackey he could order around. Who the hell
did he think he was?
Taking several
calming breaths, she deliberately turned her back on him, knowing her foul mood
had little
to do with him and everything to do with the jumble of dangerous emotions
careening out of control within her.
She
should never have done him in the safe room.
As his hand landed lightly on her
shoulder, he spun her around, his gaze warm. Regret tore through her like shrapnel.
Regret
she'd let him get close even for a few minutes, regret she'd opened herself up
to him a second time when she never, ever, went back for seconds, but most of all,
regret she had to walk out the door and not
look back.
"What's
up?"
Shrugging
off his hand, she crossed her arms. "The ricin threat? Or have you
forgotten?”
"You think what
happened between us in there—"
he jerked his thumb at the safe room "—made me lose focus?" His eyes darkened to polished
pewter, the scar beneath his mouth twitching. "As hot as you are, Covalee. I don't ever lose sight of a target.”
"Don't call me that!” she
snapped, more pissed off at her blush than his use of the name she hated in all
its feminine glory.
He scanned her face,
his expression inscrutable. "Relax. Your mate Ansel had a mini hard drive
on him. Techies
are working on it now; we should have all ricin data in a few minutes. From the
prelim reports, it looks like the threat is
over. He ran the show, nothing happens without his say-so.”
"Good."
She
glanced at her watch, eager to get home, wash this day off her. "That
means Fm not needed any more, so I'm outta here."
"You're wrong." He grabbed her
hand before she could take a step. Despite her struggles to get free, he held fast. "You're needed."
He
didn't have to say where or when.
She
read the intent in his eyes, the insatiable, irrational hunger that dragged a
visceral response from deep down in her belly.
"I
have to go."
This time, when she
wrenched free he released her. As she strutted to the door, he called out,
"This isn't the end."
Like
hell.
She slammed the door:
on him, on the mistakes she'd made, on any possible future with a guy who undermined
her better than her past.
She could handle abuse,
torture, retribution.
She
couldn't handle feeling anything for him.
Ever.
But then the door creaked
open and she stiffened.
"Lee?"
Determined
not to break stride, she picked up the pace.
"See
you at my place tonight. Eight sharp."
A
ready curse, telling Fox exactly where he could shove his cocky command, sprung
to her lips.
"We
owe it to ourselves."
His
low tone, the simple truth, reached deep down and tweaked her fortified heart,
making her feel when she'd spent a lifetime trying to do anything
but.
Feeling
left her vulnerable. Feeling left her weak. And she couldn't be either, not in
her profession.
But after what they'd
just been through, maybe he was right? Maybe they did owe it to themselves.
What did she have to lose?
She
glanced over her shoulder, her lips curved into a smug smile. "See you
there. If you're lucky."
His triumphant grin sent
a shiver of anticipation through her.
Tag,
you're it.
The Game
Gennita Low
Advantage
- The first move, by White, begins with a slight
advantage in time.
Small
advantage - An advantage so insignificant that the
opponent sometimes doesn't even realize it is
an advantage. Accumulation of small advantages leads to a winning attack.
One
John
Dallas adjusted his binoculars. Scowled. Adjusted them again.
"Well, I'll be
damned,” he muttered softly, so no one could actually hear his
words. His horse moved restlessly at the sound of his voice.
His displeasure must have
somehow conveyed itself to the man on horseback beside him. "Do you not like what you see, Johan?" The man spoke in
accented English, using the Muslim variation of John's name. "I assure you she comes from good stock.
Maybe your European schooling has made you unused to her clothing, but I have been told she is pleasing to
look at." The last sentence was spoken loudly, so the others behind them could listen in, if they chose.
John snorted, his
eyes glued to the binoculars. He knew what the man was trying to do - make sure
he didn't forget he had a role to play. As if he could. His
grip tightened as he surveyed the approaching group of
people.
His companion
obviously didn't like that reaction, because he started speaking in his native
Pakistani dialect hurriedly. "She is a little old, but that's
because she, unlike most village women, has been to school. But
that's what you demanded, that she be educated. And you agreed that her dowry
is what you wanted."
Yeah, amazing how
they came up with the perfect candidate. He'd thought his request almost impossible,
but as always, the powers that be had a way to make things happen. He reined in
his temper and put away the binoculars. He pulled at the collar of
his garment. It was stifling hot and he wanted out of these
Pakistani sacks. He wanted to be back in the States. So the faster he went
through with this, the quicker he would be able to demand an
explanation.
He didn't quite know
how the hell he had gotten into this mess. One minute he was just negotiating
for a unique exchange. The next, he found out he was part of
it.
He gritted his teeth,
then tried to pass it off as a smile to reassure his increasingly alarmed
companion. "Everything is well,
Hashem," he told the man. He couldn't afford to make anyone nervous right
now. They were being watched, he was
pretty sure of it. "She looks exactly as I'd imagined."
Indeed
she did. There was no mistaking the face, even though the rest of her was swathed
in those black umbrella-shaped garments in which the people here imprisoned
their women. Heart-shaped. Small nose. A mouth made for a man's fantasy.
John
couldn't believe that this was happening to him. She was his dream woman. A
killer dream that visited him whenever he let down his guard.
A witch who wouldn't let go of his balls.
And
he was marrying her today.
All around them were mountains. They had travelled four days
to reach this particular spot and everyone was
dusty and tired. It certainly was not the usual way to meet a wedding
contingent. The groom-to-be sat on
his black horse, looking expectantly in the direction of the approaching group
of people.
The
men behind him, at some given signal, started clapping their hands in unison, a
sign of welcome in these parts. One had to make noise to show
approval; silence meant confrontation. They also knew there were eyes in these
mountain parts, eyes that reported anything out of the ordinary.
The arriving contingent
rode over the slope, trotting at a moderate pace, and finally came to a slow
halt not far from the waiting camp. John and
his friend, the only ones on horseback, rode to meet them. They ignored
the heat as they studied the other group.
The
waiting men in the other group eyed the tall one on the black mare, perfectly
aware which of the two was the leader. Dressed like that, in
traditional garb, he looked like one of them, black hair and fierce dark eyes
that assessed each and every one of them.
"Salaamua'laikum.
Welcome," John said, "brothers."
"Not
yet," the one in front replied, a bite to his voice.
John
lifted an enquiring brow. "Of course. Whenever you are ready."
"Do
you have what we asked for?" This was spoken in a low voice.
John
leaned forwards on his horse. From afar, it looked like a warm gesture, brother
to brother. "As long as you have what I want," he
answered cryptically, giving a passing glance to the cart that had stopped behind
them. It was pulled by two donkeys, and flanked by men on each side.
"Which one of the women is mine?"
The
Pakistani's smile was very white against his dark tan. His English was perfect
New York. "The one staring back at you. She can speak English,
cook, sew and dance. Just a little too old, and thus a little disobedient.
Not what our village men usually go for. What do you think?"
John
looked over the man's shoulder. His intended was certainly being disobedient,
daring to stare at her future husband straight in the eye. At
least she wasn't smiling.
He
nudged his horse to turn around, gesturing for the others to follow. "She
will do."
An old maid's wedding wasn't anything
more than a quick handshake in these parts of the world. The woman
would be grateful, glad to find someone to take care of her. Her relatives
would be relieved. Unmarried women in villages were frowned
upon, unless they were maids or nannies.
So
the man and the woman joined hands under the stern eye of an imam and a
cloudless sky, and that was it. There was the marriage tent, staked
for the night while the witnesses gathered outside to make a record of the
event. The men drank sweet coffee and sang. The women held their own party
inside a separate tent. A gentle mountain breeze streamed through
the camp, and the atmosphere became slightly more relaxed.
The
newly married wife carried a jug of water from a nearby stream, and waited by
the front flap of the tent for her new husband. He was in the men's
tent, signing documents, taking note of what she came with.
She couldn't quite
believe that he had actually gone through with the marriage, but of course, he
had no choice. He needed her dowry.
A
reasonable time must pass before her husband could come to her. She was no young
maiden and he was no eager youth clamouring after his first wife. The
Muslims, she noted, were allowed four. At her age, she
supposed, she was remarkably fortunate to be the first. The last thought was
made with her usual sarcastic sense of humour, something no one
here knew existed.
Well,
no one except her husband.
He
knew.
And she knew he would be
exacting revenge as soon as they entered their tent that night. And sizzling anticipation thrummed through her, even as she
stood waiting just outside their tent, serene as the first light of dawn.
Male voices mingled with
the approaching darkness. Torches were lit. She smelled the food. She heard the soft whinnying of the resting horses. The
cooling mountain air was welcoming. Somehow she hadn't quite envisioned her wedding day to be quite like
this.
Shrouded.
Alone. Waiting like a supplicant.
Her
husband suddenly appeared before her, a menacing figure in his robes, six feet
two inches of masculine
power. She waited till he paused in front of her, close enough that she caught
the scent of man and horse. She had been
waiting for this moment all day.
Bending down, she picked
up the large jar of water. On cue, her husband sat down on the stool she had readied. Not a word passed between them.
She
knelt down, placed the jug close by and slowly unshod him, first one foot, then
the other, before starting the traditional footbath a married man in these parts
received before entering his abode. It was an hononr
a newly wedded woman bestowed on her man.
His tension was evident in the way his
calf muscles were clenched. It was dark enough to allow her to explore him more curiously than was proper, and
she moved her fingers boldly and slowly over the top of one foot. She palmed the arch of the other as she
poured water over it, taking her time as she ran her thumb around the
sensitive pads under the toes. Leisurely, she dried them with a towel,
inserting a finger between his big toe and
the one next to it. Ah, he liked that. He jerked forwards, locking her finger
with his toes.
He
stood up so suddenly she would have fallen on her backside if he hadn't grabbed
her under her arms. There was masculine laughter from those
gathered close by as he jerked the tent flap open and unceremoniously hauled
her into their temporary home.
So
the groom was impatient for his bride after all.
A
most auspicious beginning, murmured the imam to Hashem, who wiped his brow
nervously.
A newly married man had his priorities. John pushed his bride
on top of a bed of pillows, straddling her in one
swift move. He bent down and kissed her thoroughly. It was either that or yell
at her and he didn't want to start their wedding night that way.
God,
he had forgotten how a kiss could be hotter than a desert. And how he could
lose himself in the heat. Her tongue darted into his mouth mischievously and,
immediately, every cell in his body responded like
fireworks on 4 July.
He'd gone too long
without her, that must be it. Impatiently, he lifted his head, looking for an
opening to her garment, his fingers skimming everywhere. This robe thing must
be a version of the chastity belt. "How the hell do you get out of these
mummy sheets?” he finally demanded.
"Husband,
we have all night," purred the woman under him, her face flushed from his
kiss. She had the voice of a seductress, low and full of
promises, but instead of answering him, she held a finger to her reddened
lips and moved to sit up.
John
didn't like the way she could make him forget important things, such as safety
and privacy. This wasn't the first time either and that was why
he stayed the hell away from her. He put his weight on his knees,
so she could move to a sitting position. He liked that she had to look up at
him this way, so he didn't move. Not when he fully intended to be on top
tonight.
He watched as she removed
part of her head covering then loosened her collar, exposing her neck and shoulders. The object dangling from a chain around
her neck caught his attention, stopping his more lustful inclinations for an instant. She took the chain off and handed
it to him.
"Continue what you're doing,”
he ordered, before reluctantly getting off her so he could scan the room for listening devices. Apparently, she didn't
trust things to be as they seemed either.
She continued taking
off her garment slowly, watching him with her tawny whiskey-coloured eyes. They
could make a man weak in the knees with just a heated look, yet would
glitter with predatory alertness when she sensed danger. He
dreamed of those eyes often - half open, slightly tilted at the corners, a dreamy
wildness in them just before she succumbed to passion. It was that look that
would wake him up sweaty and horny in the middle of the night.
Her burnished brown
hair was longer, braided down well below her shoulders. A grey tank top clung
to her, emphasizing her small breasts. Its oval neckline was
mouthwateringly low, and when she bent forwards to untangle that horrible thing she was
wearing, the soft mounds looked like they were going to pour out of the top. John swore softly, and she glanced up, innocence
in her eyes.
The tent was
"clean", and she nodded when he handed her gadget back. "Missed
me?" she asked, stretching out of her clothes.
A fine film of perspiration covered her
body, clad only in the taunting tank top and underwear. Clothes were amazing
things, John concluded, looking at the concealing garment tossed on the floor
and what she had on now. And the woman who
wore both had the same effect on him, no matter how many layers she put on.
Missed her? That ought to
be the understatement of the year. All he could do was look at her hungrily. And angrily. She had no right invading his world.
"What the hell
are you doing here?" he asked, pitching his voice to a low growl. "I
was supposed to exchange the weapons for the downed pilot -
and babe—" his eyes swept down
her body "—you certainly don't look like the picture of Captain James
Kirby to me."
"He's
dead."
John sucked in his
breath. That wasn't the answer he'd expected. “What do you
mean?" he demanded. "They wanted
weapons for the hostage. There was no way they were going to kill him till I
saw him. I want some explanations,
Kel."
"Leiha."
John
frowned.
"Leiha,"
Kel insisted, calmly standing up and looking around the tent. She seemed
totally unaware what her half-naked body was doing to him. She
opened a small trunk and pulled out a towel. "Your wife, remember?"
That is another thing I want
explained," John said grimly. He walked purposefully to Kel and put both hands on each of her arms. Damn. He wanted to
shake her and pull her close at the same time. "Quit playing games with me, Kel."
Kel's
head snapped up, her eyes glittering. "I thought that was what you liked,
Dallas," she drawled.
“When
you walked out of my life, I remember distinctly your last words being, 'I
can't leave the game, babe.' I don't know what you're complaining
about."
He
stared at her. "That was—"
He tended to yell when he was frustrated, but now wasn't the time to lose his cool. Taking a deep breath, he adjusted
the volume of his voice, "—three years ago! And you're taking my words out of context. You were after
marriage, babe, and you gave me an ultimatum.”
"Hah.
And like a coward, you left." She pushed against his chest, trying to
break free.
Ignoring her efforts,
John hauled her closer. "Of all the twisted—! You were the one who walked out on me!"
He'd
woken up one morning and she was gone, having left a note telling him where to
find her. As if he was going to run after her. So he'd given her time to cool
off, but, after a while, it became abundantly clear that it was over when she
wouldn't even take his calls. Not long after that, she had requested a transfer
and she was out of his life. Well, that suited him just fine ... he
didn't have time to mess around with a smart-mouthed trainee, no matter how addicted he
was to her mouth.
God, he had missed
her. Every day, like a man on narcotic withdrawal. It'd been years, but that
kind of high was unforgettable. His training had been his
salvation. He had ruthlessly pushed away that part of him that wanted her back.
He had a job to do, lives to save. Time passed quickly when you travelled all
over the world negotiating with danger and death.
But
now, time seemed meaningless because here she was, in his arms again. That same
lush mouth was curled into that mocking pout that make him think of sex.
Apparently, he was still a hopeless addict. And, he still loved her. Wanted
her.
"Nonsense.
You didn't even call me for a month!" Kel slithered her arms up his chest
and locked her fingers behind his neck. "That meant you
walked away from me first."
John ignored the way
her breasts were pushing against his body. There was an argument going on here.
He wouldn't lose just because she was trying to distract him with unfair
tactics.
"When you
didn't return my calls, that meant you wanted out," he countered. He also
tried to ignore the sensuous undulating of her lower body against his. Well, parts of
him weren't succeeding. A growing part definitely
wasn't. He muttered, "I wasn't going to make a move until you gave
in."
It
sounded stupid now, whatever murderous revenge he'd planned to take when he saw
her again. Incredibly stupid, when he knew he could have been doing
all the undulating he wanted with her the last three years. The reasons he'd
given her were still valid, though, but he was sure he could have talked her into
agreeing with him if he'd been given it a chance.
Kel
glanced down meaningfully at the part of him that was moving. A
mischievous smile lifted her lips. "Endgame, honey?" she purred,
conjuring up naughty images of good times spent in his bed with a certain food
item. John swallowed a laugh. No one but his Kel was such an outrageous lover.
His Kel always had her mind on food - and sex - a truly hungry
woman at all times. He frowned at how easy it was to start thinking
of her as his again. No way. Not again.
"OK, so we're here
in no man's land between Pakistan and India. Tell me why you chose this place
for our honeymoon?" he asked. "And
where is the dowry? Most importantly, what is it?"
The simple assignment
he thought he had, a quick H-A-X - hostage/arms exchange - had more twists and
turns than he liked. First, he'd been informed the exchange location had been
moved to mountain terrain. Then he'd found out that there was no way two parties
could meet in the mountains and not be noticed, and the Resistance
insisted on a marriage fagade. He had baulked, like any man would.
His famous temper started factoring in
when a call from the Temple instructed that they wanted him to go through with
it, that the game had changed. The dowry was important, the messenger told him.
He had to go along with the marriage. Lives
were at stake. OK, lives were in danger, so he did it.
The woman in his arms
had all the answers. That meant she had the advantage on him. He didn't like that
one bit. Who was in charge of this assignment, anyhow?
"Don't you like
it here?" his tormentor questioned, obviously enjoying herself. She'd
always liked beating him at anything. "Lord and master. Four
wives. All the women you want. You're in absolute control. Male heaven, I'd
imagine."
"So how come I feel absolutely
powerless?" John murmured, more to himself than her. He played with her braid, twisting the end of it with his
forefinger. "How come I'm the one who feels that he's been forced into marriage? I know that was what you wanted from
me, babe, but this is an extreme way to get a husband."
"I
figured three years were long enough. A woman can only wait so long,
Dallas."
"Who
said I wanted you to wait?" he taunted, slowly twisting the thick braid
around his hand now.
'Wasn't that part of
our argument?" she reminded him, unconcerned that he had her prisoner by
the hair. She mocked him with an imitation of his voice,
continuing, "'I think we should wait, Kel. This thing we have could fizzle
out, Kel. Let's wait for a few years, Kel.'"
John winced at those
quotes. Damn woman had the memory of an elephant. He held her head still as he lowered his. Her eyes
gleamed back in the gaslight expectantly. A nasty thought occurred. "You
waited three years to make your move?"
Her smug smile
answered him better than words. He tightened his hold of her braid as the
revelation sunk in. The woman was incredible. She had a move
planned years in the future. "Three years? You decided three
years ago to get me to many you? That couldn't be!" He looked at her
incredulously.
"Hate
to point out the obvious. You are, as of today, married to me."
Murderous. That was what he felt. Yet,
he'd also had to admit that he hadn't felt quite as alive as he did now for a long, long time. The years without her
paled in comparison to her presence in his life. Kel had a way of making every
minute memorable. He placed an experimental kiss on her waiting lips, as if
tasting them for the first time.
"I’ll
have to think of my next move to get out of this trap," he said against
her lips. Another thought occurred. "Ha, I’m married to a
woman named Leiha, not Kel."
Her smile grew
wider. "Technical, technical.” She lifted her lips and kissed
him back, softly and tenderly, as if she'd waited for a long time for
this moment. Three years, actually, John thought, still in disbelief. "Husband
of mine - Leiha is short for Kaleiha, the Muslim diminutive for Kel."
John wanted to ... He
never ever knew exactly what he wanted to do with Kel Grant. She had been his trainee
but sometimes he wasn't sure who was training whom. And like a damned fool,
he'd chosen to ignore the part of him that screamed not to get involved with a
woman like her. Look what that had got him into.
His disgust must have
shown on his face because Kel laughed, not a bit perturbed that her groom
should be so reluctant onhis wedding night. The combination of her womanly
scent, perspiration and baby powder was heady and he wanted to
just forget about winning an argument right now and do what he wanted.
"Come
on, Dallas," her smoky voice mocked. "All these years with the Temple
should have taught you something. There's always more than one move."
"Oh?"
Not if you were trapped. Checkmate. But he wasn't one to ignore a way
out when it was offered.
"It's easy,
actually. It's a Muslim marriage. All you have to do is say 'I divorce you'
three times and you have your freedom back."
But
of course. He knew that. "I knew that," John said.
"See?
You can say that any time and we're through."
"Just like that?
I can say that now?" he challenged, wanting to push her as much as she was
pushing him.
Her
eyes turned predatory. "I let you go the last time, didn't I?" she
asked softly. "Go on. Say it now if it makes you feel better."
John
studied her face as she waited. She looked like a doll - big eyes, delicate
nose, elegant arching dark eyebrows, lips made for kissing. But he knew the woman
underneath; she was no lightweight in the grey matter area. What was it about her that made things both simple and
complicated at the same time? He could say those words now, undo the deed and
that should set the record straight. If he wanted to be married, he'd
be the one doing the asking. Three easy words to say. It was his feelings
that were causing difficulties.
"Later,"
he said instead. She wanted out so fast? She could wait, he decided.
"Dallas?"
"What
now?"
'You
going to hang on to my hair all night or are you going to kiss me?"
"Actually, I
was going to hang you with your hair." He looked at it, wound around his
hand three times. "I can't believe how long it's
grown."
She
moved even closer against him and he forgot about her hair for the moment.
"Dallas, if you don't kiss me properly, I'm going to tell all
the women out there tomorrow you're a lousy lover."
"I
want it on record that I'm doing this under duress,” he informed her
as he lowered his head to her uplifted face.
"Duly
noted. Now kiss me like a lover should. You're out of practice.”
A man could only take
so many insults. John decided to show her that being married meant she could be
shut up,
just like that. Her mouth opened eagerly under his, and he started practicing.
Kel Grant loved two things
in her life: her job and her man. One she kept a secret, the other she kept an
eye on. She'd never known a life other than the one that had
been chosen for her since birth and, sometimes, she felt some regret that she
couldn't lead a normal existence, one with a nine-to-five job and a husband and
two kids. But she found out that you couldn't just pretend not to catch things
that she was trained to see. She couldn't pretend to be something other than what she was.
That John Dallas was
the love of her life was a secret even to those in her inner circle. There must
be no vulnerable chink in her armour if she were to do her job
right. She had asked him one time, and one time only, to get out of
the game. When he'd refused, she knew she had to let him go for a little while.
A close call with death right after that convinced her she'd done the
right thing. John Dallas could end up a target if anyone
knew how important he was to her. The long hours of recuperating alone in her
room gave her time to do what she did best - to think, to lay
out a strategy of defence.
How did you keep a
love safe? A clean break. How would you keep an eye on love? Be in power. How could she go on living
without her love? Commit to a time schedule to get him back. What if he
wouldn't take her back by then? Worse, what
if he found somebody new by then? She was a master strategist; she'd deal with
those problems when they arose.
Lately,
she'd been hearing things about the Black Knight. He had been asking questions
about certain classified
assignments and she had felt the ripples of concern from those who didn't like
to be questioned. Her sources were good. Her love, she was told, could be in
danger from all sides, and no one would help him
then.
Well,
she had kept an eye on him all along, hadn't she? Time to come in and ... and
what?
She had a game plan
but it was not easy to manipulate John Dallas. He was one of the Temple's best operatives,
specializing in hostile negotiations. The man's instincts were fine-tuned to
every invisible signal given on both sides of a bargaining table; he would be
suspicious of any obstacles that appeared to be out of place.
In
fact, she knew there was no way to stop his persistence. He'd try to get
answers. But if she were close by, at least she would know when he was
too near the truth for his own good. One thing was eminently clear
- only she could protect him. She didn't trust anyone else not to sacrifice him
for the sake of the game.
Three years hadn't
diminished two facts. She still loved him to pieces. And he still sent her up
in flames with just his kiss. No one kissed like John Dallas. Slow
and wet and sensuous. Searching and finding all the secret
dreams of her soul, as he sucked on her tongue and explored every part of her
mouth. Releasing her lips, only to recapture them, until there was no doubt who
owned them. Mine, he told her silently, as he ate her
like a sumptuous feast. Mine, he demanded, as he drank and sipped as if she
were his favourite '84 Merlot. Mine, he claimed, over and over
again, his tongue dancing with hers in an endless promise.
How,
she wondered in a daze in between his kisses, had she survived this long
without him? She moaned softly as he sank deeper into her,
trapping her under his weight.
When John finally
lifted his lips from hers, Kel found herself looking into his fierce dark eyes.
This close, she
could see the light grey ring around the black orbs, with the luminous grey striations
that had always fascinated her. When he was
angry, they seemed to flash like little lightning bolts. As they were doing
right now. Kel grinned up at him. She liked her opponents angry, that is as
long as she remained calm.
His
black brows crinkled together in suspicion. "You know I want you," he
stated the obvious, since she could feel just how much he did,
"and I have questions that go beyond this job. Hell, it might take me another
three years to get all my questions answered, but this isn't the time and
place. Kel, what are you doing here?"
"And
if I tell, what then?" she baited.
He shifted position,
putting more weight on his elbows, glaring furiously as her smile grew ever
wider. "Damn your kinky ass, you always liked to get me up at the wrong
times.” He leaned down closer, as if to kiss her again, then shook
off the temptation. "What is your role in the game, Kel?"
This time, his voice
brooked no argument. She lifted a hand to stroke his thick hair back. It was a
little damp from the heat and perspiration.
"I was in the
vicinity when the Sphinx went down," she explained, "and they sent
word to me to retrieve some information from the surviving pilot.
Being a woman, I had to move among the villagers but the Resistance was very
helpful, craftier than we had thought. They have a smuggling system that is
quite sophisticated, using the villagers, especially the
women. You would be amazed how many places you can hide guns under that
black garment."
John's eyes lit up
with interest. Kel knew that he liked this kind of information for future
negotiation ventures. "Continue," he said.
"Don't
you want to get more comfortable?" she invited. 'You must be hot in those
clothes."
"Very,"
he admitted, "but I like being on top of you too much. I missed this, you
know."
Her heart bloomed
with pleasure. She had wondered whether he still wanted her as much as she
wanted him.
Time was different for a man, and she was too realistic a woman to imagine that
John's feelings had remained constant.
"I
missed this too," she told him softly.
The
flecks in his dark eyes gleamed. "But not enough, apparently.”
There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. As if he didn't want
to think about it, he changed the subject back. "Go on. Tell me what
happened to the pilot. I was set to do the H-A-X. and now you tell me the
Resistance knocked him off. What did he have on him anyway?"
"I
didn't say they killed him. He was in worse shape than anyone let on, and was
already dying when I got to him. On the way down he landed in a ravine
that cut up his 'chute." Kel lost her playful mood for the moment
as she recalled the dead man. "The villagers really couldn't do anything
about his head injury."
"What
about the Sphinx?"
"You
know the government's men are swarming over the thing by now, trying to
dismantle it. Study everything."
"I
don't get it," John said. "Why then are we exchanging arms for a dead
man? How would that keep the Sphinx's technology out of enemy
hands?"
Kel
watched as he mulled the information over in his mind. His weight left hers as
he turned on his back to lie at her side. He stared up at the ceiling, continuing to ask
questions, his voice quieter now. She didn't attempt
to answer him, understanding that he was just thinking out loud. That he was
doing so told her a lot about how much he trusted her, and she felt a little
twinge of discomfort. She firmly tucked it away. There was nothing to feel guilty about.
"Why
does the Temple care about the Resistance? Why aren't we negotiating with those
who shot the Sphinx down?" John jerked his head to the side,
looking her straight in the eye. "Unless the pilot is the most
important thing. What is it, Kel? They must've known I'd arrive too late. What
does the dead Captain have that could be more important than the
newest military air toy? Who are we negotiating for? What information
did you retrieve?"
Kel turned to lie on
her side so she could see him better. His flowing robe hid most of his body
from her eyes,
but it also emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. He never did like wearing
too many layers, so it was easy to guess that he hated what he had on. But he
was too good to let it show when he was doing his job, of course. Her John was
essentially a T-shirt and jeans man, but sometimes casual clothing wasn't an option in his job.
"Relax.
Take off your clothes," she ordered softly. Well, she had her own selfish
reasons.
This
time, it was his turn to smile at her. A sinfully wicked curve of those sexy
lips. It sent shivers down her back, and it was way too hot to
catch a chill. Always a tough negotiator, he asked, "And what would I get in
return?"
She rested her head on
her arm, while her other hand strayed tentatively over his chest. “What
do you want?" she teased, ever the
strategist. "Me? Or answers to your questions?"
He
didn't even take a moment to consider. "You."
"That's
nice," Kel murmured, and pulled at the cloth covering his neck, "but
why do I get the feeling that you'll try to get the answers anyway, likely
using unfair methods?"
His smile became
even more wicked, if that were possible, as he began to loosen his thick
waistband. His eyes never left her as his hands tugged at his clothes. "Oh,
it'll be very fair,” he promised. "You'll find it extremely satisfying."
Kel's breath caught
as his naked chest came into view. Lord, but that man had a nice chest - smooth
where it should be, lightly patterned with hair where needed. She was
suddenly greedy to see more, but he was deliberately moving too slowly. With rare
impatience, she ripped off the loosened sash at his narrow waist, along with a bunch of buttons.
She
didn't notice that John had become still, passively letting her do as she
wanted. She didn't notice anything at all, in fact, but the tremendous
swell straining against his white underwear. "Oh my,” she whispered.
And licked her lower lip.
She ignored John's choked
groan. When she reached out her hand, he grabbed it.
"I
thought you wanted me out of my clothes,” he reminded her, although
his voice sounded a little forced.
Kel
had waited all this time; she could wait another five minutes. Besides, she had
her reasons to prolong this little torture. It wasn't easy,
but she swallowed her impatience.
"OK,"
she said.
John literally slid out
of his clothes, not even sitting up to remove his pants. He kept his eyes on
her as he kicked them out of the way. She
took in all of him - the thickly muscled arms, the flat stomach, the powerful thighs covered with a fine sheen of
perspiration. The years had made him leaner.
There
was one offending garment left. She stared at the item meaningfully.
"What
do you want?” John echoed her earlier question.
Kel reluctantly looked up
and the desire smouldering in his dark eyes was almost too much. But things were moving faster than she wanted. Timing was
important here, she reminded herself. She wanted to make sure that the
information she'd be giving John Dallas tonight was just the right amount, no
more, no less. If her timing was off, she
knew he'd force her to answer the questions she didn't want to. Exactly what had
happened three years earlier.
She
inched a little closer, taking great delight in being so close to her man
again, taking in everything she had missed so much - his
scent, his nonchalant sexuality, his responsive body - and wanting more than anything
else to close the emotional gap between them.
"Food,"
she replied, and it wasn't exactly a lie. "I haven't eaten since
midday."
John
stared back at Kel. She was serious. She really meant food. He didn't doubt it
because he knew how ridiculous her metabolism was. The woman
could out-eat a horse.
'You
teased me out of my clothes and now you want to eat?" he asked. He slowly
turned until they were facing each other, several inches apart.
"What sort of wifely behaviour is that?”
1 You
did ask me what I wanted." She looked at him in amusement. "Dallas,
you just have to learn how to slow down a bit. Besides, you always did like to
watch me eat."
John laughed
huskily. You're the only woman I know who thinks food is foreplay." He
leaned forwards and kissed her. 'You're going to have to hurry. This husband is
hungry too."
He needed to calm his
raging libido, anyway. There were things more important than sex. Yeah, keep
telling yourself that John, while your brain cells and important body parts
vehemently object. Kel Grant didn't just
show up like a desert mirage for no reason; the woman had specifically avoided
being physically near him for years.
Sure they'd had one or two conversations on the phone whenever their jobs
happened to cross paths, and she'd never hidden the fact that she still found
him attractive, but no matter how hard he
tried to persuade her, she'd never once agreed to see him.
Not
once. Until now.
He
wasn't given the codename Black Knight for nothing. The moniker wasn't meant to
denote some romantic notion of a medieval warrior - it was the chess piece that
he was named after. In the game, the Knight negotiated a stealthy path, neither
straight nor diagonal, hiding motive and purpose from his opponents.
He was trained to see what others hid, and Kel Grant, the woman who had haunted
him all this time, was hiding a lot.
Part of him accepted that
because she was an operative doing her job. Part of him was furious because she'd chosen to play his opponent instead of his
sidekick. Every move she'd made so far was a delay tactic. He was, after
all, a negotiator in this business, and she was nowhere near capable of hiding
anything from him for long.
His
eyes narrowed as he watched her walk to the tent's back entrance. She bent
forwards to pick up a large tray that he hadn't noticed before,
giving him a tempting view of those bikini briefs that barely covered her ass.
Yeah,
some negotiator. Dallas. So far, his wonted steel-trap mind and
cool logic had failed to function at all. Things that he'd been trained not to allow
had dominated all the present negotiating- a low-cut wisp of a tank top, a pair of long legs that he knew were
ballerina-flexible. Her lips asking to be kissed. He frowned. How many others had kissed them since him?
He angrily jerked up into
a sitting position. Let her eat. Let her relax. It would give him a chance to
settle down so he could concentrate on
things, like getting information about this operation. What she had told him so far had only led him to more questions.
Kel
was a courier, not a negotiator, so she had information to pass on, obviously
retrieved from that dead pilot. But to whom was she passing it on? And
what could be so important that the Temple had sent her ahead of him? They
apparently had thought that the pilot might not survive. That didn't surprise
him. The
Temple seldom executed any plan without
a dozen moves thought out ahead; he was, after all, part of that system,
and understood very well the strategic lessons of preparation.
However, things had
gone through too many unexpected twists lately, and the pattern pointed not to coincidence but to
planning. He studied the woman laying out the small plates of food on the
eating mat. How much did she know? Or was
she just on a routine courier mission?
At
that instant, Kel turned around, her head cocked. "Well, are you going to
eat with me, or not?" Dressed as she was, she looked slightly
ridiculous sitting on the ground, in the traditionally demure female position,
feet tucked sideways. And her smile was anything but demure. "Aren't you
hungry?"
John felt his body
responding to her unspoken invitation. There was no way he could hide how she affected
him, not when he was down to his underwear. He joined her on the mat with a
grimace. Cross-legged wasn't one of his favourite positions.
He
looked into her amused eyes, and the conflicting emotions rose in him again. He
wasn't pleased to see her; he was ecstatic to see her. He
didn't want her around; he wanted her to stay. He needed to question her about
the operation; he was dying to talk about the two of them.
He
glanced quickly at his watch. Daybreak was his deadline. Accepting a bowl of
roasted meat from her, he smiled. "Sure." Wanting to test
her, he continued, "After we eat, I'd like to be entertained with some stories,
Scheherazade."
Kel paused with the food halfway between
her bowl and mouth, and then he was rewarded with a rich, husky laugh. And, like the newly married queen
from -4 Thousand and One Nights, the woman in front of him settled back,
looking absolutely confident that she could keep her husband interested all
night long.
John
Dallas couldn't take his eyes off her. He was hungry all right. But not for
food.
Enveloping
Attack - An attack from behind the enemy forces.
Counter-play
- The opposite side takes aggressive action. A player who
has counter-played well puts himself on equal footing with his opponent.
Two
John closed his eyes,
relinquishing all control. Her hands touched him. Her lips. Her mouth. Her
tongue took over his world, which had rapidly diminished into one burning
powerful need as he had somehow ended up on his back after dinner. She explored
his body, first with her small hands, gliding all over each part of him so slowly that he had to grit his
teeth to stop from begging. Her hair was the softest silk - he couldn't
remember undoing that braid - as she bent her head. His muscles contracted when
he felt her lips following the path of her
hands, a sensuous, wet path that stopped to investigate all the right spots.
She sucked his nipples, nibbled her way down his stomach ... damn if the
woman wasn't hungry still... and he groaned
as her mouth hovered over his painfully erect cock.
Take it. Take me. Was he even speaking in
English? He couldn't hear himself amid the roar in his ears. He was so hot for her, he was going to ...
and then her lips closed around him and he groaned. He was in heaven. And she was
the angel of his dreams returned to him. She rolled her tongue and he almost
shot off the floor in response. The welcome wetness of her mouth took
... everything.
Everything.
When she'd left him, he felt she'd taken everything with her, but he could never
name what those things were. It was just the emptiness inside that told him she
took something valuable.
A
growl escaped his lips in protest when she stopped. Don't. Stop. She only
laughed and came back up to kiss him. God, she tasted so good. He
pushed his tongue into her mouth with the ravenousness of a wild man.
How many others had there been? The surge of jealousy caused him to kiss her
more roughly than he intended, but he didn't care any more. She
was his wife, wasn't she? She was his.
His.
He lifted her off him and was on her immediately. Flesh on flesh. He was going
to take back what was his. How dare she leave him?
Her throaty encouragement
urged him on as she moved sinuously under him. He didn't need her to tell him what she wanted - he could feel her wet and
ready.
"John."
How
could the mere whisper of his name in his ear make him almost lose his control?
It was the way she said it. She never called him John, except
during heated moments of intimacy. John - in that husky murmur.
John - almost French sounding, the way she sighed it out. She gripped his arms
as he guided himself inside her.
Hot.
She clenched around him in fierce possession, all sleek feminine eagerness. He
pushed and almost lost it again when she arched into him with
wild abandon. Stroke for stroke, she drove him higher and higher.
He tried to focus.
Her eyes were half-closed, looking back at him. Little pants escaped her parted
lips. He couldn't really see. Or think.
She gasped.
"John .. .John ... Johhhnn!"
Forget focus. His
world exploded into pure heat. And still he kept driving into her, needing her
all over again. Her writhing response only rekindled the pleasure that washed
his senses in waves.
John
closed his eyes.
When he reopened them,
everything still looked out of focus. He frowned. His body was stiff, as if he had been sleeping in the same position too long. As
the ceiling of the tent became clearer, so did his thoughts.
What time was it? His
wrist appeared in front of his eyes and the watch read 06.00 hours. Six in the
morning? He squinted. He couldn't remember going to bed. Couldn't remember a
damn thing after he sat down to eat dinner with Kel.
He jerked up as if hit by
an electrical current Images swam in his mind - images way too sexy to be just a dream. He looked down. Oh yeah, he was naked
under the sheet. The pillow next to him had an indentation. Her scent lingered tantalizingly on him still.
Something was very
wrong. He usually didn't have sensational sex and not remember doing it. Well, actually
he recalled some pretty incredible details, but the memory felt. . . distant. A
cough interrupted his disarrayed thoughts, and John looked in its direction, ready to
demand an explanation.
Except that the woman
sitting quietly near the entrance to the tent wasn't Kel. It was one of the
women who had sat beside her in the donkey
cart yesterday.
What the hell was
going on? John's eyes caught sight of the previous night's leftovers sitting
innocently on the tray not too far away. A nasty suspicion surfaced.
Fury awoke the rest of his half-asleep mind.
"She
told me to tell you not to yell," the stranger in his bridal tent said
softly, her accented voice trembling slightly from fear. "She
said shouting would only make trouble."
John glared at the
woman, even though it wasn't her fault that he was wearing only his birthday
suit in a stuffy
tent in the mountains of goat-herding country. And, oh yeah, he was the
top-notch liaison that was supposed to be in
charge of a hostage arms exchange. At current status, he had no hostage and had
given away a whole cache of arms.
He scowled fiercely,
although cussing would have felt better. A strange woman was less than ten feet
away from his naked ass, and she was already looking at him as if he
were an ogre.
"Where
is she?" he asked, his morning voice huskier than usual.
He cleared his throat
and looked around the tent to make sure Kel wasn't hiding under any of the camel-hair
sheets. The other woman's gasp halted his scan, and looking down he noticed
that the not-too-big
sheet protecting what was left of his modesty had moved and now he was really
in danger of scaring the poor lady. She was,
after all, bundled up like a proper Muslim woman, but he had no idea whether she was for real or not. Her horrified
eyes seemed to say she was definitely for real, though.
John
sighed, and pulled the sheet higher. Oops. Too high, judging from her
ever-widening eyes. He tugged at the other end of the sheet. Obviously, his wife thought
this up as some final joke. His wife. He glared
at the woman again, and repeated his question. "Where's Leiha?"
To
his relief, the woman took her eyes off his body, and answered, "I am
Leiha."
Oh,
that was all he needed. Morning-after surprises. "I mean Leiha, my
wife." He tried to sound reasonably patient. He could have been
crude by explaining about the Leiha who had been naked beside him
the night before, but he had a feeling that would only earn him more female
problems.
"For now, I am
Leiha, your wife." She stepped closer, in the manner of a person
approaching an angry bear.
That was it. John's
patience was definitely wearing thinner by the second. He moved forwards and
she shrieked, falling back a few steps.
"Leiha, or whoever you are," he told her, wondering whether he had somehow woken up in the twilight zone, "I
just want my clothes. OK? Look, they're all over the place. If you can just throw me . . . ummm-“ skip the underwear,
he decided "—the
pants over there, I'd really appreciate
it."
She vigorously nodded
her head in agreement, and ran to fetch the garment. Staying a few feet away,
she tossed the trousers into his arms.
John
waited. And waited. Finally, he sighed. "If you don't turn around, I can't
put them on without embarrassing you."
It mustn't have occurred
to her, for her face went fiery red. But she still didn't turn away. "I
have never seen a naked man before,"
she told him.
Oh, now he was the zoo animal for display.
"Lady, I'm sorry to hear that, but until we've been properly introduced, I'd rather not give lessons in anatomy,
if you don't mind." He watched in amusement as she finally turned her back with a show of reluctance.
A few
minutes later, he was dressed enough to conduct a normal conversation, although
there was nothing normal about the whole damned state of affairs.
It was barely six thirty in the morning, and he felt as
if time had escaped him somehow.
Leiha, the other Leiha,
his Leiha, was still missing. This new one was moving around the tent as
if she were really his wife, picking up discarded clothes and
putting things away in the small trunks by the entrance. He
scratched the back of his neck in frustrated disbelief.
"What
else did she say, besides not to shout?"
The
woman dug into her robes, and pulled out a piece of paper. "She wrote you
this letter."
John
tore the envelope quickly.
Dallas,
I know you will remember
everything I told you last night. This is Zaleiha, your wife. Take her with you and hand her over at your next stop. She
can't return to the village now because she is, of course, me,
and you and your wife's journey will be watched over.
I'm sorry I can't stay with you. I know how much your freedom means. If you
like, I'll mutter "I divorce you" three times as soon as I cross the
border. Be careful. You have completed your part of the
deal but the game isn't over. Oh, eat this note, darling.
Love,
Kel
P.S.
Last night was more than fair. Let's do this info barter again some time.
John wanted to pull his hair
out. He'd barely been with Kel for twenty-four hours and already she was driving
him crazy. The trouble with her was he never knew what was going on in her
head. She was one complicated package, always with her fingers
in ten different projects. She was the only woman who made him
want to strangle and kiss her all at once.
I know how much your
freedom means. He squashed the note, startling Zaleiha, who was watching
him with fear in her eyes again. Just to appease his current bad mood, he
scowled at her fiercely and, just like that,
the woman dropped the folded garments in her arms and scuttled off, heading for
the tent exit.
Ah, shit. John
sighed, attempting to control his temper. "Don't be frightened,”
he said. "You're Zaleiha, right?”
She nodded. "She
said you were going to be like a drunk donkey when you woke up," she said,
her voice accusing, "and that I have to get you a cup of
coffee with lots of milk.”
"Donkeys
don't get drunk,” John pointed out politely. He spied the sash for
his robe and went to retrieve it. "But yes, coffee with milk.
That sounds like the best thing right now.”
As
if she had been waiting for his permission, Zaleiha immediately went over to a
tray and poured coffee out of a flask. The aromatic brew must be strong as hell because
the whole tent smelled of roasted coffee immediately.
John took a deep breath, wondering if that might just kick-start his brain cells
again.
He
accepted the cup from her, looking at the coffee longingly. "You didn't
spike this too, did you?”
"Spike?”
She frowned.
"Spiked
... as in drugged."
"Oh."
She nodded in comprehension, then, realizing that she might be misunderstood,
quickly shook her head. "Of course not. She says you will kill
her if your coffee doesn't taste right.” She cocked her head. 'You
must be a very nasty-tempered man, killing so easily.”
Did
she just make a joke? John sipped on his coffee, studying the woman. She had a
very earnest demeanour,
when she wasn't cowering. "Well, bad coffee is a serious offence,”
he commented, and took another big gulp.
"But not to worry, this particular batch is absolutely line.”
"She
made it herself."
John
sighed. Might have known. "Is there anything else she said to you?"
It
pissed him off, having been out-manoeuvred like that. He knew the Temple was
behind it, but why did it have to be Kel? If it had been anyone else, he
wouldn't have been tricked so easily. He was pretty sure the sex
was just Kel's own way to poke a little fun at him. OK, so it had been fun for
him too, but surely she knew that she didn't need to drug him for
that kind of cooperation? He'd have been more than willing.
"She
said lots of things, but I don't know what was meant for your ears.”
John
looked at Zaleiha, who resumed putting away things. "Where did you learn
your English anyway?” he asked. He rolled up the eating mat after she
put the dinner trays into a basket.
"We girls all
went to school, you know, until the revolution. Now they no longer allow us to
be educated. I was going to go to college but my parents were killed.”
Zaleiha shrugged. "But this is my way out. You are my
way out.”
For
the first time since waking up, John felt in control. Negotiations and
exchanges. That was his domain. Zaleiha was part of the H-A-X.
"Can you tell me about the pilot that died? The one Kel. .. Kaleiha talked
to. How did your people find him?"
"The villagers
saw the plane come down. Then they found him in a deep . . .how do you call
it... valley? Deep valley?”
"Ravine,"
John supplied.
"Ravine. Then they
kept him for the Resistance. She showed up not long after. I think she talked
to the pilot but I'm not sure."
Kel
had told him she did. "So the Resistance didn't know that the man was
dying until they saw him, right?"
She
nodded.
"Then
Kaleiha showed up and talked to the Resistance and then, somehow, you became
involved."
"I was chosen because I can speak
good English and I'm not married. It's hard to get married when you are smarter than all the men in the
village."
John had to smile. He
liked the woman's directness. "Right. So you get to come with me, then.
Did Kaleiha tell you what's going to happen? Did she prepare
you for the journey?"
She
gave him an indignant look. "Of course. She was very nice to me and we
brokered a deal."
He
cocked a brow. This he wanted to hear. "Oh?"
"If
she chose me as the one to go to freedom, I have to treat you exactly the way
she teaches me."
John crossed his arms.
He wished this wondrous teacher were around at the moment. There were several
great ways to treat runaway wives in this culture. "And how are you
supposed to treat me?"
Zaleiha
backed away, her eyes wary. "Very carefully."
Two hours later, John felt
eminently better. He had freshened up by the river, taking in the banter of the
other men in
the camp.
Up
so early already?
The
mountain air wears one out you know.
Can he make it down the
mountain, you think?
He
wondered what they would have done if they had woken up to find another woman
in their tent.
They
were all packed and ready to make their way down the mountain trail. Hashem was
the only one in his group who knew that the woman on the
donkey cart, completely veiled now from head to foot, was not the same woman he had
married.
The
leader of the visiting group, Ahmin, had a twinkle in his eye when he shook
hands with his new "brother". "I trust you are
pleased with your woman."
John
lifted a brow sardonically. "I don't have any complaints."
"We
are happy too. We needed the supplies you gave us."
They climbed on to
their horses, trotting side by side with him for part of the way to show
respect. John studied Ahmin, who looked like a regular Pakistani until he spoke
in that New York accent. He wondered at the circumstances that made an
obviously Westernized, educated man decide to go to war. But it was none of his business. His job
had always been only as the go-between, making sensitive, unsavoury exchanges that governments didn't wish to be publicly
known.
Lately, however, he
had some questions that he knew could get him into trouble. Little things about
the last four or five operations had bothered him. Like this
one. With the dead pilot and the obvious fact that an expensive
wreckage lay abandoned in these mountains but wasn't, somehow, considered
important. That was too weird. Technology like the new Sphinx would make for some
serious exchange negotiations. So, how come the Temple still wanted to extract
a dying pilot? And when they couldn't, why did they send a courier? And to retrieve what?
As if reading his
mind, the other man turned to him and said, "She is something special. If
she weren't so old, I would have married her myself. She
refused, though. She's a tough negotiator. Wanted more than farm
animals. She told me she intended to see the Taj Mahal. I hope you can afford
such a wife."
John
gave a slow smile. A test was a test, after all. The man wanted to see exactly
how much John knew about the dead pilot situation. Kel didn't
really leave him totally in the dark; they did talk some during dinner.
"We Westerners have something called a honeymoon. She mentioned Agra last
night."
“So,
we may meet again."
Interesting. Kel had
a date to meet up with this man? John shrugged, "If it's important enough,
I'll be there," he replied.
"Goodbye, then, John Dallas,"
Ahmin said. "I do miss the United States, you know. New York pizza,
nothing like it. And, of course, meeting with married women is unheard of here.
I look forward to doing business with your
wife. She promised me a good pizza dinner."
They
parted company, moving in opposite directions. It killed John not to be able to
pull the man off his horse to ask him exactly when and how he was meeting Kel
Grant. Kel Dallas, he corrected grimly. Oh, the journey downhill would provide
ample time for him to think out a plan.
First, he would
reassemble all the information Kel had given him last night. Then he would
piece it together with what he had found out through Zaleiha and
Ahmin. Lastly, he was going to give his wife a hell of a
surprise.
Pizza
dinner, right?
Would she really
mutter "I divorce you" three times like she claimed in the letter?
John gripped his horse's reins tightly as he motioned for the men to start moving out.
Did she think she
could just up and walk away like she did all those years ago? Did she think he
would be satisfied
with a quickie Muslim divorce, especially now he had her in his arms again?
What was he, some sort of a one-night stand
before heading off to a date with a pizza-loving, gun-toting, New York
Pakistani?
The
more he thought about that last question, the more incensed he became. He
needed the information she had retrieved. There was something going
down at the Temple and he intended to find out what. It was
important enough to draw Kel out to see him again. His eyes narrowed. Unless,
of course, that move was just meant to distract him.
So many missing
pieces. He hated it. He wanted to know everything about Kel Grant. . . Kel
Dallas, he muttered under his breath. She wasn't divorcing him until he was
damn well ready.
It wasn't easy leaving her warm sleeping man in bed. Kel
closed her eyes, picturing John asleep, one arm flung over his head, the other holding her hand as if taking her for a
walk in his dreams. His mouth had been
slightly open, and she had placed a soft kiss on his lips before leaving.
A night
of losing had left her wanting more and her heart screamed at the unfairness of
it all. She sighed. What heart? She had already left it with John Dallas a long time
ago, little did the stubborn man know. In many
ways he was still the same man - damned good at figuring people out; lousy when
it came to dissecting his own
emotions. Somehow, she confused him. She could see it in the way he constantly
fought himself. As an opponent, she could take advantage of this so
easily, but as a woman who loved him, she wanted him to be very sure about her.
She certainly didn't want him to think she forced him into anything. It wasn't her way.
Of
course, she imagined, at that moment he probably wasn't confused at all. In
fact, he was probably trying very hard not to roar like an injured
bear. Poor baby. Kel grinned. He was always such a sore loser. The mild
sedative she had given him was just enough to stop his determination to ask too
many questions. His motor skills, she recalled in amusement,
were functioning just fine. Eyes closed, she crossed her legs as the
images flooded her mind.
Peeling
the underwear from her half-conscious man was the most erotic thing she'd done
in a long time. John Dallas totally in her power. Oh my. And totally
responsive, calling her name in that demanding tone, even
with his brain addled. "Take me, Kel," he'd whispered. Her heart
thrilled at those words.
Every inch of his
magnificent body was committed to memory. She had touched him. Stroked him.
Kissed him. Tasted him. And he'd done the same to her. She quivered as if his
hands were caressing her again. The way they had moved up her inner
thighs. The way he had massaged the sensitive area at the top of
her thigh. Then his thumbs moved inwards and parted her like a curtain. The
growl he gave had her near orgasm, and when he'd touched her, she almost screamed.
He'd
explored her like a blind man, slowly and deliberately. Well, the drug gave the
effect of drunkenness, so he probably hadn't been able to focus. Which was what
she'd wanted, she thought, opening her eyes at last. She had chosen the drug precisely
for that reason. She didn't want him to see too closely, otherwise he'd
question things - like her tattoo. She had just wanted him to touch her.
Damn, she didn't want
to think about that right now. She was lonely and missed Dallas. She hadn't allowed
herself to indulge in Dallas fantasies too often. It made the loneliness even
worse afterwards. But this memory was so good. The man was
definitely talented in bed, even half-cons do us.
She frowned at the twinge of guilt again.
Oh, stop. He wouldn't have let her leave on her own and Kel was glad to be away from the traditional confines
of the mountain people. To pretend to be subservient 24/7 was no easy feat. She was used to working
alone but that wasn't possible in a culture that subjected the female
population. In some ways, it worked to her advantage; she could move among men
without being noticed. Who would have
suspected a woman courier? So after the Sphinx's crash she'd managed to slip past the guards and those who patrolled the
villages.
John wouldn't understand.
And he would have definitely insisted on knowing why his presence was needed
at all, when the pilot was already dead. His guess that the pilot's message was
more important than the aircraft was too close to the truth. Her instructions from HQ
had been specific. The message was only for
the King's ears. Nobody else.
Once she had reached
the meeting point, changed clothes, and flew across the border to New Delhi, India, she was back in
the hustle and bustle of Asian culture, with its open markets and noisy,
haphazard traffic, the intense mix of modern
industry and ancient temples. Here, after passing off the message through
a secured line, she became a tourist, constantly hounded by beggars when she
ventured out on to the streets.
In this heat, at
least, there was air conditioning in the hotels. And she was glad to have
escaped the suffocating
head-to-foot burka. And yes, there was food. Her burp was loud and unladylike
as she leaned back from the room-service
trolley. God, it was wonderful to eat good food again. She had been constantly hungry in Pakistan, restricted by custom and the
constant company of other women. The power bars she had hidden in the folds of
her garment tasted like sweaty cardboard after a while. She made a face at the memory.
Indian food had her
vote for sure. She looked at the dishes before her: biryani rice with chicken,
kebabs, beef baked in clay pots. A culture could be studied by
the food its people ate - she popped a piece of the kebab
into her mouth - and Indian culture was unapologetically spicy and overdone.
She liked it.
The hum of the fax
machine by her bed caught her attention and, wiping her hands on the
tablecloth, she stood up to check the message. Her next mission.
She read it twice.
Interesting. She had thought it was going to be a simple meeting with Ahmin in
Agra, the
historic city, four hours away. That was another thing John wouldn't
understand, she thought. The fact that she
was meeting the man again after the exchange. Ahmin wanted an audience with the
person in charge of this H-A-X.
Apparently, he was more than he seemed.
Kel scratched her
nose as she contemplated the upcoming meeting. She had a feeling many things
were going to happen in Agra. She'd better figure out how to
handle them all.
"You
look different in T-shirt and jeans," Zaleiha commented.
John
looked up from the file he was studying. After several dusty days down the
mountain trail, they had finally reached their destination, where they were
given papers and changes of clothes. It was the usual drill -
bribes, phone calls, more bribes at the checkpoint, and the liaison at the
waiting place - but for Zaleiha, it had been an eye-opener.
She'd pulled a dress out of the small suitcase that had been given to her and
held it up to her body, exclaiming at how clever Kel was to know
the correct size. Then she'd taken a look at slender pumps
included in the case and had fallen in love.
John grinned at the
memory. It was funny watching a woman drool over footwear. He'd seen Kel with the same look in her eyes when she shopped for
shoes, so he recognized the reaction immediately. Women and shoes. He shook his
head. Why there must be three pairs for each outfit was a mystery to him.
"You
look different too,” he told Zaleiha, who stood at the door of the
office. Without those confining clothes, he saw that she was
thinner than he'd thought. Her dark hair was pulled back under a scarf, indicating
her Muslim beliefs. Her almond-shaped eyes didn't meet his. She was shy, he
realized belatedly. He scratched the back of his neck. Hell, he had no
knowledge of how to treat shy women. "Umm . . . come on
in. Let me look at you properly."
She
obediently walked into the room, carefully placing one foot in front of the
other, like a model. "Do you think where I am going, I can buy
more shoes?" she asked.
John
frowned. "Why, don't you like the three pairs you have?"
"Oh, yes! But
Kel said I have to buy another outfit, a nice one, for dinner dates. And I
would need more shoes for that." She bit her lip.
"Taller shoes, she said, I think."
"Ah
... high heels," John told her, then shook his head in disbelief. He
couldn't believe that he had been assigned the role of Professor Higgins to
Eliza Doolittle here. High heels and evening gowns, indeed. His frown deepened.
"You're not thinking that I'll be taking you out to dinner, are you? I
won't be around once the next liaison arrives. He or she will
take care of you."
"Of
course not. You're a married man!" Zaleiha exclaimed in shock. "When
I go out to dinner with a man, it will be with an available one. Kel said to
look for the right kind."
"Kel
said, Kel said." John felt his temper rising again. "Kel seems to
have spent a lot of time with you."
Zaleiha nodded.
"She asked me many questions, said she wanted to make sure this was the
right step for me. She didn't want me to feel out of place,
alone and unwanted."
Something glowed
inside him, hearing about Kel's concern for a stranger. She very seldom showed
this soft side of herself, and he had forgotten how it made him
feel whenever he caught her doing the unexpected things that had
nothing to do with the Temple or her job. When he was asked to profile Kel as part of her trainee
evaluation that was the first thing he had noticed about her. She was very
protective of people she cared about.
"Tell
me, Zaleiha, how did Kel explain the situation to you? Did you have any idea
then who she was and what was happening?”
"Well, I land of
understood some land of exchange was going to take place. The Resistance likes
to do that - trade things with different people. That's how we all survive. Kel
told me that she works for a group which
specializes in brokering deals between agencies.”Zaleiha frowned,
trying to work it out in words. "It's complicated, but she put it in the simplest way, and now I’ve forgotten
how exactly. It has something to do with
the war game, checkers.”
"Chess,"
corrected John. "Go on, try to remember exactly how Kel explained
it."
"Ummm .. . something
about her job as moving the pieces in the game to make sure the right pieces
... the right moves? No, the right pieces . . . make the right move.”
Zaleiha shrugged. "I understood it when she said it but not any more, I'm
sorry. She told me about you too, that your job was more active because you were the negotiator, while she is more like a
messenger.”
Kel's explanation was
important to John because it told him what she had in mind and how she played the
game. As a negotiator for the Temple, he'd had to set up a dummy corporation as
a cover. The parties involved never really
knew who they were buying from or exchanging with; usually, they were more than
happy with the money and the terms. And if they happened to be inquisitive
enough to search deeper, they would just come up with Knights Inc., the dummy
front, a company that specialized in treasure hunts. His own group of "knights" were hand-picked
by him. He trusted them.
What
Kel said to Zaleiha wasn't too far from the truth. He was a negotiator and she
was a courier, a messenger. Simple as that. Who they worked
for was a little more complicated to clarify. The game wasn't for
everyone. Its participants were very selective.
He shuffled through the
papers in the folder as he analysed what he had found out in the last few days.
The thing was, what was he supposed to be
negotiating for? And what message did Kel get from the pilot? Usually, all the details were given to him to ensure
his success, but lately, it seemed as if someone up there wanted him to fail. This wasn't the first time
that he'd conducted business that seemed to have nothing worthwhile in return. He frowned. What was so
important about a damned message?
"What
are you reading?" Zaleiha interrupted his thoughts.
"Stuff."
“Ahh."
John
lifted a brow enquiringly. "Ahh?"
"Kel said—" She stopped when he groaned,
lowering his head in a gesture of total defeat. "I'm sorry, is something wrong?"
"No,
no, please continue," he said, wanting to hear what other wisdom his Kel
had imparted. “What was the 'ahhh' for?"
Zaleiha
sat down on the Victorian embroidered chair, and crossed and uncrossed her
legs, studying how
they
looked. Finally, she put them together and tucked them femininely to the side.
“Kel
said," she continued, as she tried to keep her balance, ''that 'stuff
means the man doesn't want the woman to know about whatever he's doing.
It's part of the secret code of male domination, she said.”
John
coughed. The woman was incorrigible, and he didn't mean Zaleiha. "I think
you shouldn't take Kel so seriously. She has this strange sense of
humour that isn't really proper." He could manipulate information
just as well as his darling wife.
"She
told me to ignore any insults you say about her," Kaleiha informed him,
and her eyes widened when she finally looked up from her feet.
"Oh, don't be angry. I don't know how to make her good coffee to calm
you down ... and the other way is impossible."
OK, he'd bite.
"Go on. What is the other way to calm me down? Drug me?" he
suggested, with remarkable calm, he thought.
Kaleiha blushed and,
again, wouldn't look him in the eye. He narrowed his suspiciously.
"Well," she said, her voice shy. "It's impossible
because I don't know what to do with a naked man, but Kel said, she can calm
you down once you're naked."
John stared at the
woman. Her face was bright red with embarrassment. "You know what,"
he said, although
the sound of his voice seemed a little choked to him, "I think I'm going
to take you to Agra with me. I need to show you
off to Kel."
Delight fused with
embarrassment. The woman, who, a few days ago, was probably the epitome of a demure and quiet female, jumped up, squealing. She
quickly covered her mouth. "Oh, thank you, thank you! Kel said if I said the right things, you
would take me along!"
John
contemplated tearing the file in his hands in half. Fate giving him one
manipulating female was cruel, but to then give him another who was
obviously in training to be just as bad was simply evil. He had to go to the source,
return this evil thing to the giver. He thought of Kel - he wasn't going to let
time pass again. She couldn't hide from him,
not ever again. Yes, he was going to find the evil woman in Agra and ... and... get naked.
Knight's
Tour - A puzzle or task in which a knight has to
move over an empty chessboardr visiting each
square only once.
Three
"AARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"
John
opened one eye, his right ear ringing from the high-pitched scream. "Take
a nap," he advised. "If you don't look, you won't
see a damned thing."
The woman beside him sat
stiffly, both hands gripping the backrest of the front seat, as she stared with
saucer-eyes into the traffic in front of her. In the driver’s seat, the turbaned
Sikh had one finger poked into his left ear
while steering with his thumb pressed insistently on the car horn.
"How
can you sleep?” Zaleiha shrieked back over the din. "He is
constantly making that horrible sound with the horn! How can you
sleep with four hours of car horn?” Her voice rose into a hysterical
pitch.
"He
needs to do that,” explained John in a mild voice, "to let the
people ahead of him know he's right on their asses and if they don't move to
the other lane, there's going to be a crash.”
"That's
it! That's it!" Zaleiha yelled. "Why do they drive like there is just
one lane? Even I can see there are two lanes clearly marked! Why are the
drivers in the middle of the road and why must this driver keep honking
until they move? When we used to have television, the people in the shows
didn't drive like this!”
John sighed, and
opened his eyes. It wasn't easy explaining to somebody about driving in a
country where no rules is the rule. First of all, there was
probably only one traffic light from New Delhi to Agra. One traffic
light, and that was near the palatial government building. After that, it was
every citizen for himself, so to speak. Every driver, every school kid on a
bicycle, every crammed-to-the-seams busload of Indians, every
wagon of workers, every crisscrossing cow for himself. At varying speeds up to
eighty miles an hour, he had to admit it could be harrowing to a first-timer. He'd
learned to just let go of the mounting horror of being killed and take a nap. If that was possible, that is, with
everyone beeping their horn as if their life depended on it. Which it did. Just close your eyes, and pretend
you're in New York. In the year 2050.
Okay, that was probably
not usable advice for a young woman on her first car ride. So he patted her on the shoulder in the awkward manner that he'd seen
his pals use to comfort a crying child. "It's all right,” he said,
in what he hoped was a soothing tone of voice. "They're used to it.
Really. We are going to arrive in one
piece. Right, David?"
David
Singh, the Sikh driver, nodded. "Oh yes,” he said, shaking his
head in typical Indian fashion. "No problem. We're there in no
time at all. Maybe five minutes. The Miss has nothing to fear, nothing to be afraid
of. I'm a very good driver.”
John
looked back at Zaleiha. "See? Everything's under control.”
At
that moment, the car swerved hard to the left, barely missing a wayward cow.
Zaleiha's high-pitched scream had both men wincing. "What control? What
control?” she asked, as the car bounced over several packages that
fell from the cart ahead. "This is madness! This is a killing field! Why
are there cows on the road?”
"They're
holy. They can go wherever they want.”
"Look
out!" The woman pointed to another cow lumbering toward them, then threw
herself against John, hiding her face in his chest as she
prayed in her dialect. Her stranglehold on his neck was amazingly strong,
and John couldn't disentangle her hands as she sobbed, soaking his T-shirt. He
looked up and caught David Singh's sympathetic eyes in the rearview
mirror.
John sighed, sinking back
into the seat. When they reached Agra, the car would slow down and maybe he could dissuade this woman from making a giant
hanky out of him. He’d forgotten exactly why he chose to bring her along ... oh
yeah, to give her back to Kel. Let her be Professor Higgins.
He
forgot about the woman in his arms as soon as they entered the limits of the
old city. The head-splitting
honking stopped. That was because there wasn't a moving car in sight. Not a
soul walking anywhere. It looked like an
abandoned town, but with cars parked haphazardly all over the place.
"David?"
he asked.
The driver shrugged
"Well reach the hotel in no time at all - no traffic!” He drove
on, obviously unperturbed
by the non-activity around them.
John frowned. He’d
been to Agra before, and at the height of tourism, it was impossible to
navigate on foot the closer one travelled to the Taj Mahal. Hawkers roamed
everywhere selling fake marble items and bad
replicas of the tomb. Beggar children literally chased the unwary foreigner all
the way from the hotel to the famous
site. And there were the thousands of visitors, locals mingling with the very
obvious foreigners, taking photographs and buying mementos.
Where were they? This was the equivalent
of walking down Fifth Avenue all alone. For a moment, he thought that maybe some sort of terrorist virus
attack had killed off the population. Then he caught sight of a few cattle strolling down the street. Okay,
strike virus-attack off the list.
When they finally
arrived at their destination, they found Indian soldiers in front of the hotel.
One of them demanded identification as soon as David Singh
rolled down the car window. Hot humid air immediately gushed into the cool interior. David
exchanged a few words with the soldier, and then turned to John.
"We
aren't allowed to stay here."
John
arched a brow. "We have reservations.”
"Yes, but the President of the United
States has a suite here at the moment. Those people in the lounge are all like in the movie Men In Black, you know?”
"Secret
Service," John confirmed, as he eyed the black-suited, sunglassed,
expressionless men. He vaguely remembered watching the news about the
President's travel itinerary for some business summit. Apparently,
the Temple was somehow involved. Well, at least he now had an explanation as to
why the city was deserted. Probably under curfew.
"No one is allowed
to move around in the city. Soldier said if you give him some rupees, he will
make problem go away.”
John
sniffed. He doubted it. The Prez's blacksuits weren't going to let an
unidentified car slip away without checking him out. "Tell
the soldier I'm on my honeymoon, David,” he ordered. "And my
wife is suffering from the heat.”
"Yes,
sir.”
The
soldier looked through the window and studied John, who was still holding
Zaleiha. He shook his head. "Sorry, but security reasons,"
he said, apologetically. He shook his head sympathetically when Zaleiha moaned into
John's chest.
"Look, here are
one thousand rupees.” John handed over the money. "My wife
really needs some fresh air. If we could just rest up at the
restaurant for an hour, then maybe she would feel better. Besides, we aren't
allowed to move around the city, so how are we supposed to find other
accommodations?"
The soldier pocketed
the bill. "You are right, sir. No travelling because of curfew, so you
have to at least stay here until I find out what to do."
"Thank
you," John said, wryly. He whispered in Zaleiha's ear, "Keep it
up."
When
the soldier opened the door, John climbed out with Zaleiha in his arms. He took
the stairs and walked into the lobby. The Secret Service men
spoke to the soldier John had bribed. The one in charge approached.
"How is your wife,
Mr ...?"
"Dallas. We
didn't know about this or we wouldn't have made the four-hour trip from New
Delhi, I assure you."
"Why don't you
sit down here and we'll get some water for her?" the man said. "I
need to ask a few questions before I can let you through, I'm
afraid. Every guest in this hotel has to be accounted for, and identified.
Can I see your reservation papers?"
"No
problem," John said. "I understand thoroughly. Can you pull the
envelope out of my pocket? My wife is still feeling rather weak. Here honey, let's just
follow this man and sit down in the lobby for a few minutes, okay?"
The
man glanced through the papers, then looked up quickly, new respect in his
eyes. "You're John Dallas, CEO of Black Knights, Inc.? Your
executive secretary is already here, I believe. She signed up for a whole
suite and left instructions for you. You're late for the Taj Mahal, I'm afraid,
but the President is scheduled for another quick tour to Asoka's
tomb."
John
nodded. Interesting how things could change just like that. He must be getting
more important in the Temple's standings, meeting with the President of the United
States now. When you didn't know what the hell was going on, the golden rule
was to go with the flow. "Yes, I'm aware of that. My delay was unintentional."
"We'll call up to
your suite to announce your arrival. Just pick up the keys at the front desk
and go straight up, Mr Dallas. Sorry that your wife feels so
sick."
"She'll
be fine." John wondered whether she had fallen asleep, she was so still.
They went to the
registration desk and the Secret Service agent gave the papers to the clerk,
nodding his approval.
"He's on our list. He can come down and sign in later," he
instructed. "Let him get Mrs Dallas upstairs
first."
John
thanked the man and took the electronic key cards in the small folder. John
Dallas. Kel Dallas. His heart skipped a beat. More and more interesting, he thought.
There
was a weapon detection device just outside the elevator. John didn't put
Zaleiha down, smiling apologetically at the security guard who waved them through. The
elevator door closed before he spoke again.
"Are you awake?"
"Of
course. But it feels good to be carried." She looked around her.
The elevator door opened
and, lo and behold, who was waiting for them outside but his dear wife. The real Mrs Dallas. John scowled at her. Arms
folded, she scowled back.
"Gaming
your wife across the threshold, Dallas?" Kel greeted with heavy sarcasm.
The
tone of her voice perked John's attention. My, but he finally got some positive
reaction - he took note of the glare, the glint in those golden
eyes, the set of her lips. Yes, yes, all the signs of a jealous woman.
He
stepped out of the elevator. "Do show me the bridal suite, dear executive
secretary." He smiled.
Kel
continued glaring at him, then turned around, marching down the carpeted
hallway. John followed, his smile widening as he studied the stiff back of the
woman ahead. She was wearing a pair of old jeans that clung
to her in all the right places, and he eyed them appreciatively. He used to
love seeing Kel in jeans. Guessed he still did.
The
suite was huge. He immediately noticed that it had several bedrooms. He settled
the very quiet Zaleiha on to the expensive-looking brocade
sofa. Her eyes were still round as saucers as she looked about her.
Kel
leaned against the well-stocked bar nearby, her eyes glittering. "Nice,
dutiful husband," she mocked. "The call from the
lobby a moment ago said that Mrs Dallas was suffering from the heat. I don't
see any such thing."
"She
was hysterical."
"Sure she was.
Heat can make a woman like that. She sure looks hysterical now too," Kel
came back, disbelief in her voice.
"It was the ride
from New Delhi that frightened her," John explained amiably. He was
enjoying this jealous Kel a lot.
"We
came this close to hitting some cows!" informed Zaleiha, thumb and finger
emphasizing the danger they'd been in. "I was so frightened,
and John comforted me. He is a very nice man to hug."
"Uh-huh,"
said Kel.
“I’d
better go down to reception to finish signing us in," John said, knowing
that this was the perfect moment to let the woman stew. Now Kel
knew how he'd felt for the last few days. "Care to fill me in about what I
need to do?"
Kel's
sideways glance was expressively clear about what she thought he needed to do.
He grinned. Things were looking up; he was the one screwing with her
mind this time. "1 can do that later," he continued, and studied
her luscious figure, "but business before pleasure, and all that."
"Did
you check up on your next assignment?”
"I
did a lot of checking up," John told her, and this time he watched her
closely. "I have quite a few questions for you, Kel
Dallas.”
She blinked at the
sound of her married name. It sounded strange to him too, but certainly not as strange as he’d thought.
And, most importantly, she hadn't mentioned anything about changing it back to Kel Grant.
"Questions
later. You're a VIP guest here," Kel said, as she walked into the room.
She handed him an envelope. "All the IDs you need right
now. What did you tell them about the fact that you weren't here for the
Taj Mahal trip?"
John
shrugged as he tore open the envelope. "Delays, whatever. Why are we here
to meet POTUS?"
"Side
negotiations. We're actually dealing with a Mr Dante. When you're downstairs,
leave a message for him too." She handed him an envelope.
"It's important to write that message in exactly the same way as it's written
in here, symbols and all."
"Yes,
ma'am. I want to do things exactly your way."
She
snorted. "I doubt that's what you want, Dallas."
He
wanted to kiss her, actually. But that wasn't in the instructions. He had a
feeling if he kissed her right now, he would forget to go downstairs.
Besides, there was Zaleiha. "We're finally here, Za. Where is your big
hug for your friend Kel?"
Zaleiha was looking
at them like they were both wild beasts. 'You had better make some coffee for
her," she advised. "She has the same evil look in her eyes that you
did the morning I first met you."
"like a drunk
donkey?" John asked helpfully. When Zaleiha nodded, he added wickedly,
"Sorry, Za, coffee won't do it. There's only one way to
soothe Kel."
Zaleiha's
face went red. "Oh," she squeaked. Kel was scowling again.
Oh,
he was enjoying this. Let's see Kel stew in her own juices.
"See
ya both in a bit," he called out, as he strode out of the suite.
The moment he was in
the elevator, he pulled out the envelope. The information was the usual deal.
His next job. Yet, there was an odd feeling about the whole
thing. His instincts told him that the last few assignments were
connected somehow. If only he could see past the obvious. But he must be doing something
right, or they wouldn't have sprung Kel on him. Twice. Twice, after three
years. He chewed on his lower lip, as the lift descended back to
the lobby.
Did
she know how much she affected him? Was that why they sent her - so he might be
distracted for a while? He frowned at that thought. Mostly because he had been
distracted.
There were several
bedrooms up there and he'd lock both of them in one. The elevator door opened
with a quiet hum and he exited, giving the security guard an
absent-minded smile, his mind on the woman upstairs. He had plans for
his own personal version of an information exchange.
It took him quite a
while to get to the registration desk. Security was tight, what with so many
important people within the walls of the hotel. He wondered whether
the people working at the desk were really employees; their smiles of
welcome were a bit too fixed.
John copied the message
inside the envelope on to a piece of hotel paper, folded it, and asked the desk
clerk to make sure to put it in Dr Dante's
box. He gave the man a tip for his trouble. If the clerk was really an undercover
agent and snuck a peek, it’d read just like an innocent business message. This
Miklos Riman Dante guy sounded familiar.
After going through
another security point, he strolled down to the lower area of the lobby, taking
his time looking through the gift shops and boutiques. It was good to be alone
again. He wasn't good with female company, never had been. The days with
Zaleiha had taken a lot of patience. She had so much to learn about life outside
a mountain village, and although she was a quick learner, he was not cut out to
be her tutor. What the hell was the Temple
going to do with her? Undoubtedly, she had to fit somewhere in their maze of plans, or they wouldn't have gone
through the trouble of giving her a new identity.
Seven years he’d
been at this, and he had never even been close to actually stripping the veil
of secrecy from the Temple. Everything was perfectly camouflaged,
surrounded by layers of different dummy corporations. Hell, it was
they who had shown him how to start Knights Inc., an international import-export business,
specializing in antiques, even though he was nothing more than a glorified
rogue treasure-hunter. He’d plunged into
the strange world of finance, stolen artifacts, and government intrigue. The
following years had made him very cynical about the power structures that held
the world together -most of them, it
seemed, controlled by a handful of men.
On the outside, he was CEO of Knights,
Inc., a businessman who dealt in war artefacts, someone who financed a number of archaeological digs around
the world, a low-key figure who made his money selling treasures to a selected few who belonged to the
elite of the world.
On the inside, he was
a double agent, for the Temple and for Uncle Sam. There was no easy way to describe
what the Temple really was. Uncle Sam sure didn't understand, but what Uncle
Sam knew was that it was useful to have someone on the inside.
The Temple negotiated for different groups of people who wanted to be anonymous,
sometimes for treasure, sometimes for people, sometimes for politics. And the United States government was interested to know
the details, or as much information as John Dallas, ex-military, ex-CIA man, supplied them with. He’d
discovered that one was never truly retired from covert work.
Call it the
seven-year itch but he'd been getting restless lately. The Temple, in the
beginning, was a challenge, a personal Mount Everest. Like with the mountain,
operatives had been sent up and defeated. However, nobody had been in
there as long as he had - the former military man with an interest in treasure-hunting. He’d
introduced himself to them as a modern-day Indiana Jones. Because of his
success
these
past years, he was virtually autonomous in his dealings with them.
In fact, John had more
questions than Uncle Sam. Seven years, and all they'd ever contacted him about was a few weapons exchanges. That wasn't enough
for him any more. So, instead of keeping a low profile and simply following orders, he had started to
push a little more. Mount Everest wasn't totally insurmountable. A few people had reached its peak. He just needed to
make it his quest. At this point of the game, he didn't really care what Uncle Sam wanted. He was in charge of a
group of highly trained soldiers-of-fortune.
He'd even made his own fortune. What were they going to do, fire him?
Kel heard the door to the suite open
exactly one hour twenty-five minutes after John had left. She hadn't been
worried when he departed. John Dallas knew how to get out of any sensitive
situation. Plus, she could tell from that evil gleam in his eye
that he liked having the upper hand again.
She
looked up from her work at the desk, pretending to be surprised. The evil gleam
that shone in those black eyes always managed to give her a
girlish shiver. He had a way of looking at her as if he were assessing every
intimate secret in her mind. The daredevil glint challenged her every female
instinct to yield to him.
She jutted her chin out
as he approached. She wanted so much more from this man, but she wasn't sure whether he was capable of giving it to her.
"Worried
about me?”he asked, coming to a stop in front of her.
He was much too
close. Whirling the chair from the desk, she tilted her head back and met those
eyes again. Dark, devilish ... and yes, desire was in there
too. She remembered that look only too well.
"Should I
be?" she countered. "You're probably just trying to get back at me
for what happened in Pakistan.”
"Damn
right.” He moved even nearer, still not touching her. "What was
that all about Kel? Really kinky, but not really a reunion,
surely."
"Wedding,”
Kel reminded him.
"Wedding,
reunion, whatever you want to call it," John said, his voice soft.
"You know you didn't have to knock me out.”
''Would
you have let me go off the next morning?"
"You'll
never know now, will you?"
He leaned forward,
putting his hands on either arm of her chair, trapping her. His body heat
surrounded her and she breathed in his masculine scent. Why was it
that the mere mixture of body temperature and chemical essence could heighten
all her senses? When he was near her like this, her sight, her sense of smell,
her hearing- every part of her- was focused entirely on his being.
"It wasn't
something I wanted to fight over," she explained, her voice husky. "I
had a limited amount of time to spend with you and you were going to
ask too many questions."
"So
you had your way with me and just left? Did you know we were going to meet again
here, or were you
going
to wait another three years before contacting me?"
The slight edge in his
voice was the only thing that hinted at his mood. Everything else about him was
very controlled, as if he had made up his
mind not to lose his temper. Kel wouldn't have expected any less from him; his skill at negotiations was legendary.
And
he was in full battle mode now, trying to find the chinks in her armour,
looking for a way to invade. He was definitely not going to play hide and seek
with her anymore. She had been prepared for this, yet she still
felt the tiny flutters of nervousness in the pit of stomach. A big dose of John
Dallas after years of starvation wasn't easy on a woman's peace of
mind.
"There
was a chance that I would see you again," Kel told him, deliberately
needling him. She noted the slight narrowing of his dark eyes.
"Anyhow, I knew you'd come after me sooner or later, whether it was after your next assignment, or
the next, but you wouldn't have left things as they were. As luck would have
it, you were in Pakistan, and easily
available for this job in India."
"As
were you," John remarked in a dry voice, pointing out the convenience of
it all.
She
smiled at his sarcasm. He was mad because she was right. He would have gone
after her, one way or another. "I knew you'd sacrifice something to come
here; that was a given." She had to tease him a little. "Of course,
there was a slight chance that you wouldn't make it, like an act of God, for
instance."
"Or
if I had quit."
Quit the Game? John?
She raised an enquiring brow at the notion. "Sorry, that doesn't compute
since our last big quarrel had to do with your loving the game
too much. I believe your words were 'Can't leave it, darling.
Don't make me choose between you and the Game right now.' Remember?"
That had hurt. And
because it hurt so much, she had pushed him, giving him an ultimatum. It might have been years but the
pain of leaving him had stayed with her. What happened next had been an
act of God, She had left him, thinking he
would follow, and then - as the saying went - shit happened. The choices after that weren't hers anymore.
He
studied her silently and she looked back at him, letting him draw his own
conclusions. It wasn't easy staying one step ahead of him, and she
knew that everything she told him would be filed away for later use. John
Dallas was a consummate analyst, a necessary trait in the art of negotiation.
She had no doubt that
she would have to be very careful. What she needed to do, first of all, was to negotiate
a truce of some sort. She had to be prepared for the barrage of questions
coming her way and, she admitted, with both trepidation and thrill,
to be the target of some very intense attention.
The
thrill was easily explained. After all this time, John still made her weak all
over. She was so attracted to him, she ached from wanting him. No, she didn't need to hide
how she felt about him; she couldn't even if
she wanted to. All he had to do was lean forward now and kiss her, and she
would willingly wrap her legs around
him. As she thought about this, he moved even closer, until her only choice was
to look into his eyes. Her heartbeat thundered.
"Kiss
me," she whispered softly.
"Not
yet," he told her, just as softly.
"Why?"
His
breath was hot against her lips. "Because you keep asking me to remember
this and remember that. I want you to remember something
else."
"What's that?”
His proximity was driving her insane. She wanted to pull him closer somehow,
but felt paralyzed by the sensuality of his
gaze.
"I
want you to remember that you asked me to give you more than you were willing
to give me. I want you to feel this between us and realize that you gave it up
for ambition. You walked away from us because you couldn't wait.
You put distance between us because you were afraid."
He
couldn't have been more wrong. Kel didn't blink once through his accusations.
Yet there was truth in his wrong conclusions. She forced a small
smile.
"How like a man
to pick and choose what to remember and what to forget," she mocked.
"Was what I asked so much? And just because I took
another position within the organization must mean I did so out of blind
ambition and fear, of course. If it were a man you would have said 'Way to go!
Go for it!' You're a male chauvinist pig, John Dallas! If I were a
man ..."
"If
you were a man, we wouldn't have been lovers and you wouldn't have given me an
ultimatum!" John retorted.
"If
I were a man, we wouldn't be married," she finished.
"If you were a man,
we wouldn't have been allowed to many in front of an imam," he told her, a
small smile tugging his lips. "Now
that we've established that you aren't a man, why don't you tell me exactly why
you married me and what is this game
we're playing? Because, you know, it'd help me to understand the situation a whole lot better. Let's start with
us."
"This
is my final assignment," Kel said, watching his face closely. “I’ve
officially asked to be removed from the Temple's list. It's was a three-year
deal I had with them, and I've finished."
"Your
final assignment was ... to marry me," John said rhetorically, his tone of
voice deceptively casual.
Kel
grinned. "No, my final assignment was to find the treasure that Dante
wants. But marrying you was the opportunity to bring you close to me."
He studied her for a
minute. "Not once in the last three years, Kel..." he began.
"It was part of the
deal. No communications. John, I was on the list to be in the top tier and it
isn't easy to quit. Sure, I was ambitious,
but you meant more to me." She took one step towards him. "We aren't really legally married. It was just my way to
tell you how committed I am to be with you. I can still say those magic words to free you."
"Three
years, Kel. Three fucking long years."
"I
know."
"I
can't forgive that. Not yet."
"I
know."
There
was another short silence. "This last game. How does it figure into your
plans?"
"If we win, I'm
free," she told him. "We can be together and there won't be
repercussions. I've protected you all along, can't you see? You think they
don't know you're passing on information to the government? Don't be naive,
John."
"What
if we don't win?"
She
knew she had to tell the truth. And she didn't want to hurt him. "There's
a chance they won't honour our agreement if I fail to deliver," she said, then
shrugged. "I've never thought beyond the promise of us. It's up to you now. Do you want to take the
chance?"
She
glanced up quickly and found his dark eyes focused intently on her.
"I've
always wanted you, Kel, and I don't intend to let you go. I want to get to know
you again. Things have changed; we've changed. That I still
want you might not be enough."
"Then
let's leave this decision till we've finished the assignment," Kel
suggested. He wanted her. She could make him love her again. "No
promises until you're sure. That's all I'm asking, John."
She let the hope
shine from her eyes. She wanted him to see how much this meant to her. She
wanted time
with him. Time to explain. Time to heal. Second chances were so rare and she
was going to grasp at hers like a drowning
woman after a lifeline.
'You're
so lucky you're not a man, Mrs Dallas."
Her
heart thundered at his soft words. The look in his eyes made her weak in the
knees. Come what may, she'd always treasure this moment.
"So.
Since I'm not a man, why are you still talking and not kissing me?"
His
eyes narrowed. "Good question," he murmured, and dipped his head.
The Traitor
Debra Webb
One
Huntsville, Alabama 4.00 a.m.
NASA research engineer Jill
Mulroney watched from her hiding place in the woods as the flames devouring her
home blazed higher and higher against the dark sky. The first emergency
response vehicles had arrived but it was already too late.
The state of the art
security system she had purchased upon buying the country home she had dreamed of owning her entire life had failed. Her life -
past, present and future - was gone now.
Emotion
swelled in her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
There was no one to
blame. Not really. This was her fault. She'd trusted the wrong man. She had
allowed him inside and he'd taken advantage of her naivete where
matters of the heart were concerned. Here . . . now . . . her only choice had
been to deactivate the home security system she'd researched as the best on the
market and end it all. Nothing about her existed now.
Jill turned her back
on her mistake and picked her way through the woods. The car she'd bought with cash
and purposely failed to register waited one mile away on a stretch of long
winding road that scarcely anyone used beyond hunting season. Inside she had
stashed as much cash as she'd dared to withdraw from her
bank account and a few changes of clothes. And one photo. The only one she'd
dared to save.
She hadn't kept a
single memento other than the one beloved photo of her and her father. It was
all gone now.
By dawn her entire life would be mere ashes. Hours would pass before the
authorities would realize there were no human remains in the rubble. That was
her window of opportunity. She had to use that time to get as far away as possible. Before he and those he represented set
out to find her. Eventually she would develop
a new identity, find an insignificant job and live an equally insignificant
life.
This
was the penance for her error.
If
she were extraordinarily lucky that would be the only cost. If they found her,
she would die. Maybe she deserved to die.
A
low tree branch slapped her in the face, knocking her glasses askew. She
grimaced and righted her eyewear.
Twenty-nine
years old and highly educated. How could she have made such a monumental
mistake?
Fury
roared inside her. It wasn't fair! Not fair at all.
But
it was her fate.
To protect the agency ... to protect her country ... she had no
choice but to vanish.
The system she had designed for research -
the same one the Pentagon had praised - existed no longer. Mere moments before her home had gone up in flames
she had initiated the self-destruct virus via her home computer that by now had corrupted the files
related to her prized project at NASA. There would be no resurrecting them. No
piecing together the residual traces left behind that more than one federal
agency would attempt to sift from the ruins.
It was done. Years
of work, billions of potential dollars for NASA's shaky financial future had
gone up in proverbial smoke along with her life.
When her remains were
not discovered, her colleagues would hate her. Some would hang on to the theory
that she had been abducted along with the project. Others would be certain she
had sold out to the enemy.
A traitor.
Her country - the one she
had given up everything to protect - would label her a traitor.
Her colleagues would work day and night in
an attempt to recreate the system she had destroyed. That was the only part in all of this that she could be
proud of. From the beginning, she had understood the implications of her
project. Knowing its importance, as well as the fact that it could be exploited
by any number of enemies, she had taken
precise measures to build in a fail-safe.
Now it
was done.
Over.
It
would take her peers vast amounts of effort to recreate her work. Perhaps
during that time the powers that be would establish better security measures to stop such
things ever happening again.
Jill stopped to
catch her breath as she neared that stretch of narrow, lonely road. She peered
through the dense woods protecting her from view. The cheap little
car she'd purchased waited amid the thick brush right where she'd hidden it. Had she not
known the exact location she wouldn't have been able to spot the black vehicle. And it was only the meager
moonlight glinting against the roof that allowed her to visually identify it.
All she had to do was cross the road and
she would be home free. She would drive as fast and as far as her weary mind would allow. Stopping for a few
hours sleep would be necessary, but not in hotels. She didn't want to be
seen by anyone who might remember her when questioned. She'd packed an assortment
of snacks and easily opened canned goods, as well as plenty of bottled water,
to facilitate her escape. A couple of rolls
of toilet paper would delay her need for a bathroom.
She'd
gone over every possible scenario.
One
final check of the dark road, left then right, and she dashed toward her safety
net. She hadn't decided upon a destination. That part she would play by ear.
Far away and obscure were her only requirements at this point.
The humid air, even in late fall and at
this hour of the morning, weighted her lungs as she unlocked the driver's door and slid behind the steering wheel.
Relief made her arms and legs weak as she started the engine. Jill closed her eyes and recited the same
prayer that had been her mantra for days now.
Please
let me escape this nightmare. Let me save the innocent from my mistake.
With a deep breath,
she eased out on to the crumbling pavement then pressed down firmly on the accelerator.
The reality of her
actions crowded in around her. She could never come back . . . never
communicate with her few friends again.
Fortunately she had no family. The thought tightened inside her. Not once in her adult life had she considered that fact fortunate.
Until
now.
If
she'd had any family her actions would have put them in extreme danger.
"Pathetic,
Mulroney,” she mumbled.
Her
senses went on alert as a shadow in the rearview mirror appeared in the
backseat behind her.
Something
hard and cold abruptly pressed against the back of her skull.
The dark figure in
the rearview mirror penetrated the layers of denial in her brain at the same
instant the oxygen exited her lungs.
"Keep
driving," a deep, male voice ordered, "and you might just live
through this."
Two
It
was him.
Anger
and self-loathing boiled up inside her. How could she have been such a fool?
All her life she'd been touted a genius. Ha! If she'd been half
as smart as all those professors had proclaimed she would never
have been deceived so easily.
"They'll
stop you." The words shook, scorched her throat with equal measures of
pain and rage. He wouldn't get away with this. Somehow he had
to fail.
"Take
the next right.”
The order was cold,
ruthless. Why hadn't she recognized him as the enemy before it was too late? An
ache twisted near her heart. He'd wooed her . . . lured her into his sensual
trap. And she'd fallen like the virgin fool she was.
Stupid.
Stupid. Stupid. She hadn't wanted to see anything but the idea that he wanted
her. So stupid.
"Make
the turn." The weapon nudged more deeply into her skull.
The fury clenched her jaw
all the harder. She braked and made the instructed turn. Where the hell was he taking her? Deeper into the middle of nowhere.
That was glaringly apparent.
Bastard.
"What now?"
she snapped. The road she'd turned onto led deeper into the woods. 'There's
nothing out here."
Except
the state park.
Her stomach sank like
a rock in shallow water. That was the point. He would take her there - in the middle
of nowhere - and kill her. First, he would torture her in hopes of obtaining
the SASS. A smile tugged at her lips. But that was gone. The only
blueprint for the Search and Surveillance System's program was in her
head. She would never, no matter how intensive the torture, reveal the secret
codes only she understood. None of the advanced programming geeks from the FBI,
the CIA, or NSA had been able to decipher
her specialized coding.
"Stop."
She braked harder than necessary. The
muzzle bumped against her head. She winced but couldn't help feeling some amount of glee at catching him
off-guard even that tiny bit
"Get
out."
Fine. Why argue? He was going to do what
he was going to do. He had the gun after all. She threw the car into park and wrenched open her door. By the
time she'd gotten out of the vehicle and on to her feet, he was looming over her. She slammed the door and
faced him. "Are you going to kill me here?"
He
hitched his head in the opposite direction. "Let's go."
For three seconds she glared at him. Every
detail wasn't visible in the pre-dawn darkness but she didn't need any light to see . . . she knew him by heart.
More than six feet tall, broad shouldered, well muscled. She shivered at
the memory of all those well defined muscles banded around that lean frame.
Black hair, thick and silky1.
And those dark eyes. Her mutinous body quivered again. His eyes had gotten to
her first.
“You through?"
Heat rushed up her
throat and burned her face. "I just wanted one last good look at an enemy
of the state." Victory trickled through her. Thank God
she'd come up with a reasonable excuse for gawking at him...
even if it had been a lie.
"Get
moving."
She thought of her
money as she marched away from the car, but she felt relatively certain she
wouldn't need it where she was going. What good was money when
you were dead?
"This
way.”
When they reached the
main road, such as it was, he prodded her to the right. Her confusion deepened.
This direction took them deeper into nowhere.
A few miles farther and the mountain road started its spiraling descent into the valley.
Why
go this way? It didn't make sense. Only two houses, one abandoned. Nothing but
woods and critters. She shivered again and this time it had
nothing to do with the big brooding jerk behind her. It was the
idea of all the wild animals lurking in those woods.
As a
kid she'd been terrified of the dark. Critters or no.
She'd read herself
to sleep with a flashlight under the covers every night. She'd been a nerd even
then. A tall, skinny adolescent with eyeglasses, braces and
pimples. In college she'd spent ninety per cent of her time
either in the classroom or the library doing research and studying. No one had
noticed her.
It wasn't until she'd
taken the position at NASA that anyone had given her more than a cursory
glance. Yet even then the attention hadn't once been about her as a person ... it had been about her work.
Three
years of hard work. Awards for innovation. All sorts of accolades for her
ingenuity. Only to be remembered as a traitor.
When
it was the brute behind her who was the real traitor.
Twice
in the fifteen minutes that followed she opened her mouth to demand where the
hell he was taking her, but she'd changed her mind each time. She
hugged herself despite the unseasonable October heat. Fear, she told herself.
There was absolutely no chance she would survive whatever was about to happen.
He - or whoever he worked
for - wanted the SASS. She had destroyed all traces of the system. Killing her
was likely his way of tying up the loose ends. In the event the government ever
tracked her down she couldn't describe him.
He would make sure of that.
Whoever
the hell he was.
Trace
Granger. Like that was his name. Nothing about him was as he'd
told her.
And
she'd taken the bait, hook, line and sinker.
Strong
fingers abruptly wrapped around her right arm. "This way.”
She stumbled as he lugged her off the
paved road and on to a rutted dirt path. Couldn't be called a road. It had once
been a driveway ...
Total
recognition flared.
"Why
are we going in there?” A new kind of fear ignited inside her.
That he ignored her
question sent outrage roaring through her veins. Enough to temporarily burn
away the fear. "Fin not going in there."
He
dragged her when she resisted. Her feet scraped the uneven ground. She couldn't
go in there.
Fifteen
years and the mere thought of the place scared her to death.
No matter how she
resisted, her strength was no match for his. "I can't go .. ." She
shook her head. Tried to jerk free of his hold.
As if she hadn't just
burned her home to the ground. Hadn't destroyed years of work. All that
mattered at this second was not passing through the gates of hell.
He
yanked her toward him, chest to chest. "Keep it up and I'll throw you over
my shoulder," he growled.
As
if her realizations, her actions of the past forty-eight hours, suddenly
crushed in on her all at once she simply stared at him. She couldn't speak if
her life depended upon it, and clearly it did.
He
grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder.
She
was going to die ... in Hell.
Three
5.03
a.m.
Trace
settled Jill on to her feet.
She
ripped away from his hold and spun around in the darkness. "I can't be
here." Her hands came up to her face to right her
glasses.
If
he could just get through the next half hour without her freaking out
completely she would understand.
She
bolted.
He
grabbed her by the shoulders and towed her back. "Not yet."
She
whipped around, trembled. "Why don't you just kill me and get it over
with."
Jesus. He'd put his
weapon away already. Did she really think he was going to kill her? He'd done
what he had
to do to ensure her cooperation. He hadn't liked it, but that unpleasant part
was behind them now.
'You're
safe with me."
Jill
laughed, the sound dry and filled with derision. "Right. Yeah. That's why
you have a gun, Trace."
Daybreak wasn't far
off. The sparse light leeching in through the cracks in the walls and roof
allowed him to make out the shape of her face but not the expressions.
"The weapon is for our protection. Nothing more."
"You stuck it to
the back of my head," she railed, daring to take a step closer to him.
"You. .." She folded her arms over her chest. "You threatened to
kill me. Don't deny it."
He'd
warned that if she wanted to live she would listen. Very different to a death
threat. But he wasn't
going
to waste time explaining the subtleties of his line of work. "Trust me,
you're safe."
Her jaw dropped.
That he clearly sawin the faint grey of dawn. "Trust you?" She backed
up the step she'd claimed. "I might be naive but I'm not a
total idiot. You cost me everything, Trace Granger - or whoever the hell you are. You're ..
.you're a traitor. A terrorist!"
Nothing
he hadn't been called before. But. . . somehow it cut deeper coming from her.
"I don't know what you think," he began, choosing his
words carefully, "but I'm here to protect you."
'You're
insane!" Another step widened between them. "I don't even know your
real name."
She
would bolt again. He braced to make a move. "My name is Trace Granger.
Major Trace Granger. I joined your project six weeks ago to ensure
you had an exit strategy."
She shook her head,
made a scoffing sound. "An exit strategy? I don't know what the hell
you're talking about. But what I do know is that you betrayed me." She
hugged herself tighter. "You wormed your way into my life ... and ... and
you tried to steal my work."
"I was sent to
protect you and your project." How had she gotten such a ridiculous idea?
He'd been watching her particularly closely the past few days. Her
sudden withdrawal had warned that she was on the verge of making some
kind of panicked move.
"No way."
Her head was moving side to side again. "You're just saying that in the
hope that I'll cooperate with you. I know what you did."
He restrained the
frustration mounting in his chest. "What is it you think I did?" That
was the place to start. She was upset, angry. He needed to
lead her through this one step at a time.
'You," she
stabbed an accusing finger at him, "showed up on my team six weeks ago.
Made it a point to get close to me."
Her voice shook on the
last. That part was true. He'd set out to seduce her. The operation profile had
suggested
that might be the only avenue of approach. Jill Mulroney was a loner. No
family, no friends to speak of. All work and
no play. Lucky for him there had been some immediate chemistry between them so he'd gone with it. He hadn't felt good . . .
especially considering her total innocence. He'd felt like the bastard he was. In his work, deception was often a
key tool. An asset he used to his greatest advantage.
But
this time he'd miscalculated.
He'd
grabbed back control of the operation in the nick of time.
He banished the
thought of just how far under his skin she'd gotten. "I can't deny using
that tactic. It was necessary to the success of the mission."
Her arms went up in frustration.
"What mission? My only mission was to complete the system. Prepare it for presentation to the Joint Chiefs. There
was no other mission."
She was totally in
the dark. He'd wanted to warn her so many times but that was not part of the
strategy. Still wasn't. And her cooperation was essential. If giving
her certain facts would appease her for the moment, then that he could do.
"Forty-four days
ago our intelligence group picked up on the rumbling of a plot related to new technology," he
explained. "Within twenty-four hours it was determined that your project,
SASS, was the target. Since the source of the
threat was unknown but appeared to be on the inside, I was assigned to infiltrate your team and to stay as close as
possible to you."
You're
suggesting that someone on my team - besides you - intended to steal or
duplicate my system?”
The disbelief in her tone
signaled loudly and clearly that she wasn't buying his explanation. Could the time tick past any slower? "That's correct.”
She made that incredulous
sound again that was supposed to be a laugh. "Fat lot of good it did them.
I initiated the self-destruct. SASS no
longer exists.”
He’d
fully anticipated she would take that step when cornered. As close to the vest
as she'd kept the intimate details of her much anticipated
surveillance system, logic had dictated that she would also take steps
to ensure no one attempted to steal it from her. "That changes nothing
about the intent of the unknown subject.”
"Unknown
subject?” She put her hands up stop-sign fashion. "What are
you, FBI?"
Hardly.
"Fin afraid that information is classified.”
"Of
course.” She rolled her eyes. "This just gets better and
better."
"The
latest intelligence suggests that the unknown subject was aware of your fail
safe."
She
folded her arms across her chest once more and lifted her chin in defiance.
"Then what’re we doing here? If whoever wants SASS possesses this
information, then they also know the deed is done. There's no undoing
it. The best engineers and programmers in the business will need years to
rebuild the technology."
That would be a far
happier and easier ending. But life in the world of espionage was never that
simple. 'You're leaving out one key element, Dr Mulroney."
"There
is no other element," she challenged. "It's gone. No one can steal
SASS now. It doesn't exist."
"But
you do."
Realization
widened her eyes behind those clunky glasses. She had the bluest eyes. Long
blonde hair that she kept in a meticulous bun. And a body that most
women served extensive time at the gym to accomplish. Yet Jill didn't seem to understand
that she was one hell of a looker. She was too busy hiding behind frumpy lab coats and big glasses.
'You're the target, Jill," he said
aloud when she apparently started to grasp her situation on some level. "If the enemy gets their hands on you,
they'll drug you or torture you until you give them the blueprint you carry around in that pretty head of yours. Then
they'll kill you."
A sharp breath hissed
past her sexy lips. "I...
can't.. ." She glanced around the rundown shack, shook her head adamantly. "I can't stay here. We
have to get out of here."
He'd
just told her that she was a target. That he was her only hope of surviving
this ordeal. And she was worried about the accommodations? "We
won't be here long." He surveyed the sagging walls and drooping roof
before assessing the cluttered emotions on her face. "What's so bad about
here?" "It's the devil's house."
Four
If she hadn't looked dead serious he
might have laughed. "It's an abandoned shack on the rim of a farmer's property."
When he'd studied the least populated areas near her home, he'd read something
about the so-called Hell's Gates legend. The old shack was used
mostly by teenagers into drugs or satanic cults. The local
authorities paid numerous visits each weekend to the spot to run off
trespassing guests. But this was a weeknight and Trace had
opted to stay dark - not using even a flashlight. They would be safe here until
their
transport arrived.
"You
didn't grow up around here," she argued, then bit her bottom lip, making
his mouth water. "Everyone knows this place is
bad."
He resisted the urge
to smile. "You're an advanced research engineer, surely you don't believe
in all that crap."
"You
wouldn't understand." She seemed to draw into herself, hugging her arms
around her slim body.
He
moved a step closer to her. "Try me."
She glared up at him, the
morning light sifting through the numerous cracks in the shack, allowing him to see as well as feel the full measure of her
irritation. "Why am I even talking to you about this?" she demanded. "You lied to me."
He reached out. She
flinched. As hard as he tried he couldn't help regretting that she did that.
Instead of touching
her soft cheek as he'd wanted he rubbed her arm reassuringly. "I did. I
regret that was necessary. Your safety was
top priority."
She
shrugged off his touch. "Was that why you kissed me?" She blinked
twice, three times. "Held me in your arms all night more than once?"
He'd wanted to do a whole hell of a lot
more than that. The dossier he'd studied had given all the facts. Loner. No family. Few friends. Her life was all
about work. But the report hadn't told him how desperately she wanted to have
someone love her. How she remained a virgin at age twenty-nine. Jillian
Mulroney was a genius, pure and simple. Her brilliance in the field of
surveillance technology was unmatched. But on a social level, as a woman, she was innocent. Untouched. She'd only been
kissed by one other man.
She
was right. He had held her all night on three occasions. He'd wanted far more
than that but he'd refused to take what she no doubt would have
given him due to the level of trust he'd built with her. Her feelings
for him were all based on lies, lies to protect her, but lies nonetheless.
"You have no idea
how difficult it was to hold you like that," he confessed. There were some
truths he could give her.
The
confusion in those big blue eyes warned that she'd taken his statement all
wrong. "I thought... I was
doing something wrong.”
"You
did everything right,” he hastened to assure her. "I wanted to
do more than hold you, but I wouldn't. Not with so many untruths
standing between us.”
She
moistened her lips. His fingers twitched with the need to reach out and touch
her again. "Tell me why you're afraid of this place,” he murmured. Their
transport would be there any minute. This might be his last time alone with her. There were things he wanted to say.
"When I was fourteen
. . ." She dragged in a deep breath. "Brand new freshman at high
school. I didn't have any friends.”
She rolled her eyes. "Big surprise, right?”
His
gut tightened at the idea of how lonely those years must have been for her.
"These two girls
started being friendly to me. Even invited me to their houses.” She
stared at the aged floorboards a moment.
"I thought maybe they really liked me, but I was wrong.”
"What
happened?” Keeping his voice soft was next to impossible with anger
curling inside him.
"It was October. Like now. Closer to
Hallowe'en. They talked me into going on a ride with them and some of their older friends.” She
shrugged. "You know, toilet-papering houses and other silly teenage stuff.”
His
gut tied in knots when he sensed where the story was going.
"They drove here.
Told me all the stories, some of which I'd heard around school, about this
being the devil's house. I just thought it was stupid.” She fell
silent a moment, her eyes distant. "Then they left me. Just drove away. I didn't have a cell phone. No
one lived on this road.”
"You
were afraid of all the stories linked to this place?”
"I was
terrified of the dark." She looked straight into his eyes. "They
couldn't have known that. It was a stupid joke. The old farmer who lives across the
woods wouldn't answer his door. So I walked off this damned mountain. Alone in the dark. Until you brought me here, I'd
never been back."
He couldn't help himself,
he pulled her into his arms. She resisted, but he didn't back off. He held her against
his chest. Held her tight. "I didn't know,” he whispered
against her silky hair.
"In
my brain I knew it wasn't real," she murmured against his chest. "But
in my heart... I was terrified."
He
hated like hell that he was yet another deception in her life. She deserved
better.
"When I made it home and calmed down,
my father explained that the devil was about fear." She drew back enough to look into Trace's eyes. "If
that's the case, then the devil was right on my heels all the way off this mountain that night."
Trace
told himself to stop. Didn't work. He leaned down, brushed his lips across
hers. She stiffened, but didn't pull away. He kissed her softly at
first, then more deeply . . . firmly. She tasted of that sweet innocence
that made him want to protect her from now until eternity. He wanted her to
know how it felt to
have someone she could
count on.
He
wanted it to be him.
Her hands slid up his
chest and went around his neck. She tiptoed, leaned into the kiss, her soft
body pressing against his in all the right places. He
smoothed one hand up her narrow waist and dared to cup one breast. She
whimpered. This was as far as he'd gone on those long nights of holding her. He
parted her lips with his tongue, delved into her welcoming mouth.
The world . . . this precarious situation
slipped away. He wanted so badly to take her right here on this decaying old floor. What if he never saw her again
after this? His work could take him anywhere in the world.
The thought thrust into
his chest like a knife.
The distant
whop-whop-whop of chopper blades jerked him to attention. He lifted his face to
the ramshackle roof.
"What's
that?" she murmured, her voice thick with the same desire raging through
his veins.
He wanted to say it was their ride out of
here, but that was highly unlikely. He reached into his pocket, checked the beacon, still set on red. The red
would have changed to green and the beacon would have vibrated if back-up had arrived. This was the one
means of communication they had agreed upon since the enemy was still unknown and they were dealing with
technology engineers. No communication technology could be trusted
during these final hours.
The
sound grew closer. He shoved the beacon deep into his pocket.
This
was trouble.
"We
have to get out of here." His gaze collided with Jill's. "We have to
run."
Five
The sun was peeking above the
eastern horizon when they scrambled into the trees behind the Devil's shack.
Jill
held tightly to Trace's hand.
She
couldn't see the helicopter but she could hear its approach. The blades cutting
through the air sent chills racing up and down her spine.
If
Trace was worried ... she should be terrified.
"Hang onto my
hand," he said over his shoulder as he plunged into the woods that
surrounded the tiny clearing where the shack
stood.
She tightened her fingers
around his and stumbled after him.
The fallen leaves rustled
and crackled beneath their feet. For early October a lot had fallen. Thankfully
there
was still some coyer with those golds and russets that still clung to the
trees.
She tried to stay
focused on his movements so she could keep up better, but her mind kept playing
the guessing game.
Jill had been certain
Trace was the one who had attempted to steal SASS. She'd taken great pains to
heighten the security of the system. The two attempts to breach that security
had generated red flags that only she could see. She had known trouble was close. Then her
superior had called her into his office and warned
that an enemy had infiltrated their team. Her superior had initiated measures
to determine who the infiltrator was.
But that had been
only two weeks ago. Trace had been involved with the project for more than a
month. When the second red flag appeared, she had known what she
had to do. Destroy the program and disappear until the dust
cleared.
If
it ever did.
She
had allowed Trace closer to her than any other human, besides her father. It
had to be him.
Her
gaze settled on the broad shoulders in front of her. Had she been that wrong?
All
her life she had been alone, except for her father. Her mother had died when
she was an infant. Then, four years ago, her father had passed away, leaving
her completely alone.
Until
Trace.
He
tugged more firmly on her hand as he pushed forward even faster.
The thick underbrush
slapped at her jean-clad legs. She had to focus. Trace darted in and around and
between trees with amazing speed. The rocky terrain beneath her feet made
keeping her balance near impossible. Staying upright was only due to
hanging so tightly on to him.
The
helicopter was so close. Had they spotted them? It seemed to be taking the same
route. If they were caught she would be kept alive until the necessary
information had been extracted.
But
Trace. Her attention moved to his dark head. They would kill him immediately.
Emotion
swelled in her throat.
She didn't want him to
die. She had been wrong. She'd blamed him when his only purpose had been to keep her safe.
Her
heart pounded. Could she make a deal for his life?
What the hell was she
thinking? These were evil bastards who wanted to steal SASS for their own purposes.
She doubted they had any allegiance to any country. They likely wanted to sell
the technology to the highest bidder.
Jill could not let that
happen.
Was she strong enough to
endure the torture and not give in to their demands?
She
had no training for such circumstances.
Trace
was her only hope.
He
stopped.
She
slammed into his back.
When
she would have asked what he was doing, he held up a hand for her to keep
quiet.
Then she heard what had
him listening so intently.
Baying.
Dogs.
An element of the enemy
was on the ground ... closing in.
Fear coiled around her
throat.
Trace
lunged eastward. She sprinted behind him, barely keeping up with his long,
hurried strides.
The blood roaring in
her ears kept her from hearing anything other than the helicopter overhead, the
dogs and
their movements tearing through the brush.
Her foot slid off the
edge of a rock, twisting her ankle. She winced but didn't hesitate. Couldn't
have if she'd wanted to. Trace hauled her forward, his movements becoming
faster ... riskier.
The
baying and barking grew louder.
The
enemy was close.
God,
please don't let them catch us!
She
couldn't protect herself or SASS .. . she couldn't protect Trace. Fooling
herself was crazy. She wasn't that strong.
Yet,
Trace was willing to risk his life to protect her.
Fury
erupted inside her. It was time to step up to the plate. Do her part outside
the laboratory.
She
forced her feet to move faster. Her weakness was slowing Trace down. Run!
Faster! Help him!
Another
sound invaded her thoughts. Rushing... almost a roar.
Water.
Her heart rocketed into
her throat.
The
river.
They
were almost on top of it.
Trace
stopped.
She
tried to stop. Stumbled.
His
arms wrapped around her waist, catching her before she propelled over the
cliff. She stared downward at the rushing water far below
their precarious position on the mountain's ledge. A hell of a long way
down.
They had to head north.
She
recaptured her balance and pulled at his hand. "This way," she urged.
Then a voice—
"Don't
move!”
Jill's
gaze sought and searched Trace's face. His expression was clean of emotion. But
his eyes told her to stay calm.
"Move
your hands away from your sides! Turn around slowly."
Trace
moved his hands away from his body as instructed.
Absolute
fear prevented Jill from taking a breath. Stay calm! Stay calm! Trace
gave her a slight nod and she followed his movements, raising her
hands away from her sides. As he turned slowly to face the enemy, she
did the same.
Two
men, both with weapons aimed at them, waited less than ten yards away.
Dear
God. Her heart thundered, making it impossible to think.
"Toss
your weapon," one of the bastards ordered. "Very carefully or the
woman dies."
Her
heart flip-flopped.
Trace
pulled the gun from the holster at his side and tossed it into the brush
several feet in front of them.
What could they do?
Jill's mind raced but couldn't settle on a logical move. The two men were
dressed in military-type
garb. Dark camouflage. Headgear that prevented a good view of their faces. Who
were the traitors?
"Start
walking this way," the man ordered.
Trace
held out his hand. Jill glanced at him, then put her hand in his. His eyes kept
sending the same message... be
calm.
"One
slow step at a time," the man growled.
"Do
you trust me?" Trace murmured, his attention focused forward.
"Yes,"
Jill whispered, daring to glance at him from the corner of her eyes.
"On three,"
he whispered, "bend your knees and propel yourself backward with as much
force as you can manage."
Was
he out of his mind?
"Move
it!" the man with the gun roared.
"One,"
Trace murmured.
Yes,
he was out of his mind.
"Two."
Jill
sucked in a breath.
"Three."
Six
Gunshots exploded in the air as they plunged
over the cliff. Jill felt something whiz past her thigh.
Bullet?
Then
all she could feel was ... falling. The water seemed to rush up to meet her.
She
gulped a mouthful of air a split second before her body burst through the
turbulent surface. Down. Down. Down. She hit the bottom hard. Her hand was no longer clutched in Trace's.
She
scrambled away from the rocky bottom. Tried to climb to the surface. Her arms
and legs flailed frantically.
That
was when she remembered that she'd never been a very good swimmer.
The
water was dark ... thick ... she needed to breathe.
Her
heart felt ready to explode.
Was
it better to die this way than be tortured to death?
Where
was Trace?
A
strong hand suddenly manacled her arm.
She
couldn't see.
Where
were her glasses? As if they would help her underwater anyways.
The
hand was towing her along through the water, but not toward the surface.
She
needed air.
She
fought the hold. Tried to lunge upward.
The hand pulled harder.
Trace?
She
blinked, peered through the murk}1 water.
Maybe
her father had been wrong. Maybe this was the Devil dragging her to hell.
She
fought his grasp.
Didn't
want to go.
On
some level she recognized that panic was distorting rational thought.
She didn't
want to die.
Her
knees hit something solid.
Rocky.
Painful.
The
river bottom.
The hand continued to
haul her forward.
Her
head broke the surface of the water.
She
gasped for air.
Something
pinged in the water next to her.
"Hum!"
Trace's
voice!
Her
heart burst with joy.
She
blinked. Tried to see.
The
form in front of her was blurry.
"Come
on, Jill. Hum!"
More
of that insistent pinging. Closer. Shots.
She
scrambled on to the bank, hauled along by the form that had to be Trace.
Limbs
and brushes were scratching at her.
A
cracking sound from the tree trunk closest to her made her jump forward.
"Run!”
Trace roared.
She
forced her legs to move faster. Her wet clothes seemed to drag at her,
weighting her down.
The
woods swallowed them up.
Tree
limbs slapped at her shoulders, at her face.
Running
... running ... she couldn't see where they were going. Couldn't catch her
breath to ask.
Faster.
She
stumbled.
Trace
pulled her to her feet. Yanked her forward.
She
wished she had her cell phone so she could call for help. But she'd left it to
burn with the rest of her life.
Her
home was gone.
Her
project was gone.
Her
life was over.
Her
body shook.
How
could this have happened?
It
wasn't fair. Like all those means girls back in high school. And all the
indifference in college.
Besides
her father, no one had ever cared about her . .. except Trace. He hadn't lied
to her. He had been telling the truth.
Trace dodged around
and between trees. She stayed close behind him to prevent a collision. Most of what she could see was
nothing more than fuzzy forms.
There
was that sound again.
That
familiar cacophony. The helicopter.
Oh,
God! They were closing in!
They
hit a clearing.
Trace
stopped. She banged into his backside.
Her
mouth opened to demand why they had stopped, but he spoke first.
"Don't
move."
She
stared up at the sky. The helicopter hovered directly above them. It was dark.
Maybe green or black.
Dammit!
She needed her glasses!
Something
dropped from the sky.
She
jumped back.
Trace grabbed her hand,
pulled her back to him. "Grab hold of this." He pushed something
against her. Then placed her hand on it.
"Feel
for the rungs," he told her. "Climb. Now! I'll be right behind
you."
"But
it's-”
"Help,"
he urged. "They're here to help us."
Jill
didn't understand.
"Hurry,
Jill."
She reached up with her other hand. Felt
the next rung. Trace placed her right foot on the lowest rung. She moved upward. Her body trembled. Maybe it was
a blessing she couldn't see.
Climb. He'd said to
climb. She moved her hands up, one over the other, as quickly as she dared. He touched
her ankle letting her know he was close behind her.
They
were moving.
Her heart seemed to stop.
The
helicopter was moving!
Fear
overwhelmed her ability to move.
Trace
tapped her leg.
She
didn't dare look down but she knew what he was trying to tell her. Keep
moving.
Up.
Right hand. Right foot. Then the left. Up. Keep moving up.
Strong
hands grabbed at her from above.
Her
breath stalled in her lungs.
"Come
on, Dr Mulroney, we've got you."
She
couldn't see the face, but the voice was reassuring.
With the help of one
or more of the men in the helicopter she managed to climb inside. She was
ushered into a seat. "There you go, ma'am."
She
nodded. Should have said thank you but she couldn't find her voice.
"We
thought we'd lost you, Major."
Trace
had climbed into the helicopter. "Thanks for the ride, Captain."
Jill closed her eyes.
This was all far too surreal. Her stomach lurched. What was happening? She
didn't understand this. Her life was boring.
Computers and research and labs. Engineers and computer languages.
'You
okay?"
She
felt the seat shift as Trace settled next to her. She opened her eyes and tried
to stare into his. She hated not being able to see without her
glasses. "What's happening?” Her body trembled. She was sopping
wet. As if she'd said the last aloud, he pulled a blanket around her.
"We're
okay now."
She
shook her head. “Who are these people?"
"United
States Army,” Trace explained. "They're from Redstone Arsenal.”
Redstone
she knew. NASA shared the base with the Army.
“So
you're Army?” The man who'd helped her into the helicopter had
called Trace Major.
"No,
not Army.” Trace put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her
close to him. Til explain all that when this is over.”
He kissed her forehead. "For now, just relax. You're safe. We're going to
get these bad guys and then you'll have your life back."
Tears burned in her eyes. How could he
promise all that? A big, fat, hot drop slid down her cheek. She cursed herself for being so weak.
He
swiped the tear from her cheek. "It might take a little while to sort all
this out, but you have my word that I'll keep you safe until it's
over. And you will get your life back."
She
nodded. Tried to stop the river of emotion that abruptly overflowed. She never
cried like this.
Trace
leaned his face close to hers. "You sure you're okay?"
"Host
my glasses."
He smoothed the pad
of his thumb over her cheek, clearing the path of tears once more. "I'll
take care of that as soon as we hit the base."
"Okay."
She couldn't stop shaking. This was ridiculous. She was so confused. So tired.
So ... afraid.
"Do
you trust me?"
The warmth of his big body
so close, the sound of his voice, all of it surrounded her and the rest of the world faded away.
"Yes."
He
brushed a kiss against her cheek. "Good because I won't let you
down."
But
what about when this was over? He would be gone! "When it's over you'll
have to leave."
"I'll
always come back to you." He smiled, she felt his lips widen against her
cheek. "Now that I've found you I'm not letting you go."
Relief
and plain old happiness tugged at her lips. "I'll hold you to that,
Major."
He
kissed her. She lost herself to the feel of his lips.
She'd
lost everything to this man; the man she'd been certain was a traitor. Instead,
he was her savior.
Her
life hadn't ended. It had only just begun.
Author Biographies
Michele
Albert
After graduating with a classical archaeology degree from the
University of Michigan, she was fortunate enough to sell her second completed
manuscript to Avon Books in 1997. She is a winner of the Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart Award (1997)
and she has been nominated for Best Mainstream Novel twice by Romantic Times. She lives with her
husband and two lazy cats in a suburb of Madison, Wisconsin. www.
m ich elea Ib ert. co m
Shannon
K. Butcher
After her husband (#1 New York Times bestselling
author Jim Butcher) taught her how to write, she started her own
career creating award-winning romantic suspense and paranormals of
her own. She lives in Missouri with her husband and son, where
conversations at the dinner table are more often about things someone
made up than about anything that's actually happened. www,shannonkbutcher.com
Rachel
Caine
Rachel Caine is the New York Times and
USA Today bestselling writer of many series including Morganville Vampires,
Weather Warden, Outcast Season, the upcoming Dead Sexy, and (via Harlequin Bombshell) the Red Letter Days romantic-suspense
series. Lucia Garza, one of the two private detectives featured in Devil's Bargain and Devil's
Due, is the main character of the story included in this collection.
Sydney
Croft
The pen name for New York
Times bestselling paranormal author Larissa lone (the Demonica series) and
romantic suspense author Stephanie Tyler (the Hold series featuring Navy
SEALs). Together they write erotic paranormal action-adventure novels with a military
twist, www.larissaione.com
Rinda
Elliott
After publishing short fiction in the
romance and horror genres, she found her niche in urban fantasy, where
she could mix the two up. Her agent has her new adult urban fantasy, as well as
her young adult paranormal romance currently on submission, www.relliott4■ wordpress.com
Laura
Griffin
The award-winning author of numerous
novels including Untraceable, Unspeakable, V\^hisper of Warning, Thread of Fear, One Wrong
Step, One Lost Breath and more, she started her career in journalism before venturing into the world of romantic suspense, www.lauragriffin.com
Gemiita
Low
Three time RWA Golden Heart finalist and winner
of the Romantic Times Book Club's Best Intrigue, GennitaLowis the national bestselling author of romantic spy-fi. She's a
roofer by day and knows 600 ways to
kill with a nail gun. She's popular for her COS Commandos and SEALs series, www.gennita-low.com
Nicola
Marsh
Former physiotherapist, multi-award
finalist and bestselling author Nicola Marsh writes flirty fiction with flare.
She's a Waldenbooks and BookScan bestseller and has published twenty-two
contemporary romances
with Harlequin Mills and Boon. www.nicolamarsh.com
Penny
McCall
Born and raised in southeastern Michigan, she is
the award-winning author of several humorous romantic suspense novels, and a handful of short contemporary romances that have
been also published in Germany, France, Denmark and Israel, www.pennymccaII.net
Cheyenne
McCray
New York Times and USA
Today bestselling author, and twice winner of the
prestigious Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award
(with four nominations in total), she has written eleven novels and two
novellas for St Martin's Press. Her brand-new, urban fantasy Night
Tracker series, as well as the new romantic-suspense series
LexiStelle, debuted in 2QQQ. www.cheyennemccrajj.com
Charlotte
Mede
Where there's desire and danger, there's
Charlotte Mede - whose Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice nominations
and starred reviews have drawn a loyal following for her sensual and thrilling
romances. www. rea dch a rlo ttem ede. co m
Marliss
Melton
A Golden Heart and RITA finalist, she
has written ten books since being published in 2002. Wife of a retired
Navy veteran, Marliss finds writing military romantic suspense to be a perfect
fit. She lives with her husband and many children near Virginia Beach, where
she is inspired by real-life stories of Navy SEALs. www.
m a rlissm elto n.com
LizMuir
Long-time writer, first time published, Liz Muir is the
pseudonym for London-based writer and romance reviewer, Liz de Jager. Besides
romantic suspense, she also writes for children, now honing her skills by editing Curse of the Djinn, her debut
middle-grade novel, www, lizdejag er. co. uk
Caitlyn
Nicholas
An
Australian author based in Sydney, she has published two novels, Running
Scared and Secret Intentions, since she began her writing career in
2006. www.caitlynnicholas.com
Gina
Robinson
Writing romantic suspense with spunk, her
latest novels feature Fantasy Spy Camps which train her heroines to survive the
danger that follows them using everything from their bare hands to submachine guns,
www.ginarobinson.com
E.
C. Sheedy
She has written four
novellas and fourteen books, the last six being tightly plotted, sexy romantic
suspense. Her books so far, and all those to come, owe their worth
to Kate Duffy, editor extraordinaire for Kensington Publishing.
RIP Kate, www,ecsheedy.com
Jordan
Summers
Award-winning
author of light, contemporary suspense and dark, gritty paranormals, including
her popular
Dead
World series, www, jordansummers.com
Charlene
Teglia
Award-winning author who
loves penning tales of romance and adventure. Among other accolades, Charlene
has been presented with the prestigious Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice
Award for "Best Erotic Novel” and nominated for
"Best Erotic Romance". www.chavleneteQlia.com
Shiloh
Walker
Currently writing paranormal and erotic
romance for Berkley and Ballantine (look for her new romantic suspense trilogy,
due out in 20”), she also publishes with Ellora's Cave and Samhain. Ethan, the
hero from Don't Walk Away is first introduced in Always
Yours, available from Samhain Publishing.
www.sh
ilo h wa Iker. com
Debra
Webb
Though she'd written her
first romance at thirteen, it wasn't until she spent three years working for
the military behind the Iron Curtain, that she realized her
true calling. Then a five-year stint with NASA on the Space Shuttle Program
reinforced her love of storytelling, and a collision course between suspense
and romance was set. She's been writing
bestselling romantic suspense and action-packed romantic thrillers ever since, www.debrawebb.com