by Toby Neal
Nine approached from the table under the orchid tree and handed Connor his gi. “Shall I bring your evening meal up to the computer room, One?”
“That would be fine, but I have an important phone call. Don’t come until I summon you.”
“As you wish.”
They ascended the stone steps out of the walled garden and parted ways at the entrance to the main pyramid.
Once out of Nine’s sight, Connor bounded quickly up the steep stone staircase to the computer lab in the compound’s highest room. He didn’t want to miss Sophie’s call . . .
Inside the lab, Connor turned on the computer rigs and locked the door by lowering a crude wooden bar into a cradle.
He gazed longingly at his violin in its mount—perhaps he had time for just one piece?
Connor was deep into a Mozart concerto when the monitor dinged with the incoming signal from Sophie.
He exhaled, releasing a held breath, and lowered the violin. He set the instrument in its case, sat down in front of the monitor, and hit the Accept Call button.
Sophie’s face bloomed into focus on the screen. Huge brown eyes, full lips, sculptured cheekbones, that long neck—she was Nefertiti come to life. His heart actually stuttered at the sight of her. “Your hair is longer.”
Sophie touched the mass of ringlets framing her face self-consciously. “And yours is shorter.”
As a Yām Khûmkạn graduate, Connor no longer had to shave his head, but his blond hair hardly covered his scalp at this point. He rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he could see more of her than just the slope of her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, showcased in a simple scoop-necked shirt. “You look beautiful. Softer.”
“And you look harder. Older.”
Hopefully she didn’t mind that his new life had sharpened him to nothing but hard muscle and tough bone, deeply tanned from hours of outdoor practice. There were wrinkles beside his eyes from squinting into the sun. Yes, he looked both older and harder.
“Two years is a long time, Connor. Are you . . . all right?” Her well-marked brows arched in question.
“I am more than all right. The Master has named me his number One, his successor. It is a great honor.” His words sounded pompous and self-important; speaking English felt stilted and awkward now. Connor switched to Thai. “I have learned so much. As I told you, the Master left me in charge.”
Those expressive brows drew together as she replied in the same language. “That’s what you said. What does that mean, exactly?”
“I am running the compound, keeping our enterprises going. So far, that’s all it means.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“McDonald called me and confirmed that Pim Wat was broken out of Guantánamo.” Sophie’s mouth tightened.
“Yes. She and the Master are likely together. I think I know where they are.”
A long pause. He expected Sophie to ask where the two were hiding, but instead, she ducked her head, breaking eye contact. “I’ve missed you. You were . . . my good friend.” Her lips trembled.
Connor sucked in a breath as his heart took off at a gallop. “I tried to be your friend, but it was always more than that for me.” He shook his head, regret suffusing him. “I thought I left you with Jake. I believed you were together. Making a life. I thought I gave you that.”
Sophie still wouldn’t look up. Her thick curly hair provided a screen to hide behind. He wished she’d cut it again, to reveal that perfect profile that hid nothing of her from his hungry gaze. “I know that’s what you believed. It was too hard to tell you that he’d broken up with me during that one phone call we had.” She rubbed the scar on her cheek, now so faded that it scarcely marred her beauty. “I am too busy to be involved with anyone, anyway. I have my daughter, and your company to run.”
His heart jumped again—she wasn’t involved with anyone! “I’m sorry if it’s been a burden.”
“No. It’s been good for me.” Sophie looked up and met his eyes at last, straightening her shoulders proudly. “I have learned what I needed to run the business. Strategic planning and budgeting; people skills. The company has grown by eighteen percent in revenue since I took over. I prepared some profit-and-loss reports for you to review.”
Connor laughed. “I don’t need to see them—I never doubted you’d be great in the CEO’s chair.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So. When are you coming back? Because I am working a case right now, and enjoying getting out from behind the desk. I miss investigations.”
“I don’t know. I can’t leave until the Master returns, and he left no word when that would be.”
“And now, we circle back to that. What are your thoughts about approaching the Master? About . . . my mother?” Sophie knit her slim fingers together as she leaned forward into the frame. Connor felt like he could reach out and touch her, so vibrant was her image. “McDonald fed me reports over the years. The CIA never got any useful intel from Pim Wat. She did not recover well from her injuries, and she was in a catatonic state for most of her time in that prison. Honestly, I thought she would die there.”
“I was too busy training to know any of that, and until the Master left, I had no access to the online world.” Connor rubbed the velvety fuzz of his skull in agitation. “I assumed Pim Wat was safely incarcerated and the Master never mentioned her. I don’t know why he waited so long to break her out, or if he still had any feelings for her. I never could read him unless he wanted me to.”
“That’s why he was the Master. I met the man, and he was . . . extraordinary.” Sophie’s voice dropped, husky and intimate. “As are you.”
A flush burned Connor’s chest. Was she flirting with him? He could only hope. “I am who I am,” he said. “And you are extraordinary, too.”
They gazed at each other a long moment.
“I want to see you,” Connor’s tone was harsher, more abrupt, than he’d meant it to be. “Can you come to Phi Ni? I think I can go that far without being detected or losing my authority at the compound. But I can’t leave my position here for any length of time until the Master returns. I’ve got responsibilities.”
“I have those, too.” Sophie’s brows snapped together. Clearly, he’d hit a sore spot. “And none of my responsibilities allow me to take off to Thailand at a moment’s notice.”
“Bring Momi with you to the island. I want to meet her,” Connor urged. “I never even got to see her, and it’s been a sorrow I’ve had to carry ever since she was born.”
Sophie’s mouth tightened. “I don’t think so.”
A stab of hurt—did she not want Momi to know him at all? “Just consider it. We can discuss what to do about your mother and the Master so much more easily in person.”
He felt her physical and emotional withdrawal like a slap as Sophie sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “Let me know when you’re returning to take over your company, even if it’s under another identity. I’m getting tired of keeping all of this going.”
Connor leaned forward. He had to tell her what he’d come to in so many restless nights of pondering. “Sophie, please. This is important.”
He waited until she met his gaze reluctantly, resistance in every line of her body. “I am not coming back. I’ve had a lot of time to think, free from distraction, and I’m no longer willing to live a lie. Disguise myself. My Todd Remarkian identity is dead, but the FBI, CIA and Interpol are all still looking for Sheldon Hamilton.”
“I’m in the process of having you declared legally dead! I mean, the Sheldon Hamilton identity . . . I’ve done all you asked.” Her voice cracked. “Come back, Connor. Please. I don’t want to do this alone.”
“By ‘this,’ I assume you mean running my company. I thank you for that, but I’m so sorry. I can’t live a lie anymore,” Connor repeated. “Here at the compound, I am simply number One. My first name is irrelevant, my last name doesn’t matter, and my appearance?” He turned his head so she coul
d see the Thai number inked on his scalp. “Completely authentic. What you see is what I am, all I am. I’m done with make-believe.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” Her voice had risen; she sounded panicky.
“I’m saying that when I deeded the company over to you, I meant it. When I left you my estate, I meant it. I didn’t know then that I wouldn’t want to return to my former life, but I know it now. It’s all yours, Sophie. Yours to keep.”
“You bastard! Son of a diseased yak!” And Sophie hit the disconnect button, and cut him off.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sophie: Day Four
“Foul breath of a two-headed dog!” Sophie pushed away from the computer with a curse as the adrenaline of hurt and rage flushed her system.
She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she had been counting on Connor’s return.
Sophie had set up a workout area in the corner of her office for just such moments as this. Rubber padding covered the floor, a rack of weights was propped up on one wall, and a treadmill set at a steep incline occupied the other. Sophie stood up and hurried to the office suite door. She locked it, and walked to the bathroom area. In a few efficient gestures. she shucked off her business wear and donned her workout clothing, stored in a locker beside the shower.
Sophie took a weighted jump rope from her gym bag and got on the rope, jumping as fast as she could, spinning the rope until her pulse zoomed to max capacity. Then, she got on the treadmill and ran.
Sophie ran until that point of peace dropped her thoughts into calm and her heart rate settled into a rhythm that was no longer panicky. The metronome of her feet beating against the flexible belt of the treadmill settled her gradually into her body.
What was she so afraid of?
Was it being trapped in this office, behind this desk, carrying this load of responsibility?
With the Sheldon Hamilton identity in the process of being declared dead and his will clear, she was heir to the company. There was nothing stopping her from selling it, farming it out, or even willing it to her daughter. She could promote Bix to CEO and take whatever role she wanted to.
Sophie looked the real source of her stress in the eye.
She hadn’t just been waiting for “Sheldon Hamilton” to return from the dead and relieve her of a duty. Responsibility sat easily on her shoulders.
No.
She had been waiting for Connor to return to her.
She’d alleviated some of her heartbreak over the breakup with Jake by waiting for Connor. She had been able to suppress her sexuality and her loneliness with the hope that he would return and step into the place she had held open for him, both in her heart and in the business.
But he wasn’t coming back.
In fact, he couldn’t—Connor was a wanted man, hunted by the CIA, Interpol, and the FBI—and now, he wasn’t willing to live a lie any longer.
She respected that. She understood it, and in fact, she liked him more for it. But what options did that leave?
Connor had to continue to stay under the protective umbrella of the Yām Khûmkạn. Perhaps he could go as far as Phi Ni, the private island he owned off the coast of Thailand, but without the cloak of a false identity, he couldn’t return to the United States.
And where did that leave Sophie? Still raising her daughter alone, one month on, one month off, tied to the US by her custody arrangement with Momi’s father, Alika.
Connor had proposed that she go to Phi Ni to meet with him. Would that be enough? Could she have a relationship with him every other month on their private island, and continue to keep his existence secret from her closest friends, Lei and Marcella, since both of them were affiliated with law enforcement?
That idea turned her stomach. Unless her friends were willing to turn a blind eye to Connor’s identity as the Ghost, they’d always be living a secret life, a constricted existence hidden in shadow and bounded by geography.
Her computer monitor buzzed with an incoming call. Gradually the tone penetrated the dark world of her thoughts. Sophie slowed down the treadmill to a walking pace, sweat streaming down her body. She hopped off and walked over her desk, depressing the intercom button on her keyboard as she wiped her face on a gym towel. “Yes?”
Paula’s businesslike tone came through the speaker. “Sophie, Mr. Raveaux has been trying to reach you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Put him through.”
A video conference window opened on the monitor as Sophie swiped the towel over her sweat-soaked breasts and midriff. She belatedly remembered she was wearing nothing but a sports bra and a pair of tight Lycra shorts. “What’s so urgent, Raveaux?”
Raveaux blinked at her outfit, but his gaze stayed carefully on her face. “I thought I should let you know that the manager of Finewell’s in San Francisco was willing to meet with me and talk about their breach. I have a flight reservation for tomorrow morning. Want to come to the city with me?”
Sophie glanced up at the clock on the wall. “I don’t think so. It’s already six p.m., and I planned to dig into the copy I made of Samson’s hard drive. I want to see if I can find any hidden files; anywhere she might have stashed her network’s information. I haven’t had a chance to get into it, what with the meetings I had at the office today.”
“I see you’ve been busy.” Sophie couldn’t be sure, but Raveaux might have been checking out her body. “I’ve been busy, too. I’ve been cooking. Why don’t you come over? The food will be ready at seven, with or without you.”
What the hell. She was hungry, and the man she’d been saving herself for wasn’t returning. Maybe it was time for her to “to get back on the horse,” as Marcella would say—though sleeping with a partner had ended up breaking her heart . . .
Sophie didn’t have to know exactly where things were going. She just had to decide whether or not she wanted a home-cooked meal, and her stomach, growling loudly, cast its vote. “What’s your address?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Raveaux: Day Four, Evening
Raveaux bustled around his apartment, running the vacuum over the already immaculate floor, straightening the one bright pillow that softened his Danish modern couch, wiping down every surface so that it shone. Smoky jazz played from his phone app through an excellent pair of speakers.
He was a minimalist, so all of that preparation took five minutes.
He’d bought Sophie a bottle of the best wine they had at the nearby liquor store, and now that barely adequate Cabernet sat breathing. Perhaps it was psychological, but he imagined he could smell it from across the room, its tantalizing fume teasing his nostrils.
He wouldn’t drink for anyone. He could have alcohol in the same room, uncork it, even pour it, without having a drink himself. He no longer needed that crutch, no matter how nerve- wracking it felt to be inviting a woman into his personal space, no matter how his belly churned that he was even acknowledging his attraction.
“It’s well past time, Pierre.” Gita’s gentle voice spoke in his mind.
They had talked about whether or not they would ever want each other to date again should one of them die. He remembered that conversation distinctly.
They’d been in bed after a bout of vigorous lovemaking early in their marriage, before Lucie had joined them. A light wind, smelling of salt, stirred the long white curtains at the sliding glass window, cooling their bodies. Their apartment had been sandwiched between a couple of hotels in a crumbling old building, but the ocean was still visible.
Gita’s slim leg slid up and down his rougher one. Her hand smoothed circles on his chest. His eyes at half-mast, most of the way asleep, he caught her fingers. He could feel her thoughts swirling around him, an inchoate flood—she was a thinker, his Gita. “What is it, G?”
“Are you happy, Pierre?” Her voice was husky and small.
He kissed her fingertips. “You know I am.”
“I am too. And if I’m ever gone from your life . . . I want you to have someone,
and be happy again.”
That would never happen. There would never be anyone but her. To please her, he’d kissed her fingers again. “And you as well. I love you more than my life, G.”
They’d said those words. But had they ever thought it would come to this?
Raveaux shook his head to clear it, turning back to the stove where a reduction sauce bubbled gently. He gave it a stir, tasted it with a clean spoon. “Très bien.”
He set out plates, glasses, and silverware on the small, round glass table on his lanai. The tinkle of laughter and conversation from the nearby hotel carried to his unit as it usually did, but this time it didn’t remind him of his isolation. He was going to have company.
Raveaux let himself dwell, just a moment, on the memory of Sophie as she answered his video call: slick with sweat, wearing nothing but an exercise bra and a pair of spandex shorts, her cheeks flushed, a towel clutched in her fist. He’d almost fallen off his chair at the sight.
He picked up his glass of seltzer and ice. He swallowed a deep draft to cool down, then settled into chopping a pile of mushrooms, tossing them into the sauce.
The doorbell rang, a chime so unfamiliar that it took him a moment to process. Raveaux left the stove and checked the peephole, standing to the side out of long habit. Sophie’s face and neck were visible through the distorted fisheye lens.
He opened the door. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“Thank you.” Sophie’s curvaceous mouth was cherry red, but she wore no other makeup. Her bronze skin gleamed in a simple black tank dress made of some slinky fabric that skimmed the edges of her body, hinting at its perfection. A slim silver laptop was tucked under her arm against her side, as other women would hold a handbag. “I am very hungry for the cooking you’ve been talking about.” She walked past Raveaux into his apartment, trailing the scent of floral-infused coconut oil. “I didn’t expect you to live in a ground floor apartment right in the heart of Waikiki.”
