In the Dark

by Marliss Melton

  “I’ll be fine.” The sunlight framed her figure in a blinding halo. She made the unlikeliest of angels, but right now he wasn’t thinking straight.

  Giving up on the drapes, Hannah returned to his bedside. Luther groped for ordinary words, but nothing about her was ordinary, so why bother?

  “I was worried,” Hannah admitted. She looked away, nonplussed by her confession.

  “I’m fine,” he reassured her.

  “Seems like everyone I . . . care about dies,” she added, her eyes suspiciously bright.

  She cared about him. The admission rushed over him like a Caribbean breeze. “I’m still here,” he said. Their gazes met and held. He realized his close call had connected them at a deeper level, one of friendship and trust, not unlike the connection he shared with his teammates.

  “I saw your tattoos,” Hannah admitted with a sudden smile. “They had to cut off your wet suit in the emergency room.”

  Two words in Arabic script were inscribed on the backs of his calf muscles, which meant he’d been lying on his stomach while they cut his gear open. He wondered what else she’d seen.

  “What do they mean?” she pressed.

  “Liberty and Justice.” The bond grew stronger with the admission.

  “Oh, your sisters’ names.”

  He was pleased that she remembered. “I got the tattoos right before Operation Iraqi Freedom, in case the worst thing happened. I wanted the enemy to know what I stood for.”

  Her expression warmed and softened. “It’s pretty obvious what you stand for, Luther,” she said.

  He felt as if she’d reached inside him and caressed his soul. None of his teammates had ever done that. He cleared his throat, desperate to shift the conversation elsewhere. “You saved our lives last night,” he said, “with your superlative marksmanship.”

  “I was trained just like you,” she answered.

  The reminder brought him up short. That’s right. She was trained by the CIA to be a case officer. She wasn’t going to be the next woman in his life because she was going overseas, to some scurvy little country, where she’d use her charm, wit, and, yes, maybe even her body to gather information.

  So why did he even tolerate the tender feelings swirling through him? They were a waste of time.

  “Here we go, sir.” Westy pushed into the room, interrupting Luther’s muddled thoughts. “Lunch isn’t ready yet, but they still had some food from breakfast. I had them warm it up.” He placed a tray laden with scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, grits, and three cartons of milk on the table by his bed.

  “Thanks, Chief. This is great.” Westy pushed the rolling table closer. With the IV in the only hand left to him, Luther reached awkwardly for his fork. He stabbed at a breakfast sausage and popped it in his mouth. Hannah and Westy stood there, looking at him. “Why don’t you guys find yourself some food and check into temporary quarters,” he suggested, stabbing the other link. But then he thought about Westy and Hannah occupying the same room, and jealousy prompted him to add, “To sleep.”

  Westy smiled his evil, little smile. “Yes, sir.” He pulled an envelope out of his shirt pocket. “If Valentino shows up, you can give him these duplicates of the pictures we took. I put the originals on a CD.” He put the envelope by Luther’s bed.

  “Good thinking,” said Luther. The last thing they needed was for Valentino to whisk away their evidence in order to protect his own investigation. “We have to leave sometime tonight,” Luther added.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be up to that?” Hannah asked dubiously.

  “I don’t have much choice,” Luther countered. “If we miss the Article 32, then Jaguar’s case will go to court-martial. We can’t let that happen.”

  “I’ll call,” Westy promised. “The cell phone is still in my car. Rest easy, sir.” He was suddenly efficient, hustling Hannah out of the room.

  On her way through the door, Hannah looked back. Was that regret or concern coming out of her eyes? Luther wondered. It was hard to tell with those damn glasses on.

  Not that it mattered.

  Luther finished his food. With his stomach pleasantly full, he pushed the table on wheels away and settled onto his side. The IV in his left hand bothered him more than the bullet wound in his back. He tugged the blanket higher, closed his eyes, and in seconds he was sleeping, caught up in dreams.

  He dreamed that Hannah came back.

  I couldn’t leave without doing this first. She slipped the wig off her head and shook out the short, silky waves of her hair. She took off her glasses, revealing grass-green eyes that shone with desire. Her slim, delicate fingers went to work on the buttons of her blouse.

  One button at a time, the blouse eased open, revealing the sexiest demi bra he’d ever seen. The blouse slipped from her shoulders to the floor. Dry-mouthed, Luther gazed at the tops of her creamy, white breasts. Hannah climbed up over him, letting him caress her. Her nipples jutted through the silk, making his mouth water.

  She kissed him with such impossible sweetness that he shuddered with need. She was giving herself to him, and it didn’t matter that she’d be gone tomorrow, off to save the world. He needed her now. And if he didn’t lay claim to at least some part of her, he’d regret it forever.

  She slid herself against him, stroking him. And then she spread her legs, keeping eye contact. Sweet, Jesus. The only thing between them was the crotch of her silk panties.

  “Lieutenant!”

  The forceful summons jarred Luther violently from his dream. He reached out instinctively, fearing he’d nodded off on a mission and the enemy was looming over him. His right arm was oddly uncooperative. A burning sensation seared his left hand.

  Who? What? Where? He blinked at the face frowning down at him, recognizing it without placing it right away.

  Not a terrorist. Oh, crap, he was grabbing the lapel of Valentino’s long, black trench coat.

  His fingers sprang open. He sat up to utter his sincerest apologies. It was the wrong thing to do. Pain stabbed deep between his spine and shoulder blade. With a shout, he arched and collapsed on his side, as Westy’s favorite five-word curse resounded in his head.

  “Breathe,” Valentino instructed.

  Luther sucked in a breath, and the pain slowly subsided. He forced his eyes open. “Sorry,” he whispered, holding up a hand to gain himself an extra second. He’d pulled the IV halfway out of his vein. With an irritable mutter, he yanked it the rest of the way out and left the IV dangling.

  Valentino waved away the apology. “Been there myself,” he said. Beneath the trench coat, he wore a white silk sweater with a crew collar. Paired up with the lightweight coat, he looked like an Italian priest. He held up the envelope of pictures Westy had left for him. “Where are the originals?” he asked, very gently.

  Luther suffered a sudden, sharp awareness of just how incapacitated he was at the moment. “Westy has them,” he said carefully.

  “You can’t turn them over to NCIS just yet,” Valentino warned. His black eyes looked as hard as polished onyx.

  “We can’t let our platoon leader go to jail for something he didn’t do,” Luther countered.

  “Understood,” said Valentino. “That isn’t going to happen. But we play this thing out my way, Lieutenant, or no way at all.”

  It was suddenly clear why Valentino had infiltrated the Italian Mafia and survived. He played the game like one of them.

  Luther considered the threat, wondering what it meant, if anything. A righteous fire ignited inside of him, giving him the courage to speak his mind, given that he was lying in a hospital bed, scarcely capable of moving. “I hope you’re a man of your word, sir,” he retorted, holding Valentino’s gaze in a challenging manner. “You wouldn’t want to screw over a whole platoon of Navy SEALs, I can promise you that.”

  To his relief, Valentino gave him a grudging smile. His eyes glittered with private humor. “No, I wouldn’t,” he agreed. “Just be patient, Lieutenant. We’re very close to getting our
man. I’ll be making an arrest here, shortly, and things should fall into place after that. Whatever you do, do not let your guard down. This will be a test of your professionalism.”

  What the hell did that mean? Luther wondered, trying to think over the nagging pain in his shoulder.

  “How’s Geary holding up?”

  It was almost as if Valentino asked the question to keep Luther off balance. The memory of his dream flashed before his eyes.

  “Fine,” he said shortly. “She’s a strong woman,” he added without exaggeration.

  Valentino slid his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “Tell her she can see her brother again as soon as the Individual is in my custody. Can I get you anything before I go?”

  “No.” Luther just wanted him to leave so he could brood over Valentino’s interference. “Thank you.” If they didn’t warn the NCIS about the stolen weapons, then Lovitt would clean out the warehouse before the authorities could look into it. On the other hand, maybe the pictures of the serial numbers, matching those of the missing weapons, would be enough.

  With a final enigmatic look, Valentino turned around and walked out. Luther sat there a moment reviewing what Valentino had said, trying to analyze it, while ignoring the excruciating throbbing near his shoulder blade. If he intended to leave the hospital tonight, he would need some serious painkillers. He depressed the nurse call button.

  A familiar voice boomed out of the little speaker. “What is it?”

  “I need something for the pain,” Luther growled, swallowing his manly pride.

  “Already?” Nurse Rex scoffed. “You SEALs ain’t nothin’ but big babies. Jus’ sit tight one minute, and I’ll be right down. Ol’ Rex goin’ ta take care o’ you.”

  He cringed as he settled on his side to wait. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he whimpered.

  Chapter Twelve

  Virginia Beach, Virginia

  27 September ~ 11:32 P.M.

  Leila settled deeper into her pillow-strewn couch, scowling in concentration at the murder mystery book in her lap. She refused to think about Sebastian again tonight, mooning over the memory of their evening together like some love-struck teenager. Tonight she would lose herself in a book, proving she was not obsessed with the man. She was not falling in love.

  Love. The word alone left her panic-stricken. She couldn’t fall in love with a man who jumped out of airplanes at altitudes so ridiculous he required an oxygen mask! She would not love a man who leaped out of bed at any hour to answer the summons of his pager. His job thrust him continuously into danger, meaning he could die tonight, tomorrow, leaving her destitute. If her heart was broken a second time, she would not survive.

  Leila blinked at the print. This wasn’t working. All she could think of was her lovely evening with Sebastian two long nights ago. She couldn’t recall a more satisfying evening spent with anyone. And he hadn’t even kissed her, except on the cheek when he put her in her car at Mike the mechanic’s shop the morning after. “Enjoy your day, querida,” he’d murmured, his espresso-colored eyes warm with tenderness.

  Allah, she was falling in love with him! No wonder she’d wandered about all weekend feeling lost, lonely. This never-ending ache was the cost she paid for letting down her guard.

  She mustn’t let these feelings overtake her! Leila slapped the book shut and jumped to her feet to prowl about her living room. The Turkish carpets underfoot kept her steps silent as she paced in her chintz-noir bathroom, wringing her hands.

  At all costs, she must avoid Sebastian, though it galled her to no end that he’d called her only once. He’d left a phone message inquiring after her car—was it starting for her now?

  Her car! Did he care more for her car than he did for her?

  Oh, what did it matter? She was done with him— through. Only, no, that wasn’t possible. If she hadn’t conceived yet, then she’d be calling him in just two weeks, arranging for their next encounter.

  Anticipation raised goose bumps as she envisioned Sebastian kissing her in that slow, enticing manner of his, penetrating her inch by inch until she practically wept with need.

  She threw herself down on the couch and moaned, a hand sliding helplessly between her thighs. She wanted him now, tonight. She wanted him every night. He’d done something to her traitorous body, cast a spell over her, become her obsession. His gentlemanly behavior hadn’t done anything to abate her desire. If anything, it had only made her want him more.

  By the prophets, how could she protect her heart when her body betrayed her so?

  A knock at the door had her starting guiltily. She pushed to her feet, gathering her robe more securely about her frame. The hope that Sebastian had come knocking gave way to the bitter certainty that it was George, the annoying Greek who lived in the condominium next door. He was forever knocking at her door at unorthodox hours, begging for olive oil or Parmesan cheese. Her cold reception had yet to curb his persistence.

  “What now, George?” she snapped, rolling up on her toes to glare through the eyehole.

  What she saw on the other side made her gasp as she dropped to her heels. It wasn’t George the Greek. It was Sebastian the SEAL, the very last person her heart needed to see.

  Oh, mercy! Should she open the door? No, he would undermine the tenuous grip she had on her emotions. But, if she didn’t let him in, how rude would that look when he’d been so hospitable the other day?

  She released the dead bolt and cracked the door a scant six inches. “Hello.”

  The look in Sebastian’s eyes could have frozen boiling water. “You were expecting George?”

  Jealous. He was jealous. She sought to repress the giddiness that bubbled up at the thought. “No, he lives next door. He’s very annoying.”

  “I see,” said Sebastian. His gaze drifted over her attire. “How are you?”

  Breathless. “Fine. It’s very late.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  She realized then that gloominess hung over him like a shroud. “Is something wrong?”

  He touched his temple as if his head were aching. “Jaguar’s Article 32 hearing was today.”

  Hearing dismay in his voice, Leila opened the door wider. She’d spoken with Helen earlier this afternoon. Having comforted her best friend for more than an hour, she felt it only fair that she comfort Sebastian as well. “Would you like to come in?” Her knees trembled with equal parts anticipation and dread.

  To her surprise, he seemed to hesitate. But then he nodded and he stepped inside, casting an eye about her tastefully decorated home. He’d been here once before, sharing a bottle of wine with her before they’d climbed the steps to her room to make love.

  That wouldn’t happen tonight, Leila swore. To her relief, Sebastian lowered himself into the armchair. She sat across from him on the couch, trying not to recall how she’d been touching herself here just minutes before, dreaming of him.

  “Helen told me what happened—that the prosecutor presented medical evidence of paranoia, something about raised levels of cortisol, I think it was.”

  Sebastian nodded again. “The prosecutor’s name is Garret—Captain Garret. He’s never lost a case.”

  “Oh, dear. Helen didn’t say that.”

  “She doesn’t know,” Sebastian said with meaning. He rubbed his temple again. “It shouldn’t have happened as it did,” he added. “We have evidence to support Jaguar’s innocence, but it wasn’t presented in time. Lieutenant Lindstrom—the big man at Jaguar’s barbecue?—he was shot yesterday. He found the weapons Commander Lovitt’s been stealing.”

  “He found them!” Leila gasped. “Is he all right?”

  “He will be. But he couldn’t get the evidence to court in time. We tried to cast suspicion on Lovitt by linking him to the XO’s death, but there’s only circumstantial evidence to indicate that Miller’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

  “Miller?” Leila cocked her head. “Do you mean Jason Miller?”

  Sebastian looked
at her oddly. “Did you know him?”

  “No, but he practically stalked Helen after Gabe disappeared last year. He dropped by to see her all the time. He even wrote her a love letter.”

  Sebastian’s gaze sharpened. “She wouldn’t still have it,” he guessed.

  “No, but I do. I think.”

  “You? Why?”

  “Because Helen was going to throw it away, and I thought, this is suspicious. Here is the last man to see Gabriel Renault alive and he’s professing to love Gabe’s wife. How weird is that?”

  Sebastian sat forward. “Where’s the letter?” he asked with controlled urgency. “We need samples of his handwriting to show that his suicide note was forged.”

  “Can’t you find that at the office?”

  “We could, but he cleared out his files the day he resigned. And a signature alone—which is all we have—is not enough. Do you think you can find the letter?”

  “I’ll look for it,” she promised, hating to let him down. “I save everything,” she confessed. “It’s probably at my shop. That’s where Helen showed it to me.”

  “Can we go and look tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Her gaze flew to the clock on the wall. “It’s almost midnight.”

  He drew a breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He pushed to his feet, causing her heart to drop with disappointment. “There’s no hurry. We have a week to prepare for the court-martial. If you find it before then, be sure to call me.”

  He headed for the door.

  Leila got up and trailed him, tamping down the desperate urge to beg him to stay. “Do you . . .” She stammered to a halt as he turned to look at her.

  He stretched out a hand and stroked her cheek. The tender gesture took her by surprise. “I have to confess something to you,” he said, looking unhappy with himself.

  “What?” She froze, certain that he was going to break her heart, to tell her that it was over between them.

  “You are going to be angry with me,” he predicted, his eyes dark with regret.

  Her eyes stung. Her knees began to tremble. He couldn’t do this to her now—not when he’d made himself so appealing. He couldn’t just break her heart so cruelly!