The Stealth Commandos Trilogy

by Suzanne Forster

  He turned on a tap and splashed cold water on his face, aware of the tension in his neck muscles. Where was she? he wondered. It was a question that had been on his mind all day. He hadn’t seen her in over forty-eight hours, not since the incident at his private elevator. He should have been out celebrating her absence, but he couldn’t help wondering if something had happened to her.

  The water in his cupped hands felt icy and cleansing as he brought it to his face, but there wasn’t any amount of water that could wash away the image of her crumpled on the floor near his elevator. The terror in her cries was seared into his memory cells. He’d never thought of her as physically strong, and certainly not as the type of woman who could defend herself in a dangerous situation. She’d always seemed vulnerable in that way, which was probably why he’d felt compelled to massacre the arrogant bastards who’d taunted her when they were kids. It had filled him with guilt and fury that they were ridiculing her because of her “redskin” boyfriend.

  A whisper of cool air made him aware of the silk material of his slacks against the back of his calves. He raised his head, beads of water sluicing over the angular bones of his face as he glanced in the mirror. The double reflection he saw astonished him. The one word he breathed was more than profane, it was incredulous.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, staring at Honor’s image in the mirror. He whirled, water flying, and raked a hand through his hair, tossing it out of his face. “How did you get in here?”

  The last thing he expected was the faint, trembling smile she produced. She looked like a woman tilted precariously on the brink of something risky, as if she knew she was breaking the rules and had realized there was no point in taking half-measures. She was also wearing the jacket he’d put over her shoulders the night he’d found her sprawled in front of his elevator.

  “This is yours,” she said, touching the jacket’s lapel. “I thought I should return it.”

  “But how did you get in?”

  A subtle vibrancy shimmered in the mists of her blue eyes, like light rain on a sunny day. She was pleased with herself, he could tell. “I caught the door before it closed,” she said. “I guess you didn’t hear me behind you.”

  “You do know this is a men’s bathroom?” He half turned, pointing out basins, urinals, and stalls.

  She took it all in, seemingly impressed. “If I didn’t before, I certainly do now.” Her smile wavered, and she wet her lips; but oddly, the nervous gesture made her seem more assured. “It’s probably the only place in this building not overrun with people,” she said. “By the way, congratulations on winning the case.”

  For the first time in a very long time, Johnny was dumbstruck. In his wildest dreams—and he’d had some wild ones—he’d never imagined America’s favorite debutante following a man into the toilet. There was something different about her, he realized as he looked her up and down. It hit him like a blow to the rib cage when he realized what it was. She was wearing her hair down. It spilled around her shoulders, free and golden, just the way it had after he’d cut the coil with his knife.

  She was dressed differently too. Besides his jacket, she wore blue jeans and a soft peach cardigan sweater that was unbuttoned at the neckline. The sweater’s opening lay over the pale swell of her breasts, whispering hints of the shadowy crevice between them.

  He doubted that it was intentional on her part, but God help him, she looked sexy—not nearly as sweet and demure as he remembered, or as contrite as he would have liked. He didn’t need sexy, not from her. Not now! He had enough trouble where she was concerned.

  “You called this meeting,” he said abruptly. “I assume you’ve got something to say.”

  “Yes.” The trembling smile reappeared. “You’re wet.”

  Johnny touched the beads of water that clung to his jaw and swore softly. He pulled some paper towels from the dispenser and scrubbed the moisture away. “I wish I could say the same thing about you,” he said, tossing off the double entendre without considering its impact.

  The color fled her pale face, then crept back in a slow pink tide. But she said nothing, did nothing, as though shocked into some inner recognition of her own feelings, of his physical nearness, and of the fact that she was locked in a men’s bathroom with him. Her mounting awareness was breathtaking to watch.

  “If I were wet,” she said, her voice barely audible, “that would be between me and my Calvins.”

  Johnny’s breath went husky with male amusement. Something strange was definitely going on here. She was getting less predictable by the minute. He might have thought of a comeback if something else about her hadn’t already captivated him. Violets. The scent of violets rose from her flushed skin like morning mists off a dewy meadow. He had an unexpected image of her standing naked and pale before him, wearing nothing but that lush scent. The vision left him fighting for breath. And fighting off memories.

  The day he’d surprised her at her locker, he’d caught a whiff of the exotic, flowery scent she gave off. She’d been frightened and excited then too. Either her body chemistry enhanced her perfume, or she just naturally smelled of violets. He didn’t know. He didn’t care about anything except the havoc that fragrance had done to his mind and body.

  He didn’t want to remember the nights of sleepless yearning, dreaming about her violet-scented body underneath his, about her tender curves, and that first deep plunge into her virginity. He’d imagined the conquest in such pleasure-soaked, erotic detail that even now, all it took was a whiff of violets to make him harden and ache.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you’d taken flight, gone back to Arizona.”

  Honor was startled at his harshness. She didn’t have the quick answer he seemed to be demanding. She’d spent the last two days struggling with the repercussions of what had happened between them when he’d found her at the elevator. All he had done was touch her, but she’d been in a daze ever since.

  That brief moment of kindness had reawakened her. His gentleness had revived needs and longings she’d wanted to believe were dead. But they were far from that; they were achingly alive. Her dreams, sleeping and waking, had been flooded with images of Johnny holding her, soothing all her fears away. She’d imagined tender touches and sweet kisses that would make her body burn with need.

  This morning she’d come awake with a desire to see him that left her shaking. Just to see him, she told herself, that was all she needed . . . and maybe to be touched again.

  “I came to finish what I started,” she said. “With you.”

  He shook his head, as though weary of it all. “Dammit, I thought I’d frightened you off for sure.”

  “You told me to be strong.”

  “I didn’t mean with me.”

  Honor met his searching gaze and forced herself to hold it. “Yes . . . you did.” She’d spoken from intuition, without having any more than a subliminal understanding of what triggered her. But now that she’d committed herself, the premonition was so strong, she had to go on, even if it meant risking his anger. There were other things she knew about him.

  “You’re going to help the tribe, Johnny,” she said, her voice softening as she realized that she was going to say what was in her mind no matter what he thought. “You need to be convinced, that’s all. And I’m the one who’s going to convince you, just as your grandfather predicted.”

  “My grandfather?”

  “Yes.” She rushed on, encouraged that he hadn’t stopped her. “He’s been having visions, prophetic dreams. He believes that you’re the only one who can win their case in a court battle against Bartholomew Mines. His last dream told him who would bring you back.”

  “And it was you?”

  She nodded. “What if he really does have the gift of prophecy, Johnny? If these things are foreordained, then aren’t you wasting your time fighting the inevitable?”

  Johnny’s features darkened with frightening speed. “I don’t buy my grandfather’s
mystical claptrap, and I never have. He predicted my birth would bring bad luck, and then two days after she’d delivered me, my mother killed herself. I think the old fool’s predictions drove her to it.”

  Honor knew she had to proceed carefully. She was touching on the very origins of his alienation and pain. “But what if your grandfather simply foresaw that tragedy? And what if he’s foreseeing something else now? A victory? It seems to me that he’s offering you a way to come back, to replace the bad with something good. This could be a fresh start.”

  “Spare me the pep talk,” he said coldly. “This is a package deal. If I buy into good omens, then I have to buy into bad ones. I have to believe in a crazy old man who made my life hell with his dreams and predictions.”

  “He was only following his beliefs, Johnny. Isn’t it time to let go of the past? To forgive—”

  She would have given anything to take back that last word, but it was too late. Johnny had turned away, his profile flashing along the room’s mirrors in a strobelike effect that magnified his conflict. Honor was caught by his pagan beauty and his darkness. The rippling of so many images gave the illusion of revealing the inner man, of a mask stripped away, of naked glimpses of something desolate and beautiful inside him. It was rage, Honor realized, and sadness. The two elements were mixed together explosively.

  She felt as if she’d been witness to some dark spot in his soul, as if she’d seen the bad omen.

  He turned toward her, and something in his expression made her heart begin to throb. “What are you doing?” she asked as he started toward her.

  “I want this back,” he said.

  She didn’t know what he meant until he was standing before her, gathering up the lapels of the jacket she wore and drawing her toward him. Honor could feel his hands on her skin, the jutting bones of his wrists pressing against the softness of her breasts.

  “Maybe I should take it off first?” she asked.

  “I’ll take it off.” He drew the jacket off her shoulders, then let it drop to the floor behind her. The material slid down her back like heavy silk and pooled at her feet. At the same time she felt his hands close lightly on her shoulders.

  “Oh, God,” she said, breathing the words like a prayer.

  She was riveted by his touch, a thrill of alarm rippling up and down her body. For a woman who’d had little experience with male sensuality, she was completely thrown by her own reactions. All he’d done was take off the coat, but the sensations he evoked were the most stimulating she’d ever known. As his thumbs nestled in the hollows beneath her collarbones, she emitted a soft sound of excitement.

  Johnny felt himself dying inside as he took in her trembling anticipation. He’d given in to an irresistible impulse to take off the jacket and put his hands on her, never considering where it would go beyond that. Now how the hell could he stop at that? She was shaking, sighing. He was surging inside. But the impulse wasn’t as hot and dark and volatile as the last time they were together, he realized. It was more sensual this time, less vengeful. Could he make love to Honor Bartholomew without it turning into emotional warfare?

  The answer came hurtling back at him. No! Never!

  But it was too late for nevers. He was already aroused, already in need of a woman.

  “I wish to hell you’d go back to Arizona,” he said, anger burning through him as he tilted her face up to his. “Look at us, dammit. Look what’s going to happen if you don’t.”

  “What?” she said, her voice throaty with fear, passion.

  “This . . .” He bent toward her mouth, but the sound she made stopped him. It was sweetest thing he’d ever heard, soft and raspy, full of yearning. Her scent washed over him, drenching him in violets. Hothouse violets. Seductive violets. A blast of sexual longing shot through him, and his hands began to shake.

  “Jesus,” he breathed, releasing her so abruptly she staggered.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Johnny caught his own splintered reflection in the row of mirrors. He looked like a wild man, one heartbeat away from doing something crazy. He wanted to make love to her all over the damn bathroom. He wanted to take her on the cold tile floor, and up against the wall. He wanted to set her on the basin and do it there too.

  “I’m what’s wrong,” he said, sweeping back the dark hair that had fallen onto his face. He turned on her, quietly furious. “You could have anybody you want, your pick of nice guys. What do you want with me, a savage?”

  “You call yourself that?”

  “It has nothing to do with being an Apache. It’s wanting things you can’t have that makes you savage inside.”

  Her shoulders moved with a deep breath. “What are you saying? That you want me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  There was nothing Johnny could do to lock up the turbulence inside him. He couldn’t deny the truth.

  He’d wanted her when they were kids. He wanted her now, violently, and the only way he was going to keep from acting on his animal urges was to get her out of the room.

  She smothered a gasp as his hand went to his zipper. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He flashed her a glance that was arrogant, potent, male. “This is a men’s bathroom,” he said. “I’m going to do what I came in here to do. Care to watch?”

  He drew the metal pull tab down slowly, daring her not to notice that he was still aroused, hard as hell with desire. Her eyes widened with disbelief as he rode the zipper all the way to the bottom stop and reached inside to free himself.

  “You’re right!” she cried angrily. “You are a savage.” She whirled and stalked toward the door, her blond hair flying.

  As the door slammed shut behind her, Johnny was left to stand there, grimly aware of the empty, echoing room and of his own hand pressed against the hard throb at his groin.

  Four

  HONOR DUCKED DOWN behind the steering wheel other rented Ford Escort as another luxury car rolled up to the high-rise condo across the street from where she was parked. It wasn’t Johnny’s crimson Ferrari Testarossa, but Honor watched anyway, curious about the other tenants in his building.

  A flashy and fashionable young brunette alighted from the white Mercedes convertible and blithely turned her keys over to the valet-parking attendant. She gave the doorman a perky smile and a Miss America wave as she strolled up the red-carpeted promenade toward the monolithic glass doors. They slid open as if on command, though of course Honor knew the doorman must have entered an access code on the console at his station.

  If she had a moment of concern about such a beautiful young woman living in Johnny’s building, she was far more worried about dealing with the doorman when she made her own attempt to enter the building. Wondering if her plan was adequate, she glanced at the royal-blue tank top, drawstring workout pants, and tennis shoes she wore. The tote bag next to her on the seat was full of perfumed oils and towels.

  Her plan? Panic rippled through her as she thought about the masquerade she was about to try to carry off. Skulking in parked cars and staking out luxury high rises wasn’t at all her style. And crashing the guarded portals of one wasn’t even in her realm of reality. The closest she’d ever come to anything regarding espionage was reading Nancy Drew mysteries as a child. She would never have considered such drastic measures if she hadn’t been driven to it by the utter frustration of the last seventy-two hours.

  Johnny had disappeared. He seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. She’d been haunting his office, trying to pinpoint his whereabouts, ever since their encounter in the courthouse bathroom three days ago. She’d even hung out at his elevator for an entire day, but there’d been no sign of him.

  His receptionist had turned into a sphinx whenever Honor was around, not speaking at all or in indiscernible whispers when she answered the phone. Honor’s worst fear was that Johnny had left town, either on business or more likely just to avoid her, and she would never be able to find him. As that fear built, her determination to track h
im down had become an obsession.

  She had to finish this dark and frightening game she’d started with him, no matter what happened, no matter what he did to her. She felt as if she’d blundered into a maze that merged past and present, and at every blind corner she was confronted with her own fears and desires. She wanted out, but something told her that Johnny was the key master. Only he knew the way.

  The roar of a powerful engine gearing down alerted Honor. A gleaming red Testarossa had pulled up to the building. Honor sank down, her pulse quickening as the door of the idling sportscar flew open. Even her thinking processes were thrown off kilter as Johnny swung his long legs out of the low-slung car and gracefully unfurled his dark length.

  He rose to his full height, tall and catlike in the sun, his ebony hair lifting in the late afternoon breezes. The stone-washed jeans and white cotton T-shirt he wore caressed his rippling muscularity with the suppleness of an animal’s coat. The scuffed cowboy boots added an unexpected rugged touch. Even dressed casually, he exuded the lean and hungry look that women found irresistible.

  Just seeing him again made Honor’s stomach flutter and clutch, as if she were an infatuated teenager. He didn’t have to do anything, she realized. He only had to stand there and look gorgeous to stir up the sweet ache of her unfulfilled longings. Calming herself with a concerted effort of will, she watched as he walked toward the glass doors and disappeared inside the building. She would have to give him plenty of time to prepare, she reminded herself. It was crucial that he be ready when she got there, on the massage table and facedown. The last thing she wanted was to catch him in the act of undressing.

  She glanced down at the tote bag full of exotic paraphernalia and released a taut breath. Panic welled up again, stronger this time. Whatever had possessed her to try such a thing? She had always been cautious and conservative by nature, raised to be unfailingly discreet and polite. She’d never been one of those reckless women who craved excitement and danger. The Bartholomews weren’t thrill-seekers, nor did Honor want to be one. And yet here she was, preparing to go up to Johnny’s suite and . . . A shudder extinguished the thought. If she let herself dwell on what she had to do, she would never make it out of the car. The idea of masquerading as a masseuse had come to her just yesterday when she’d been stationed in Johnny’s office, hoping for some news of his whereabouts.