“Holly...”
“Unless you don’t want to, in which case I’ll just be really embarrassed, but that never killed anyone.” She could have kicked herself. Joking about killing someone with a bionic spy. Infection, but he wasn’t contagious. It wasn’t like it mattered, even if he was. What was one more thing to weigh her ailing body down?
“I just...if I do, Holly, I might not want to stop.”
“Oh.” That’s all right then. “I might not want you to.”
He made a sort of strangled sound. She couldn’t tell if it was a despairing groan or a disbelieving laugh.
She had to let go of his hand so he could get his shoes off. The couch accepted his weight with a slight protesting noise, and it was like being in high school again, close quarters and giggling and trying to be quiet. He didn’t smell like Phillip, though, thank God.
No, he smelled familiar. Safe. Cleaner than Phillip, and more intense.
He was almost fever warm, and he settled her head on his shoulder as if it was a china egg. That was okay, because while he was settling the blankets with finicky care she slid her hand down his chest to his stomach, hard even under the thermal and flannel, and by the time he realized what she was doing she’d worked the button of his jeans free.
“Holly,” he whispered.
Holly paused. “Do you not want to? I mean, I thought you’d like to.” Wriggling a little closer to breathe in his ear. I’m seducing a superspy. What a way to go. “I really hope you’d like to.”
“I, uh. I have some problems—”
Sounded like they were bloodflow problems. “Me, too.” She got the zipper down, slid her hand in and found soft flesh over iron. “Hmm. Is this a problem?”
Was he sweating? He seemed to be having trouble breathing, too. At least, he gasped as she worked her hand a little farther in. My, that’s very respectable. A hidden treasure, you could say.
“I haven’t, you know, for a long time—”
Thought you said you never had a girlfriend. “That’s okay,” she whispered. “We have all night, right?”
“Holly...” He was shaking, so she made a little shushing noise.
“I think I’d like it if you kissed me.” Help me out here a little, superspy. She freed her hand, a little regretfully, tried to move so she could get her elbow down and lift herself enough to look at him.
That set him off. His free hand tangled in her brittle hair, and he kissed the corner of her mouth before he got oriented, and it was just like it had been in the hotel room. As if he was drowning, and it wasn’t at all like Phillip or the few run-ins with the male species afterward, before she decided she was better off not getting that close to anyone.
He kept kissing her, so it was up to Holly to start getting their clothes off, and the first shock was the amount of muscle on him. The second was how it moved, fluid and more heavy than flesh had any right to be. Most men felt smaller in the dark, but he most definitely didn’t, and the fever heat of his skin might have made her cautious if his hands hadn’t started roaming. There was a ripping of material—this is a brand-new top—and he was sweating, enough to print on her own cool skin.
Am I cold? I can’t be, he’s just so warm—
The next shock was just how strong he really was. He moved and Holly found herself pinned, the blankets sliding as he kissed down the line of her throat and nipped, lightly, just where it was most sensitive. She gasped and realized he was saying her name, over and over again.
Her legs were tangled with the pajama pants; his mouth moved onto her breast, tongue teasing at her nipple, sending a bolt through her, teeth scraping lightly, her legs suddenly free and one of those too-quick movements. He had her wrists again, she slid her knees up and he...
Stopped.
Right there, she could feel him between her legs, a hard probing. But he’d frozen, and she wriggled a little. “Don’t stop!” That’s the worst. And I might not have the energy to try this again tomorrow, superspy. Come on.
“I...have some...problems.” He was fighting for breath.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “Reese—”
He slid into her with a convulsive movement, almost painful, stretching. Holly’s head tipped back, she tilted her hips, and amazingly, frustratingly, he stopped again.
“What are you doing?” She wriggled a little bit, sighing as he sank down onto her a little more.
An experimental nudge. Her breath caught. Pulsing, stretching, on the thin edge of pain before he moved again, a long slow stroke that just about turned her inside out. He made another sound, this time more purr than groan, and she might have thought he wasn’t enjoying himself except for the sudden fact of his mouth on hers again, his hands loosening from her wrists. The sudden rhythm, slow at first but building, her breathless little cry as he stiffened in her arms and went rigid.
Well. That was quick. She swallowed the usual disappointment. It took a while for them to learn, if they were interested. Female biology was complex. It was okay—she probably wasn’t going to ever feel that again. As it was, she was just glad she’d given him something nice.
His breath came harsh and ragged. “Sorry,” he gasped into her throat. He really did sound chagrined.
“Hmm? Oh.” Holly tried not to make the restless little movement that would mean rejection. Well, for the last one, I suppose that was okay. “It’s pretty normal. It’s okay.”
“Normal.” A low laugh, and he inhaled sharply, nuzzling her cheek. Kissed the corner of her mouth.
“Move a little.” She twitched, wanting to push him to the side. Now that he was done he’d probably sleep. She could, too. The fire crackled, painting every edge with soft, leaping light.
“Why?” Now he sounded amused. “What if I like it where I am?”
“It’s okay—” Holly began, but there was a definite stirring. He didn’t feel so fever hot now, and when she eased her hips a little to check, the hypothesis, so to speak, was verified. Things were definitely looking up. Her stomach had calmed down, too, and she actually...
Well, she actually felt interested.
“All sorts of physical benefits.” It was his turn to whisper in her ear. “You didn’t think it was over, did you?”
* * *
In the middle of the storm, under layers of ice and packed snow, the cabin was a warm dark kernel. A layer of blankets, and then him, curled around a sleeping glow, the heart of the entire night. Soft and warm and so deeply relaxed she was barely breathing. Pulse nice and slow, her scent all over him in layers of memory and flash impressions, her, all her, closing around him, tight hot velvet, the taste of her sweet and a little strawberry-acid, her soft little noises and delicious slight movements. He’d gone over pretty much every inch of her, learning, discovering, and if she hadn’t been sleeping he would have done it again. And again. That metal tang to her scent, the yellow-sharpness, made the rest of it just that much more enticing.
She was so thin, though. He had to get her to eat more.
Reese lay in the dark, the fire in the stove banked and the fire in his blood a comfortable, comforting heat. Sticky, glued to her in a web of scent, he could finally think about Tangiers.
Heat. Dust. The smell of the sea, a thick cloud of pollution. The call to prayer echoing through narrow hot streets as the knife slid in. Twisted, wrenched free, and he was on to the next. Five men in the room, blood spraying as he bent impossibly far back, spine crackling, foot flicking out to catch the only one who had time to react under the jaw with a sickening snap. On that last man to make sure, knife dragging through flesh, and instinct knew before the rest of him, because he was already whirling.
The knife didn’t leave his hand. It clattered to the floor, his fingers at the last moment refusing the directive from his cold, active brain.
There, in the doo
rway, the children. A black-haired girl, her dark eyes wide and horrified, holding the brown, pudgy hand of a toddler. Boy, his nose told him. Naked except for the white of the diaper, the toddler stuck its other fist in its mouth and regarded him solemnly.
The girl was inhaling to scream. She couldn’t be more than nine, and her print cotton dress moved a little as she began to tremble, shock releasing a flood of chemicals he could taste into her bloodstream. If she howled now it would alert the rest of the compound.
Mission compromised. Silence the incidentals.
The moment stretched like taffy, mind and body straining, two dogs and he was the bone in the middle. Cold logic told him that the girl was dead anyway, or she’d be traumatized the rest of her life by this sudden eruption of violence. Was one of the men here her father? Brother? Uncle? Who knew?
They didn’t tell me about killing kids.
The trouble with the memory the virus gave him was that it was like being there all over again. He buried his face in Holly’s tangled hair and inhaled, deeply.
The girl didn’t scream after all, just made a whispering, mewling sound. Maybe she thought she was screaming, but her little body couldn’t catch up. Reese’s hand flicked out as he bent, and he had the knife. Cocked it and threw; it arrowed through dapples of sunshine robbed of its force by stone lattice and waving draperies...
...and the knife thudded into the wall beside the arched doorway, stuck there quivering. By the time the children looked away from its black hilt, he was gone, out the window and up, scrabbling across heat-simmering rooftops. They had a description of him now, and the city had closed itself against him. Shot twice, blown out of every hide he could find, he’d barely made it even with the virus in his blood.
Afterward, whenever he’d try to visit a girl, those huge accusing eyes. Except sometimes they were Holly’s wide smoky gaze, her horrified expression as he tried to touch her.
A man capable of killing kids. Was that what they’d wanted to make? Had something in his psych eval clued them in after Tangiers that he wasn’t reliable? He’d given them everything he knew they wanted to hear, playing the part during every interview, every appointment, hiding inside himself even in the apartment. Hiding inside the safe shell of the killer they wanted everywhere.
Except in the diner, where he could fill his lungs with Holly and pretend he was a real human being.
Emotional noise is also a variable, agent.
Missions were easy. You had your briefing and whatever support they saw fit to give you, you went in and did. How much easier was it now that he was running? No support but his own wits and the virus, and Holly to keep safe. Of course, running simplified things. When all territory was hostile and the enemy was everyone else, he didn’t have to make any hard decisions. His path was laid out, nice and straight. Get her out of the snow and over the border, settle somewhere for a little while and play house. Then, in stages, they’d get somewhere halfway across the world and fall into the expatriate life. He could probably even pick up a few merc jobs—they weren’t that hard to find.
Still, what would Holly think of that? She wasn’t an agent. She wasn’t even close to informant status or training, for Christ’s sake. Getting her anywhere near a mission was unacceptable, and if he left her somewhere, in some city, how could he be sure she was safe? It would distract him.
The alternative was a cover and some other kind of job.
Reese sighed. Here he was next to her, right where he needed to be, and he couldn’t stop going over and over the next set of problems. At least he’d managed to redeem himself from the first embarrassment. Getting her there took a little patience, but the reward was well worth it. She made such interesting, helpless little sounds—and if he kept her happy, it would make it easier to keep her close.
The closer she was, the more he could feel as if he’d salvaged something from the brutality of a world that could make agents and send them out to kill kids.
He relaxed all at once. Brought his pulse down even farther, lengthened his respiration. If he could get it to match hers, he’d fall asleep. Outside the cabin, the night was alive with the little crackles of ice falling, flash freezing over the massive wet blanket of snow that had erased their tracks. For the moment, they were safe, and she was in his arms, and there was nothing more in the world to want.
* * *
Someone moving around, a sizzling and a gurgling. The marvelous, rich smell of coffee fighting with the heavenly aroma of bacon cooking. The low, staticky buzz of the weather station radio. Her mouth tasted awful and her head was stuffed up, and she was sweating under the blankets.
Not to mention pleasantly sore and languorous. Apparently sex still felt good while you were dying. She was achy all over, but no wonder. He was damn patient when he put his mind to it, and that little thing he did with his tongue was just about—
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” Reese loomed above her, a broad smile on his no-longer-nondescript face. Dark hair wildly mussed, the thermal shirt clinging to his broad chest, he looked very morning after. He also held a blue enamel mug of what had to be coffee. “Breakfast soon, coffee now. I require a kiss before I’ll surrender the caffeine.”
Holly rubbed at her grainy eyes. Her fingers felt sausage swollen. Her stomach didn’t hurt, and her back wasn’t too painful. The curative powers of nooky, maybe. “Are you kidding? I have dragon breath.”
“Mmh.” He bent down, and before she knew it his mouth was on hers. He didn’t seem to care about morning mouth, and by the time he finished she’d forgotten morning breath was even a consideration. “Nice. You feeling okay?”
“I might have a cold. All that stress.” Her head throbbed. Or something worse. How ironic was that? Just when she’d found...what, precisely?
That was the trouble. She liked him, even though she was deadweight. He’d be better off without her.
Pretty much everyone would. That was why she kept everyone at arm’s length. No point in getting cozy if she knew she didn’t have long. It was what her father had done, all through the chemo. Mom had packed her bags and left right after Holly was born, so it had fallen to Holly to nurse Dad through the hell of poison dripped into his veins and the long slow fall into choking out his last in the hospice.
Don’t think about that.
So she put on a smile and reached for the coffee.
He nodded, thoughtfully, holding the mug handle out and steadying her as she struggled up to sit. Cooler air felt wonderful on her bare back, the fire was merrily crackling away, and she got the blankets settled and accepted the coffee. If the hot mug burned his fingers, he gave no indication.
“Little bit of a fever, tastes like.” He felt at her damp forehead. “I think you should stay in bed today.”
Oh, really? “Only if you stay with me.” One last really final hurrah? Maybe? Now I’m getting greedy.
“I’d like that.” A boyish, open smile. “Breakfast, though. And we need more wood.”
She was about to make a snarky euphemistic comment, but decided against it. Now that she was upright, with the headache twisting up another fraction inside her skull, the coffee was more important. It was even good coffee, not a boiled, pale commercial shadow of itself.
Holly watched him move around the postage stamp of a kitchen. The headache mounted another few notches, and it was warming up quickly in here. He must have built up the fire.
The coffee smelled divine, but her stomach cramped, a bolt of hot pain. Had she pulled something? Not likely. It was the same old nausea, the too-enthusiastic cells floating around her digestive system like tangled tree roots, squeezing. She managed a few sips of scalding liquid before her stomach clenched itself closed and the rest of her demanded a toothbrushing and maybe a shower, not necessarily in that order. She had to cast around for at least her pajama top, found it tangled on the floor, and spent a f
ew wriggling moments trying not to spill her coffee while she got herself a little decent. As long as she could clean herself, she wanted to be clean.
What will happen when I can’t, though?
The pajama bottoms were a little torn around the waistband, but not bad. The top was long enough for decency while she shuffled to the bathroom. She got her legs out from under the covers, planted her feet and stood up—or tried to.
A rushing sound filled her head, her knees buckled and she found herself on the floor, the coffee spilling from her nerveless hand. Have to clean that up, she thought hazily before Reese arrived.
“Christ. Holly? Holly?” His arm under her shoulders, he didn’t so much lift her as just stand up and carry her with him, that strange muscular fluidity of his a little unsettling.
Her head throbbed, as if the sudden change in altitude had kicked at her skull. “I don’t feel so good,” she managed. “Sorry—”
“Shh.” He got her back on the couch, pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. “You’re burning up. You weren’t a minute ago.”
“I...” Her tongue felt funny. The cotton inside her head was thickening. All of a sudden just rolling over and passing out seemed like a good idea. I guess last night was the last hurrah after all. Good for me. “I told you, I’m sick.” I’m sorry. I thought maybe I had a little longer.
“Lie back. Here.” He got the covers up over her, though she feebly tried to push them away. It was so hot, maybe the fire was bigger?
I am not thinking quite right.
Reese was saying something, but the words were lost in the roaring filling her skull. Lassitude swamped her, and a crazy sideways slipping sensation. I’m here, but my body’s not. How strange.
Reese cursed. She wanted to tell him that it was all right, she’d get up in a second and clean up the coffee, get Doug calmed down and wipe down the boards, maybe have a talk with Ginny about her behavior, and...
Is this how it ends? I wanted...wanted to...
Agent Zero Page 17
