by Nora Roberts
For a moment she indulged herself and held herself very still. The scientist in her would have cocked a brow, but her ancestors had believed in leprechauns. Life had been in this place. Spirits still were. With her eyes closed, Gillian felt the power of the atmosphere.
"Can you feel it?" she murmured.
It was captured memories, lingering passions, that drew him to places. The realist in him had never completely overshadowed the dreamer. "Feel what?" he asked, though he knew.
"The age, the old, old souls. Life and death. Blood and tears."
"You surprise me."
She opened her eyes, greener now with the emotion that was in her. "Don't spoil it. Places like this never lose their power. You could raze the stone, put a high rise on this spot, and it would still be holy."
"Is that your scientific opinion, Doctor?"
"You are going to spoil it."
He relented, though instinct told him they would both be better off it he kept the distance. "Have you ever been to Stonehenge?"
"Yes." She smiled, and her hand relaxed in his.
"If you close your eyes and stand in the shadow of a stone, you can hear the chanting." His fingers had linked with hers, intimately, though neither of them were aware of it. "In Egypt you can run your hand along the stone of a pyramid and all but smell the blood of slaves and the incense of kings. Off the coast of the Isle of Man there are mermaids with hair like yours."
He had a fistful of it, soft, silky. He imagined it heating his skin with the kind of fire magicians conjure without kindling or matches.
She could do nothing but stare at him. Though his eyes were still hidden, his voice had become soft and hypnotic. The hand on her hair seemed to touch every part of her, slowly, temptingly. The little twist of need she had felt that morning became an ache, that ache, a longing.
She leaned toward him. Their bodies brushed.
"The view better be worth it, Harry. I'm sweating like a pig."
Gillian jerked back as if she'd been caught with her hand in the till as a middle-aged couple dragged themselves up the last of the stairs.
"A pile of rocks," the woman said when she took off her straw hat to fan her flushed face. "God knows why we had to come all the way to Mexico to climb a pile of old rocks."
The magic of the place seemed to retreat. Gillian turned to look out over the ruins.
"Young man, would you mind taking a picture of my wife and me?"
Trace took the disc camera from the slightly overweight man, who had an Oklahoman accent. It was the least he could do after they'd prevented him from making a mistake. Letting his mind wander off the task at hand and into more personal matters wouldn't get him his revenge, and it wouldn't get Gillian her family.
"Little closer together," he instructed, then snapped the picture when the couple gave two wide, frozen grins.
"Kind of you." The man from Oklahoma took back his camera. "Want me to take one of you and the lady?"
"Why not?" It was a typical tourist device. After handing over his camera, he circled Gillian's waist. She went stiff as a board. "Smile, honey."
He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard her call him an unflattering name under her breath.
As they started back down, Trace maneuvered so that Gillian's bag was between them. Looking down from the pyramid, he'd seen three men come onto the site together, then separate.
"Stay close."
Gillian set her teeth and obeyed, though at the moment she would have liked nothing better than to put as much distance as possible between them. It must have been too much sun, she decided, that had made her go so soft and light-headed. It certainly hadn't had anything to do with genuine emotion. Sunstroke, she told herself. Add that to the fact that she had always been highly sensitive to atmosphere, and it made a plausible answer to why she had nearly kissed him, and wanted to kiss him, had felt as if she were meant to kiss him.
"This isn't the best time to be daydreaming." Swinging an arm around her shoulders, Trace drew her tight against his body and steered her under an arch into the Nun's Quadrangle.
The position pleased him. The grand plaza was flanked on all four sides by structures that were really a series of interior rooms and doors. It left them enough in the open, while providing cover if cover proved necessary. If he had a choice, he wanted to deal with their friends one at a time.
"You're supposed to be appreciating the detail work on the stones."
Gillian swallowed a little ball of fear. "The carved arches and facades are classic Mayan architecture. The Puuc construction is recognizable in the finely cut stone."
"Very good," Trace murmured. He saw one of the men slip into the quadrangle. Just one, he thought. So they had, as he'd hoped, spread out to find her. Turning, he pressed her against a column and ran his hands down her body.
"What are you—?"
"I'm making a lewd suggestion," he said softly as he leaned close to her ear. "Understand?"
"Yes." It was the signal for her to act, but she found herself frozen. His body was hard and hot and, for reasons she didn't want to dissect, made her feel safe.
"A very lewd suggestion, Gillian," Trace repeated. "It has something to do with you and me naked in a twenty-five-gallon tub of whipped cream."
"That's not lewd, that's pathetic." But she sucked in a deep breath. "You filthy-minded swine." Putting her heart into it, Gillian swung back and brought her palm hard—a bit harder than necessary—across his face. She shoved him away and made a production of smoothing her hair. "Just because I agreed to an afternoon's drive doesn't mean I intend to spend the night playing your revolting games."
Eyes narrowed, Trace ran a hand over his cheek. She packed a punch, but they'd discuss that later. "That's fine, sweetheart. Now why don't you find your own way back to Merida? I've got better things to do than to waste my time on some skinny broad with no imagination." Swinging around, he left her alone. He passed the man who stood three yards away, ostensibly studying an arch.
Gillian had to bite her tongue to keep herself from calling Trace back. He'd asked her if she had guts, and now she was forced to admit she didn't have as many as she'd hoped. Her hands trembled as she cupped her elbows. It didn't take long.
"Are you all right, miss?"
This was it. She had no trouble recognizing the voice from her brother's tape. Gillian turned around, hoping her overbright eyes and unsteady voice would be taken as indignation. "Yes, thank you."
He was dark, and not much taller than herself, with olive skin and a surprisingly kind face. She forced herself to smile. "I'm afraid my companion wasn't as interested in Mayan architecture as he pretended."
"Perhaps I could offer you a ride back."
"No, that's kind of you, but—" She broke off when she felt the prick of a knife at her side, just above her waist.
"I believe it would be for the best, Dr. Fitzpatrick."
She didn't have to feign terror, but even as her mind threatened to freeze with it, Gillian remembered her instructions. Stall. Stall as long as possible so that Trace could even the odds.
"I don't understand."
"It will all be explained. Your brother sends his best."
"Flynn." Regardless of the knife, Gillian reached out and grabbed the man's shirt. "You have Flynn and Caitlin. Tell me if they're all right. Please."
"Your brother and niece are in good health and will remain so as long as we have cooperation." He put his left arm around her shoulders and began to walk.
"I'll give you whatever you want if you promise not to hurt them. I have some money. How much—?"
"We're not interested in money." The knife urged her forward. However kind his face had been, the hand on the knife was merciless. "There is a matter of the missing experiments and the notes."
"I'll give them to you. I have them right here." She gripped the strap of her bag. "Please don't hurt me, or my family."
"It's to your advantage that you are more easily persuaded than your brother."
>
"Where is Flynn? Please, tell me where you're holding him."
"You'll be with him soon enough."
Trace found the second man behind the Governor's Palace. He strolled by, clicking his camera, then pressed the man's face into one of the twenty thousand intricately carved stones.
"Fascinating stuff, isn't it?" He had his hand around the man's neck in what would look like a brotherly embrace. They both knew it would take only a jerk to break bone. "If you want to keep the use of your right arm, don't look around. Let's make this quick while we've got some privacy. Where are you holding Flynn Fitzpatrick?"
"I don't know a Flynn Fitzpatrick."
Trace hitched the man's arm up another quarter inch. He could hear bone grinding against bone. "You're wasting my time." After a quick look around, Trace pulled out his hunting knife and placed the blade where ear met skull. "Ever heard of van Gogh? It only takes a few seconds to remove an ear. It won't kill you—unless you bleed to death. Now, once more—Flynn Fitzpatrick."
"We weren't told where he was taken." The blade nipped into flesh. "I swear it! Our instructions were to take him and the girl to the airport and turn them over. We were sent back for the woman, his sister."
"And your instructions for her?"
"A private plane at the airport in Cancun. We were not told of the final destination."
"Who killed Forrester?"
"Abdul."
Because time was pressing, Trace had to forgo the pleasure of making the man suffer. "Go to sleep," he said simply, and rammed his head into the stone.
Where was Trace? Gillian thought as she approached a small white compact. If he didn't come soon, she and the altered notes would be on their way to… She didn't even know where.
"Please, tell me where you're taking me." She stumbled, and the knife slashed through the cotton of her blouse to flesh. "I feel faint. I need a moment." When she leaned heavily against the hood of the car, the man relaxed enough to draw the knife away from her side.
"You can rest in the car."
"I'm going to be sick."
He made a sound of disgust and pulled her upright by the hair. Trace's fist sent him reeling back three feet. "She may be a bit of a bitch," he said mildly, "but I can't stand to see a woman manhandled. Look, boney, I just wanted to get you naked. No rough stuff."
Gillian let the bag slip out of her hands and fled.
"That's a woman for you. No appreciation." Trace shot the man, whose mouth was spurting blood, a grin. "Better luck next time."
The man swore. Trace knew enough Arabic to catch the drift. When a knife was drawn, he was ready. He wanted badly to pull out his own, to go head-to-head with this man he knew had killed his closest friend. But it wasn't the time, and it wasn't the place. He wanted not only the instrument, but also the man who'd given the order. Keeping his gaze locked on the blade, Trace lifted both hands and backed off.
"Listen, you want her that bad, she's all yours. One woman's the same as another as far as I'm concerned." When the man spit at his feet, Trace bent down as if to wipe off his shoe. He came up with a nickel-plated .45 automatic. "Abdul, isn't it?" The half-amused light in his eyes had become deadly. "I've already taken care of your two friends. The only reason I'm not going to put a hole in your head is that I want you to take a message to your boss. Tell him Il Gatto's going to pay him a visit." Trace saw the quick widening of the dark eyes and grinned. "You recognize the name. That's good. Because I want you to know who kills you. Deliver the message, Abdul, and put your affairs in order. You don't have very long."
Abdul still had the knife in his hand, but he was aware that a bullet was faster than a blade. He was also aware that Il Gatto was quicker than most. "Il Gatto's luck will run out, the same as his master's."
Trace leveled the gun to a point just under Abdul's chin. "Yeah, but yours is ticking away right this minute. My finger's starting to sweat, Abdul. You'd better move."
He waited until the man had gotten behind the wheel and driven off before he lowered the gun. It had been close, Trace realized as he slipped the gun back into the holster strapped to his calf. He'd nearly taken his revenge there and then. Trace straightened again. When his blood was cool and his mind clear, revenge would be that much sweeter.
He spun quickly when he heard footsteps behind.
Gillian had seen that look before—when she'd told him that Forrester had been murdered. She thought she'd seen it again when her head had been jerked up by the hair. But even now, though she was seeing it for the third time, her skin prickled cold.
"I thought I told you to stay with a crowd."
"I saw," she began, then walked over to pick up her bag. It would sound foolish to say she'd stayed close in case he'd needed her help. "I didn't know you had a gun."
"You figure I was going to get your brother out with fast talk and a charming smile?"
"No." She couldn't meet his eyes now. She'd disliked but at least understood the world-weary, slightly grungy man she'd first met. She'd nearly liked and again had understood the cocky, smart-mouthed man she'd breakfasted with. But this one, this hard-eyed stranger who carried death within easy reach, she didn't understand at all. "Did you… the other two men, did you…"
"Kill them?" He said the word simply as he took her arm and led her back to the Jeep. He'd seen both fear and revulsion in her eyes. "No, sometimes it's better to leave people alive, especially when you know what's left of that life is going to be hell. I didn't get a lot out of either of them. They dropped your brother and the kid at the airport and were sent out for you. They didn't know where he was being held."
"How do you know they were telling you the truth?"
"Because these guys are the bottom of the food chain. They haven't got the brains to lie, especially when they know you'll slice off little pieces of their bodies."
The adrenaline washed out of her. "God, then how are we going to find him?"
"I've got some leads. And the word is I, not we. As soon as I find a safe house for you, you're going under."
"You're mistaken." She stopped in front of the Jeep. Her face was beaded with sweat but no longer pale.
"Sure, we'll discuss it later. Right now, I want a drink."
"And as long as you're working for me you'll drink in moderation."
He swore, but more good-naturedly than she'd expected. "Name ten Irishmen you know who drink in moderation."
"You, for one." She turned to walk around to her side of the Jeep when he swore again and grabbed her. She was about to snap at him when he pulled her shirt loose from the waistband of her slacks. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"You're bleeding." Before she could protest, he'd yanked her slacks down enough to expose her hipbone. The cut wasn't very deep, but it was rather long. Blood had seeped through to stain her shut. For an instant—and an instant was often too long—the dull red haze of fury clouded his vision. "Why didn't you tell me he'd hurt you?"
"I didn't realize." She bent to examine the wound clinically. "I was trying to slow him down and stumbled. He gave me a jab, I guess for incentive. It isn't serious. Nearly stopped bleeding."
"Shut up." It didn't seem to matter at the moment that the cut was shallow. It was her skin, her blood. Trace half lifted her into the Jeep, then popped open the glove compartment. "Just be still," he ordered as he broke open a first aid kit. "I told you not to take any chances, damn it."
"I only—For heaven's sake, that hurts worse than the cut. Will you stop fussing?"
"I'm cleaning it, damn it, and you're going to shut up." He worked quickly, and none to gently, until she was cleaned and bandaged.
"Congratulations, Doctor," she said dryly, and only smiled when he lifted angry eyes. "I never expected a man like you to get so flustered at the sight of a little blood. As a matter of fact, I would have taken bets that—"
She was cut off quickly and completely when his mouth covered hers. Stunned, she didn't move a muscle as his hands came to her throat and pass
ed up into her hair. This was the promise, or the threat, she had glimpsed from the top of the pyramid.
His mouth, hard and hungry, didn't gently persuade, but firmly, unarguably possessed. The independence that was an innate part of her might have protested, but the need, the desire, the delight, overlapped and won.
He didn't know why in hell he'd started this. It seemed his mouth had been on hers before he'd even thought of it. It had just been. He'd been frightened when he'd seen her blood. And he wasn't used to being frightened—not for someone else. He'd wanted to stroke and soothe, and he'd fought that foolishness back with rough hands and orders.
But, damn it, why was he kissing her? Then her lips parted beneath his and he didn't ask any longer.
She tasted as she smelled, of meadows and wildflowers and early sunlight on cool morning dew. There was nothing exotic here, everything was soft and real. Home… Why was it she tasted of home and made him long for it as much as he did for her?
What he'd felt at the top of the pyramid came back a hundredfold. Fascination, sweetness, bewilderment. He coated them all with a hard-edged passion he understood.
She didn't cringe from it. She lifted a hand to his face. The echo of her heartbeat was so loud in her head that she could hear nothing else. His kiss was so demanding, she could feel nothing else. When he drew away as abruptly as he had come to her, she blinked until her blurred vision cleared.
He was going to have to get rid of her, and fast, Trace thought as he stuck unsteady hands in his pockets. "I told you to shut up," he said briefly, and strode around the Jeep.
Gillian opened her mouth, then shut it again. Perhaps, until she could think clearly, she'd take his advice.
Chapter Three
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Trace nursed a beer. He figured that if Abdul was smart the message would be delivered to the right people before nightfall. He intended to be out of Mexico in an hour. He gave a brief thought to warm Caribbean waters and lazy snorkeling, then picked up the phone.
"Make yourself useful and pack, will you, sweetheart?"
She turned from the window. "The name is Gillian."
"Yeah, well, toss the stuff in the suitcase. We're going to check out as soon as—Rory? Well, so how the devil are you? It's Colin."
Gillian's brows went up. In mid-sentence his voice had changed from a lazy American drawl to a musical Irish brogue. Colin, was it? she thought, folding her arms.
"Aye. No, I'm fit. Right as rain. How's Bridget? Not again. My God, Rory, do the two of you plan to populate Ireland by yourselves?" As he listened, Trace glanced up long enough to give her a mild look and gestured toward the bureau. With more noise than grace, Gillian began yanking out his clothes.
"I'm glad to hear it. No, I don't know when I might be back. No, no trouble, nothing to speak of, in any case, but I wondered if you'd do me a favor." He watched Gillian heap his clothes into the suitcase and took a pull on the beer. "I'm grateful. There was a plane, probably private, that left the airport in Cork ten days ago. I don't want you to ask who was on board or why. Understand? That's a lad. Just nose around and see if you can find out the destination. Lacking that, find out how many miles she was fueled for and where she might have put down to be refueled. I'll take it from there… Important enough," he went on after a pause, "but nothing you should take risks for… No." And this time he laughed. "Nothing to do with the IRA. It's more of a personal matter. No, I'm traveling. I'D get back to you. Kiss Bridget for me, but try to keep it at that. I don't want to be responsible for another baby."
He hung up and looked at the twisted, mangled clothes in his suitcase. "Nice job."
"And what was that all about… Colin?"
"That was about finding out where your brother is. You'd better toss whatever you want to keep in there, too. We'll deal with getting you another suitcase later." He was up and stuffing his snorkeling gear into a tote.
"Why the accent and the false name? It sounded to me as though that man was your friend."
"He is." Trace went to gather up the things in the bath.
