The Dangerous Boxed Set

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Touch is a powerful tranquilizer, soothing animals and soon-to-be furious women. He was going to need every advantage he could get.

  He sat them down in the corner of the couch, Charity’s back against his right side, her legs stretched out. Her eyes never left his. One shaking hand was on his shoulder, kneading his shoulder muscle.

  “You’re alive,” she whispered finally. It wasn’t a question.

  Nick nodded, watching her face. “Yes, sweetheart, I’m alive.”

  She blinked and shuddered. “I’m going crazy, like Aunt Vera. You can’t be alive. I buried you. I’m hallucinating.”

  “No, you’re not hallucinating. You’re touching me,” Nick said. He bent to kiss her cheek. “You can feel me. I’d pinch you to make you believe, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you in any way.”

  It was exactly the wrong thing to say. She drew in a deep breath and sat up straight in his lap.

  Ouch. Right over his hard-on.

  Yep. Unbelievably, with all this heavy stuff coming down, danger on the horizon, Apaches outside the gate, he’d got himself a woody.

  Her eyes widened. She felt it. For a moment, it was as if everything in the world stopped. They even stopped breathing. There wasn’t a sound in the house or from the street outside. Utter silence reigned as he watched her struggle with the concept of a dead man having a hard-on for her.

  This could go either way. Sex between them had been more than good, from the first quick kiss in his car on the way to Da Emilio’s to the last time they had made love on Friday morning. Her body was attuned to his. Though she was small, she had been requiring less and less foreplay for him to fit. Sometimes all it took was a kiss, a touch, and she was ready, wet and swollen and hot. As if simply being near him was foreplay for her.

  So he had to watch her eyes very carefully, and if she softened, it was entirely possible that he’d start kissing her and one thing would lead to another, maybe right here on this pretty little couch—it wouldn’t be the first time, either—and he’d say I’m sorry I deceived you, and she’d be looking up at him after coming, all rosy and dewy, and say I forgive you, Nick and he’d say good and by the way, don’t even think of going to that fuckhead Worontzoff’s tonight and she’d go whatever you say, Nick and that would be that.

  Charity reared her head back and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t. Don’t even think of going there.”

  Then again, maybe not.

  “No,” he said. Damn, it would have made things easier, cut through a lot of the crap.

  “Who—who did I bury?” Charity whispered.

  Nick shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Her mouth tightened and she tried to get out of his arms. No way. She was staying right where she was, with him touching her. He tightened his hold.

  “I’m sorry, honey. That’s the honest truth. I don’t know who he was. But he was trying to kill me and I do know who sent him.”

  She was barely listening, watching his eyes carefully, as if trying to identify him. She licked dry lips. “Where have you been these past days?

  “Here,” he said bluntly. “Mainly outside your house. I slept in a motel about twenty miles from here.”

  “Here?” she whispered. Her eyes left his face to wander around the living room, as if seeing her house for the first time. Her gaze locked back onto his face.

  “You were outside the house while I was crying my eyes out? Grieving for you? So hard I thought my heart would stop?” She straightened suddenly in his lap and he winced. “You came into the house, didn’t you? You were here. It was real.”

  Charity wrenched herself out of his lap and stood, trembling. He’d opened his arms to let her go. Her movements were so violent he’d hurt her if he tried to keep his hold on her.

  She was shaking, arms wound tightly around her midriff, gemstone eyes bright in her white face. “I thought I was losing my mind. I felt your presence all the time. I smelled you. I’d walk into a room and expect to find you. I thought I was going crazy.” She glared at him narrow-eyed. “Is this some kind of game for you? Pre—pretending to be dead, letting me think I b—buried you, then coming around later? Is this your idea of a joke? Because if it is, I’m not laughing.”

  Nick stood. He moved slowly because she looked like she would bolt—or shatter—at any untoward movement.

  “No joke,” he said softly. “No game. And if I could have avoided this, I would have, believe me. It’s just that—”

  Charity went even whiter. “Avoided this?” She brought a shaking hand to her mouth. “You wanted to avoid me? You wanted to just leave me hanging, thinking my husband was dead?” She swallowed heavily. “You’re not Nick,” she whispered, shaking. “You can’t be. He would never do this to me. He’d never leave me mourning him. Who are you?”

  “No!” God, this was going badly. “I didn’t mean I was avoiding you, it’s just that—”

  But Nick was talking to empty air. With a moan muffled by the hand she clapped to her mouth, Charity bolted for the bathroom, making it barely in time. She slid to the porcelain bowl, slammed both hands on the tiled wall behind the toilet and bowed her head. Nothing came out but tea and vodka. She coughed and retched alcohol-scented brown liquid, eyes streaming.

  Nick was right behind her. He ran a small hand towel under the sink faucet and wrung it out. He wrapped one arm around her from behind and gently wiped her face. She was gasping, shaking, sweating, coughing. Her stomach muscles clenched hard under his hand as another bout of retching seized her.

  They were dry heaves now, but no less wrenching for the fact that there was nothing left in her stomach to come up. She made little moves to dislodge Nick’s arm, but he wasn’t having it. She needed his support. She was running on fumes and he was sure she’d fall to the ground without his arm around her.

  When a few minutes went by with no more spasms, she finally stepped away, trying to escape his arm. Nick didn’t budge. He rinsed the towel out again, turned her toward him, and wiped her face and neck.

  Charity stood meekly, head bowed, eyes closed. He’d seen ice with more color than her face.

  She looked so miserable his heart squeezed in his chest.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said. “You belong in bed. We can talk about things later, but right now you need to be lying down.” Frowning, he lifted the back of his hand to her brow. She was cool. Still—“You’re probably coming down with something, you’re so run down. We’ll be lucky if it’s just the flu. This is bronchitis or pneumonia weather. I think I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

  Good idea. The hell with opsec. He’d drive Charity to the hospital in the next town over, stay in the background. Make sure she checked in, make sure she was all right while Di Stefano and Alexei kept watch over Worontzoff.

  “No.” She made an effort and stood up straight, moving away from him. “I’m not sick. I’m grieving.” She glared at him.

  “I didn’t know grieving made you throw up a thousand times a day. That’s a new one.”

  “I haven’t been throwing up a thousand times a day! That’s ridiculous. Just in the mor—”

  She stopped suddenly, eyes wide. Nick froze, too. They looked at each other. There was utter silence in the pretty little bathroom as Nick searched her eyes for the truth he suddenly felt in every cell in his body.

  “Go ahead, finish that sentence. You only throw up in the mornings. You know what that means, don’t you? It means you’re pregnant.”

  “No,” Charity whispered. Her hand went immediately to her belly, as if trying to feel what was there through muscle and skin. Nick knew what was there. A baby. His baby. He would bet his new million dollars on it. “No. No way. I can’t be pregnant.” She looked appalled at the thought.

  Nick frowned. “You certainly can be pregnant. God knows we fucked enough, and once without a rubber is all it takes. Ask any teenaged girl.”

  Charity flinched. “This is—this is ridiculous. I can’t possibly know anything for
sure. Not now, not yet. I’d need tests, blood tests, urine tests, whatever, it takes weeks to be sure…” Her voice tapered off as she stared wide-eyed at Nick. Both of them were absolutely certain, he knew it, but Charity was having problems coping with it.

  Nick was a soldier, Charity wasn’t. All his life he’d never flinched from reality. He saw what was, not what he wanted, always, and he saw it immediately. He never needed time to adapt. Christ, if you need time to adapt to new situations, stay away from battlefields.

  Taking time to process things is a very good way to get killed.

  Charity came from a gentler background, where bad news came rarely and there was time to acclimate. She was still processing the idea while Nick was already planning ahead.

  A baby. A baby! Jesus. He’d never wanted marriage and he’d always rejected even the thought of kids. What the fuck did he know about families, about raising kids? He’d grown up in an orphanage and brutal foster homes, not exactly role models of domesticity.

  Of course, Jake had grown up the same way and he was the best husband and father on earth. But that was Jake. Nick was Nick. All it took was a hint from the woman du jour of wedding bells or even jewelry and Nick was in the next state. It wasn’t anything he wanted, or anything he ever expected to want.

  Which is why the jolt of desire he felt nearly knocked him to his knees. Desire for Charity, but also desire for their child. It was a totally new emotion, but he processed it instantly as it settled inside him. There was no doubt it was real. He recognized it instantly, as if it had been there all along, patiently waiting for him to acknowledge it.

  That angry buzzing that had filled his head and clouded his mind was gone. His mind was completely clear, and he knew exactly what he wanted.

  He wanted Charity and this child he’d made with her. He wanted it ferociously, more than he’d wanted to become a Delta operator all those years ago.

  In a flash, his life turned around 180 degrees.

  He wanted it all. A real marriage and fatherhood. He wanted to live with this beautiful woman in this beautiful house in this beautiful little town. He wanted to raise their son or daughter in a loving home, protected and cared for. And he wanted more kids. Why the hell not? Why stop at one?

  Of course, between now and that future there were a few hurdles to overcome and one of them was staring at him right now, white-faced and shell-shocked.

  Nick took her hands in his. They were ice-cold. He brought them to his lips and kissed them. Charity drew in a deep breath and snatched her hands away from his. He let her do it. Right now was not the time to force her in any way.

  Like a child, Charity hid her hands behind her back. She looked up at him, searching his eyes, trying to read him.

  Nick knew exactly how to deflect curiosity and hide whatever he wanted to hide. It was one of his gifts, together with stillness and emotional detachment. It was what made him such a good undercover cop. He knew how to keep people out. But now he needed to switch gears, fast.

  He deliberately drew down the shield he’d had all his life around his mind and heart and let her in.

  Charity shook her head slowly. “Who are you? I think I’m going crazy. I fall in love with a man in the space of a week, then I marry him and become a widow on the same day. And now my husband comes back from the dead. It’s too much to take in.” She swallowed heavily. “I need the truth. Tell me what’s going on, Nick. Or is Nick even your real name?”

  “Yeah, my name’s Nick. I’ll tell you everything, but first you’re going to clean up and then you’re going to sit down before you fall down.”

  He held her hair back with one hand while she splashed cold water on her face. He put a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste on the sink shelf and looked at her pointedly. She brushed her teeth, then rinsed her mouth with mouthwash. He put a comb in her hand and she combed her hair. Nick knew that these small grooming motions made her feel better, more in control.

  A little color was returning to her face, but her hands were still shaking. He turned her toward him. “Okay now. We’ll have our talk, but not in here. It’s too important a conversation to have in a bathroom, so we’ll go to the living room. You’re going to walk to the couch or I’m going to carry you. Your choice, but you have to take it now.”

  Charity blinked. He knew how to put command in his voice. She obeyed instinctively. She made for one of the armchairs, but he steered her to the couch and sat down next to her. She drew back, alarmed.

  She wanted to avoid him. Tough shit. He was here and he was staying. He reached over for her hand. She gave a little halfhearted tug to try to get her hand back, but his grip was firm. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he wasn’t letting her go. He needed to be touching her for this part.

  She turned to him. “Okay,” she said quietly, hand still in his. “This is what I know about you. Your name is Nicholas Ames, you’re thirty-four years old, you are—were—a stockbroker in New York. You made some money and this year you retired from the office you’d worked in for twelve years. You want to open a business of your own. Your father was a banker, your mother was a lawyer. So tell me—how much of that is true?”

  Nick was so goddamned proud of her. Any other woman would be screaming by now, but not Charity.

  Her words echoed in his head. How much of that is true? “Basically none of it,” he confessed.

  She lost what little color she’d acquired. Her hand slipped out of his to cover her mouth. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “You’re already married. That’s what this is about.”

  “No!” He grabbed her hand back. “God no, I’m not married. Never have been, either. Or rather, yes, I am married. To you.”

  “No, you’re not. My husband’s dead,” she whispered. “I buried him.”

  “No, honey, you buried someone else. Someone who tried to kill me. I have no idea what his name was because he had no ID on him.”

  Charity blinked back tears. “He might not have had ID, but he did have your wedding ring.”

  “Yes, he did.” Nick looked her straight in the face. “And putting that ring on his finger was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But it had to be done. It identified the body as me, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her face drawn. “When the police officer gave me that ring, I thought my heart would stop.”

  Nick bent forward slowly until his lips touched her hair. She held herself stiffly but she didn’t draw back. One small victory. “I know,” he said against her hair, his breath moving a silken strand.

  He’d almost forgotten the smell of her. A mix of shampoo, some springlike scent, and her skin. He breathed it in and somehow it calmed him. He’d been running on adrenaline since he’d driven the man off the cliff, wound tighter than a drum, feeling as if someone had ripped a huge, gaping hole in his chest.

  Touching Charity, breathing her in, calmed him down, cooled something inflamed in him. He’d been like some wounded creature in the forest, blasted by a hunter, stumbling around blindly, in pain, losing blood. Charity healed him, made him whole.

  “Start with your name. I need to know your name.” Her head tilted as she studied him.

  “Nick. Nick Ireland. But that’s not my family name. I have no idea what my real name is. I was left in the baby hatch of an orphanage in upstate New York. There was a note pinned to the blanket saying that the baby’s name was Nick. Later that day, a girl called, asking if I’d been found. She was crying. The secretary of the orphanage said she had an Irish accent, so they called me Ireland. No one has any idea who she was.”

  Nick watched Charity’s eyes. He’d never told this story to a woman, ever. He was really good at making up fake legends. It never even occurred to him to tell the truth. He didn’t want to see pity or horror.

  He wasn’t seeing them now.

  Charity was listening quietly, watching him, face somber. “Go on,” she said.

  “I was in the military for ten years. Army.” He didn’t say which part of the
army. Actually, he couldn’t. Delta operators’ jackets were kept confidential for twenty years. “I was wounded on a mission and had to resign my commission. I’ve been working for the government for the past couple of years, on a special task force investigating international organized crime collaborating with terrorists. There’s more and more of that, and we’re there to stop it.”

  He watched her process the information. He was sure she was filing away every piece of data he was giving her, putting it all together. He kept forgetting how smart Charity was. It was easy to forget, at times. She was so pretty, so gentle you could easily overlook the fact that she was as sharp as a tack.

  “The army,” Charity mused. “So, I guess you didn’t fall on your aunt’s shower curtain rod, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.” There was utter quiet in the room as she absorbed this news.

  Charity was losing that shell-shocked look. She had no expression at all, like a porcelain doll. He didn’t like it, because more bad news was coming, as inevitable as a wave rolling in to shore.

  “So—if your job is as an undercover cop—that is basically what you said, isn’t it?”

  Nick nodded.

  “So, what are you here for? Parker’s Ridge is a quiet little New England town. What could you possibly be looking for here?”

  This was it. Nick had to walk carefully here, over hot coals. Barefoot.

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “We’re here because of Vassily Worontzoff. He’s the head of one of the most powerful Russian mobs and there’s a lot of chatter that he’s about to get in touch with an al Qaeda cell. And that is highly classified information, Charity. I don’t have to tell you that it goes no farther than this room.”

  She was staring at him. She gave a half laugh. “You’re investigating Vassily? Are you crazy? He’s a writer, what does he have to do with—wait a minute.” Nick could almost see the cogs in her head, spinning so hard they generated steam as she put the pieces together. “If you’re after Vassily—which is crazy—then that means that you were after me. Everyone knows I’m his best friend here.” Charity pulled her hand away and suddenly stood up. “Oh my God.” She put her hands on her head and spun around, as if finding it hard to be in the same place with what she was saying. “You came to me for information. I was—I was your mission. Oh God, oh God. You were sent here to seduce me. Like Mata Hari, only a male. I can’t believe this. I was your job.” Her voice was rising in agitation.