"Brunch," she announced cheerfully, setting the tray on his lap and handing him a napkin. He looked at the spread of eggs, toast, fruit and orange juice and shook his head.
"You shouldn't have gone to so much work. I'll never finish it."
"Eat as much as you can. You need it if you're ever going to quit feeling like limp lettuce."
He gave her a sideways look. "That obvious, huh?"
"I've seen live people who look worse, but I can't remember when."
Suddenly, surprisingly, he grinned, and Shiloh caught her breath. Lord, he was a different person when he smiled. Those amazingly blue eyes lit up, and a pair of unexpected dimples slashed those lean cheeks. Aware that she was staring, she spoke hastily. "Go ahead and eat."
She turned and crossed to her dresser, tugging at the rubber band that held her hair while she tried not to wonder what it would be like to have those world-weary eyes light up like that not at some half-hearted joke, but for her.
He had that look, she saw now that his illness was retreating. That look her father had had, that her brother still had. That look of having seen too much of the world's ugliness, of having walked too long on the dark side. But in this man it was more; it was something her father and brother had managed to avoid. This man had lost whatever slight faith he'd ever had in his fellow human beings. It showed in the depths of those steel-blue eyes, a hundred years old in his young face.
She picked up the silver brush from the dresser and began to run it through the shining mass of her hair, restoring it to a gleaming auburn sweep of color that swung free just above her shoulders. She was lost in her own speculations about the man in her bed, unaware that, although he was eating the food she'd fixed, his eyes were glued to her reflection in the mirror.
She put down the brush and turned to face him, leaning against the edge of the dresser. He lowered his eyes and concentrated on eating.
"Con?"
He nearly jumped, so startling was the sound of his name in that low, lovely voice. He covered it with a cough and reached for the orange juice. "What?" he managed to get out as he set the glass back down after a long swallow.
"When did you last see Linc?"
He thought for a moment. "Last year, after he got back from … his last assignment."
She sighed impatiently. "I know, the Persian Gulf. You haven't seen him since?"
"No. I've been … busy."
"I wanted to see him before he had to leave again, but they wouldn't give him any time."
"That's the military for you. Ship you around like you were a piece of furniture."
She looked at him quizzically. "You're not…?"
"One of their pieces? No. I'm strictly private. I find corporate security a bit less … cramped. Less spit and polish."
"And rules?"
He lifted a shoulder in a one-sided shrug, but a brief flash of that crooked grin gave her her answer.
Her mouth quirked; then her delicately arched brows furrowed. "Then how did you ever meet my brother?"
He took another swallow of orange juice as he considered what to say. He supposed it couldn't hurt to tell her; it had nothing to do with this mess.
"Our paths crossed on something a few years ago. He was working on it for the navy, I was on the private side. We kept running into each other, getting in each other's way. So we decided to work together, mainly to keep from killing each other." The grin flashed again, no less devastating than before. "He's all right—for a military type."
She'd been watching him intently as he spoke, comprehension dawning in the green eyes. "In the Philippines?"
He stared at her. "What?"
"He told me. When he came back. Oh, not about the case, he never talks about those, but that he'd met some guy he'd thought was going to be a real problem but who turned out to be the best man he'd ever worked with."
"Linc said that?"
"Yes." She was warmed by his look of pleasure at her brother's compliment. Not all of that faith had been lost, it seemed. She walked to the lounge she'd pulled up next to the bed and sat. "He said he'd even tried to recruit you. Said if he could get you, he could get rid of half of his staff."
"As I recall, he said most of them were bumbling idiots," he said with a crooked grin that made her throat go tight again.
"That's my brother. Wild and free with the praise."
"I thought he was. About you, anyway. I was wrong."
She blushed when his meaning hit her. "He's … prejudiced. All big brothers are, you know."
"You're very close, aren't you?"
"Yes, I suppose so, considering there're fifteen years between us. Or maybe because of it. My father…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. She looked up to meet a pair of blue eyes warm with sympathy and understanding. How had she ever thought those eyes cold? "I think we're closer because of what happened to Daddy. He's very good to me, even though he's a little overprotective at times."
Yeah, he muttered to himself. Remember that, McQuade, and keep your evil thoughts to yourself. "Your father … how is he now?"
"Better. He gets around okay on crutches, but it tires him, so he still uses the wheelchair most of the time."
"And mentally?"
He saw the old, familiar worry in her face, as he had often seen it in Linc's. "About the same, I think he would have been all right if it hadn't been for what happened to Linc. I was only five when we got the news, but I remember. It really set him back. He knew, all the time the Vietcong were holding him, what he was going through. He could take it himself, but his son…"
She shrugged. "It comes and goes. He's fine for weeks, even months. Then, in his mind, he's gone for a while. To wherever he had to go to survive what they did to him."
"Sometimes it's all you can do." Con's voice sounded oddly distant. "You send your mind away to where it doesn't matter what happens to your body anymore."
He came back to himself abruptly, but she had seen the memories in his eyes, dark and haunting. She forced herself not to look at the thin, white scar curving down from his shoulder.
"Daddy's doing fine now, though. He's working on a book he's been writing for years, on his hobby."
"The Civil War?"
Shiloh looked at him ruefully. "You know about that, huh?"
He chuckled, and, like the grin, it was unexpected. It made her throat tighten and her heart pound.
"How could I not?" he said, still smiling. "Shiloh and Lincoln Reese? To borrow a phrase, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out somebody has a thing for that part of history."
"I was lucky I didn't end up Gettysburg."
"Or Appomattox."
She giggled, and Con thought he would do just about anything to keep hearing that lovely, silvery sound. So he did. He talked to her, asked her questions, got her talking about the good memories. He had developed a knack for drawing people out over the years; he had rather glumly put it down to being something of a vacuum himself.
Whatever the reason, it had come in handy more than once, netting him some very useful pieces of information.
He just listened, skimming along the surface and picking out what he needed. Using the human foible of being one's own favorite topic of conversation to his advantage. Just using. And not letting himself think about when he had come to look on people as tools to be used to get the job done.
But he was aware of the difference now. He was engrossed in everything she told him while at the same time aware of how odd it felt just to listen to someone, with no thought of gleaning information from them, no need to pry that one essential slip or name or place from them. He just listened. And enjoyed.
It didn't take him long to realize her favorite topic of conversation was not herself but her brother. At first he'd thought it was because of his connection with Linc, but after a while it became obvious that she truly adored her older brother.
"I was eight when he finally came home. He was still pretty sick, and he was laid up for a long time.
He always seemed to want me around, and I was very—" she laughed "—proud of that. I understood it later, that he just needed to see a child who hadn't been hurt, an … innocent face that hadn't seen the horror, that hadn't had to live with the terror."
"It was more than that," Con put in. "He told me that when things got bad he kept telling himself that he had to hang on, had to survive to get back. 'I wanted to see what kind of woman that little scamp would turn into,' he said. Now I know why."
Shiloh blushed. Lord, when was the last time he'd seen a woman who blushed at simple compliments? And changed the subject as if she were afraid more might be coming?
"You'd better get some rest if you're going to beat this thing."
He didn't want to sleep. He wanted her to keep talking; he wanted to listen to that lovely low voice; he wanted to know everything about her, and she hadn't even begun to talk about herself.
Dangerous ground, McQuade, he warned himself. As soon as you're strong enough, you're gone, so back off. Don't get in too deep.
So he did as she said, trying to stifle the tiny voice that told him he was much too late with his own warning.
He awoke briefly in the evening, surprised that he had slept so long, but feeling much better. She brought him a dinner of steak and steamed vegetables that tasted like heaven, even eaten between apologies for putting her to so much work.
"Shut up and eat," she said, not at all sharply. He shut up and ate.
Shiloh cleaned up the dishes, then went back into the bedroom. He was already asleep again, which pleased her. He was looking much better; that hollow look was gone, and the shadows beneath his eyes were fading. He might be doing pretty well by tomorrow, now that he'd had some rest and some decent food.
And what would he do then? Drop out of her life as quickly as he had dropped in? Without a trace? She knew that was what he intended, knew it as surely as if she'd known him for years instead of since—Lord, was it only yesterday?
She sat back on the lounge, stretching out her long legs on the rich, green-and-ruby-patterned cushion. He looked so different asleep, she thought, so much younger. And he had seemed that way this afternoon, when he had somehow gotten her talking in a way that was totally unlike her. Just as Linc had always been able to do. Trick of the trade, she supposed, resolutely smothering the half-formed wish that he had been truly interested.
If only she could reach Linc. She had long ago become resigned to his being out of touch for long periods, and although nothing could ease her worry about him, she tried her best to keep it under control. She refused to add to his concerns by falling apart every time he left; he'd had too much of that, as had her father. But now, for the first time in a long time, she wished for a way to get through to him. If anybody could help Con, he could. He would find a way.
She didn't even wonder at her willingness to accept Con as being in the right in this situation, whatever it was. Linc had always told her that she had good instincts about people and to trust them; she was trusting them now.
Watching Con as he slept, she had time to remember what her beloved brother had said that day when he'd come back from the Philippines.
"He's a loner, Shy, but I think it's because he's never known anything else. He doesn't have any family, and I get the feeling it's been that way for a long time. But I'll tell you, little one, I've never met anybody I'd rather have on my side. Or anybody I'd want to go up against less."
And then, there in the darkness, she remembered what else Linc had said. She had, in trying to stop herself from worrying about him, put it out of her mind until now. But there it was, as clearly as if he were sitting beside her as he had that day, his long, rugged face drawn into harsh lines as he looked at her, not speaking.
"I'm not a little girl anymore," she had told him, seeing the doubt in his eyes even as she sensed his need to talk.
"No," he'd said, his hazel eyes warm with that light they always held for her. "You're not."
"Then talk to me." Still he'd hesitated. "It's that bad? It must be, or you'd just talk to Dad. So it must be something that would make him worry. It got messy?"
Linc had let out a wry chuckle. "I forgot how sharp you are. Yes, it got messy." That was when he had looked at her and said quietly, "He took a bullet for me, Shy. I would have been dead."
Would have been dead. Her beloved brother in a flag-draped casket, with some naval officer speaking meaningless words. And he would have been followed by her father. She had no doubt that his fragile health would not have withstood that blow. Both of them, gone, but for this man. She looked at him with eyes stinging with tears.
Which of those scars had Linc's name on it? And why hadn't he told her? Even when he had finally used Linc's name, he hadn't told her, hadn't played the one card that would have assured him of her cooperation. Why? She pondered the question for a long time before sleep claimed her.
Con came awake abruptly, every nerve taut, every sense tingling. He lay carefully still, listening. Nothing. He inched his head to the side just far enough to see that Shiloh was still asleep, curled on the wicker lounge. He held his breath, his ears straining for any sound.
Still nothing. But something had brought him awake, and he had lived too long by trusting that ingrained instinct to ignore it now. Moving with exquisite slowness, he edged the covers back and sat up. Then he stopped again, waiting. The silence stayed unbroken, but that sixth sense was screaming. He stood up.
Moving with a silent, light-footed grace that was surprising for a man his size, he crossed to the doorway to the living room. He paused with his back to the wall, his head turned to catch any sound from the other room. He tried to make himself forget the innocently sleeping woman and concentrate on the silence, but an image of her getting hurt—or worse—because of him just wouldn't go away.
Then he heard it, the slightest of sounds, a mere whisper of cloth against cloth. From inside the house. They were here. There was no time for recriminations, for wishing he hadn't stayed. Every bit of his strength, every ounce of determination, everything he'd ever learned about survival, was now channeled toward one goal: the safety of Shiloh Reese.
He searched the dim room for something, anything, within reach. He saw a reflection on the dresser and realized it was the ornate silver comb that matched the brush she had used. It was long, narrow, with a handle that came to a point at the end. He just managed to reach it, gauging the length of it, the sharpness of that point. It might be enough. He heard the sound again, closer.
He forced himself to breathe shallowly. How many? There had been two on his tail since WestAir. And two in the car that had run him off the road. Still two? And how the hell had they found him so fast? Three days. They were good. Too damned good.
The sound came again, and this time he saw the shadow. He crouched, waiting, knowing he would have to move fast. If she woke up before he got it done…
Suddenly the shadow filled the doorway, and he lunged, thrusting upward with the makeshift dagger. He heard a startled cry, then a grunt as the weapon caught and skidded upward. The heavy body reeled backward into the living room. Con went with it, using his weight to bear it down to the floor, hearing the thud of impact as the man hit the coffee table.
He sensed the sudden movement behind him and rolled off the now limp man beneath him, dodging the hulking shape that was bearing down on him. The room was dark, but there was enough light to outline the unmistakable shape of the pistol in the man's hand. No silencer, Con's mind registered. In that split second he moved. Lying on his back, he brought his knees up, then drove his feet straight into the midsection of that considerable target, gambling that the man would only fire the weapon, rousing the neighborhood, as a last resort.
He heard the whoosh of air leaving the man's lungs as Con's bare feet dug into his solar plexus. Con rolled upward, letting the man's own momentum carry him up and over to crash to the floor. Twisting his body swiftly sideways, Con came to his knees, straining to see in the near blackness of the r
oom. The barest of movements alerted him, the slightest of glints as what light there was found the barrel of the revolver as it moved, lifted.
He dived, coming down hard on the sprawled attacker, his hand clamping around the wrist of the hand that held the gun. He forced it to the floor over the man's head, then had to twist violently sideways to avoid the wicked blow of a serge-clad knee as it aimed for his vulnerable nakedness.
His evasive move gave the burly man the leverage he needed. He came up off the floor in a rush of snarling anger. He spat a vicious epithet, then brought the barrel of the gun down in a smashing blow. Only Con's hair-trigger reflexes saved him from a crushed skull.
The blow glanced off his temple, stunning him for a moment. He felt a hard, merciless pressure on his throat, digging, throttling, and he knew he was in trouble. He felt the hammer of the gun gouging into the side of his neck as the man crouched over him, one massive knee driving into his chest, forcing out what little air he had. The four inch barrel was across his throat, compressing his windpipe and cutting his air down to a bare trickle.
He bucked beneath the killing weight as his ears began to ring and flashes of light shot across his field of vision. He couldn't budge the smothering bulk and cursed his own weakness. He felt the world begin to spin away.
Over the growing hum in his ears he heard the familiar sound of the slide of a .45 automatic being worked, chambering a round. There had been a third man, he thought numbly. A third man he hadn't seen or counted on. He'd blown this from square one and gotten himself killed doing it. And maybe Shiloh. God, no…
"Back off."
Con blinked. He must be hallucinating, closer to death than he'd thought. He must be, because he'd just heard Shiloh's voice, low and husky and deadly calm. The pressure on his throat lifted, and he felt the sudden tensing in the body still straddling him.
"Don't."
COOL UNDER FIRE Page 4
