She was back to frowning. He missed her laughter, but there was a lot more for her to worry about than laugh about. “I wish I understood how I got into trouble. I don’t know anything about this military suit you guys mentioned. But I guess I must know something important—or they thought I did, right? Why else would they have kidnapped me? They literally believed I knew something or had something. I guess I could have hidden whatever it was in the woods somewhere…”
“Not likely,” he said. “If they kidnapped you from your home and took you to the mountain, they’d have found anything you had on you.”
“That’s true.” She scrubbed her hands over her face and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I have a feeling I’d make a terrible spy. Or maybe I’m such a damned good one that I’ve managed to hide my memories from myself. That’s certainly a more interesting explanation than not being able to remember.” She puffed up her chest. “Liberty King, international woman of mystery. Nope, just doesn’t sound right.”
He laughed. Damn she was cute. “I don’t know why not. I have a feeling Liberty King can do anything she sets her mind to.”
She smiled at him. He liked her smile. “You’re awfully good for my ego, Jared—er, I’ve just realized I don’t know your last name.”
“Fraser.”
“Oh, like Jamie.”
“Who?”
“Outlander?”
“No idea what that is.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh my god—it’s a book, Jared!”
“Okay. I know I read a lot, but I haven’t heard of that one.”
She gripped his forearm. “No, I mean it’s a book and I’ve read it! I remember reading it.”
“That’s good, Libby. Really good.”
She seemed so happy. “It is, right? I remembered my kitchen and bedroom, and now I remember that I specifically read a book about a highlander named Jamie Fraser.”
“A highlander, huh? Like Connor Macleod?”
She blinked adorably. “Who?”
He shook his head and laughed. “Never mind. It was a movie about an immortal highlander. Sci-fi stuff.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I think I must not be a sci-fi fan.”
“Star Trek? Star Wars? Doctor Who?”
“Not ringing any bells, sorry. But come to think of it, Outlander is also a TV show.” She looked pleased. “It’s not much, but at least things are coming back.”
“Everything will come back. Probably sooner than you think.”
“That kind of worries me, too, you know?”
He turned into his driveway. “Why?”
She fidgeted with her fingers. “What if I don’t like myself very much?”
He stopped the vehicle and turned the key, then looked at her. She was utterly serious. He liked her face in those glasses, liked the smooth skin of her forehead, the slope of her nose, her full lips and narrow chin. Her eyebrows arched over the top of the glasses, and her irises were an interesting shade of golden-brown. There were flecks of black in them that made them seem darker than they were, but in full light the colors were more interesting and varied than he’d originally realized.
Libby wasn’t striking at first glance, but she was beautiful when you paid attention to what you were seeing.
He started to say something flippant, but she looked so serious. Afraid. He took her hand in his, mostly because he liked the way his skin warmed whenever he touched her, and rubbed his thumb back and forth on the tender area between her thumb and forefinger.
“I know that worries you. I understand, and I’m sorry. But I don’t think it’s going to be a problem, Libby. You’re sweet, funny, and bubbly. I barely know you and I like you. Ian, Colt, Dax, Jace, Ty, and Brett like you too.”
She swallowed. “I spent an hour with them. They don’t know whether they like me or not.”
He put a finger over her lips—and immediately regretted it since it made him think of what it’d felt like to press his mouth to hers. Something he wanted to do again.
“I don’t think you’re thinking clearly, honey. You may not remember, but I promise you’ve met people and instantly disliked them before.” He thought about that for a second. “Okay, you’re so sweet that maybe you haven’t—but you know what I’m talking about. You know how some people seem sketchy from the word go. You aren’t one of them. They liked you, Liberty King, because you charmed them with your humor and your resilience.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. “Promise on my honor as a former airman, a combat medic, and a knight in shining armor.”
She smiled a wobbly, sweet smile that made his heart pinch for the briefest of moments. “You’re sweet too, you know.”
She put her palm against his jaw and the contact knocked him for a loop. The need flaring inside was strong, but he kept his gaze steady on hers and didn’t act on it.
“Thank you, Jared. You always know what to say to make me feel better.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ian sat at his desk, going through the intel report on Ninja Solutions, and feeling like he wanted to explode. He’d been this way for weeks now. He needed to get back into the field, go on a mission, and stop hovering at BDI like it couldn’t run without him.
That was the beauty of BDI—it could.
He’d set it up that way on purpose. The entire organization was a cover for covert work, which was the important stuff. Their mission wasn’t really about protecting executives and training security forces in foreign lands, but that’s what he advertised and what they performed on the surface.
And that could be done without him being on site. Any of his team could oversee operations—and had in the past.
Lately, however, he’d stuck close to home because of her. He kept expecting her to contact him, to take him up on his offer of help, but so far she was silent.
She was Natasha Orlova, Jace Kaiser’s little sister, the deadly assassin Calypso. She was a mystery. A fascinating woman.
A stone-cold killer.
And she was far too young for him. He was pushing forty, and she was barely twenty-four. Not that he was interested anyway.
Ian dropped his pen and snorted. Like hell he wasn’t.
Natasha was the only person he’d come across in recent years who had the wit and skill to hoodwink him. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been dressed as an aging and filthy flower seller on the banks of the Thames. He hadn’t even known it was her until it was too late.
He tugged his desk drawer open and retrieved the scrap of paper she’d wrapped around the stems of the flowers he’d bought (out of pity, he might add).
Bang. If this had been a hit, you’d be dead. Watch yourself, Mr. Black. N
She was right. If she’d been paid to kill him, he would have been dead before he’d known what hit him.
He usually had a sixth sense about that kind of thing, but something about Natasha Orlova muddled his radar. Not a good thing considering what she was. She might be on his side for the moment—or she might not—but it wouldn’t always be true. The instant someone ordered her to kill him, and paid her handsomely for it, she’d turn on him.
Or maybe she wouldn’t do it for that. Maybe she’d do it for the child that someone was clearly using against her. He didn’t know who that was, or even if there was a child, but it was the explanation that made the most sense based on the cryptic words she’d said to him once.
He couldn’t help but draw parallels to another Russian spy he’d known. A spy who was now the wife of John Mendez, the general in charge of the military strike force known as the Hostile Operations Team. Kat had gone through hell to get to that point in her life, and she’d lost her child in the process. The truth about her son’s death had eventually come out, but Kat had suffered for years because of it.
Ian didn’t want to see Natasha suffer. She wasn’t the same as Kat. She’d been born an American, but her parents were double agents and they’d been caught and sent back to Russia with their
children. Children who hadn’t understood or spoken a word of Russian at the time. Natasha was the younger of the two, so her memory of America was much less formed than her brother’s. She’d adapted quickly, but life in Russia hadn’t been charmed, especially when she and her parents were arrested for treason and thrown in a gulag. With Ian’s help, her brother had escaped before he could be arrested.
It killed him that he hadn’t been able to do the same for her—for all of them. Every time he saw her, however brief it typically was, he felt guilty. Maybe that was why she muddled him up inside.
It was also why he needed to pay attention to what was going on around him. Not let her get into his head so much. It was why he needed a mission. Something hard and rough and deadly. Something that challenged him and scrubbed the memory of those wounded eyes from his soul.
It was frustrating not knowing your history. For one thing, Libby didn’t know if she’d ever had a serious relationship. She was twenty-five, so maybe she had. Or maybe she hadn’t.
According to Ian Black, she had not gone to college, or at least not a four-year school. She’d apparently attended a community college in Ohio, where she’d worked odd jobs while putting herself through school. She’d graduated with a certificate and a qualification to be an administrative assistant.
But why had she moved to DC two years ago? And how had she gotten hired at a company like Ninja Solutions? All her previous work seemed to be in retail shops, restaurants, and an office supply company. What had made her take such a chance? Had she moved for a man? If so, what had happened?
“Stop it,” she said under her breath, pressing her hands to her temples.
It was fruitless to speculate. She simply didn’t know.
She thought of the way Jared had kissed her earlier. Like he was starving for her. Hell, she’d been starving for him too. And she hadn’t even cared that she didn’t know him all that well, or herself, or that it was entirely possible she wasn’t the kind of woman who had sex with men she wasn’t in a relationship with.
All she’d cared about was feeling more of what he made her feel when he kissed her; safe, joyful, her body coiling tight in all the right places. She’d felt like a single touch from him in the right place would have made her see stars.
She wanted to see stars.
Libby sighed. Dammit.
Since they’d entered the house, Jared had gotten distant again. He’d retreated to his study—a small room off the foyer with a pocket door and bookshelves lining the walls—and left her to her own devices.
Libby had walked through the house, peeking into rooms, admiring the decor in the living room and kitchen, the only two rooms that seemed completely done. The house was old, with that charm that only an old house could have. Tall ceilings, rich wood accents like wainscoting, wood floors, and pocket doors.
A memory came unbidden to her mind—a white farmhouse on a small knoll, surrounded by fields and pastures. Inside the house, the furnishings were plain but welcoming. There was a kindly woman with graying blond hair who wore dresses and an apron. And there was a gruff man, plainspoken and dressed in overalls. He had ideas about women and their place in the home.
Libby blinked. She would have thought she was remembering her grandparents, but since Ian Black had told her that her parents were older when she was born—her mother had been forty-eight, her dad fifty-eight—she knew they were her mom and dad.
The funny thing was, she didn’t feel like she’d ever been able to call her father dad. In her mind, he was firmly sir.
Yes, sir. No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.
And what about her sisters and brother? All older than her. Significantly so. She must not be very close to any of them since absolutely no one had reported her missing. She was supposed to be on vacation, according to Ian Black’s information—but didn’t someone think that her sudden request was suspicious? Wasn’t anyone looking for her?
Libby shook her head sadly.
The memories that came to her were so random—and the ones about her parents made her unbearably sad. She was grateful to remember, but why not something more fun? Why not the past few months? How she got to DC, who her friends were, what her job was like?
Oh, and a little matter about top secret information. That would be nice to know. Did she or did she not possess it?
Libby plopped the book she’d been trying to read on the bed. She’d retreated to her room earlier, intending to take a nap, but it never happened. Not even with War and Peace to lull her to sleep.
“I believe I’m done with you for now, Mr. Tolstoy,” she said, setting the book onto the nightstand. “You’re too depressing.”
What she really needed was something fun. A romance novel, perhaps. Not that she expected Jared would have a romance lying around. He was far too serious for that.
Libby shoved to her feet and plodded out the door and down the hall. There were three bedrooms upstairs, and a full bath. There were bookshelves on one side of the hall. Predictably filled with non-fiction tomes. Did Jared really read this stuff? Or was he someone who liked to collect books that he never quite got around to reading?
That didn’t fit, not really. Not when she’d spent time with him in the cabin where he’d buried his nose in a large book for hours. It was incongruous that a man who looked like he did wanted solitude and a fat book to pass the time.
“Stereotype much?” Libby muttered to herself as she put a hand on the bannister and glided downstairs.
Just because the man was beautiful and kissed like he’d been born to make a woman happy didn’t mean that was all he knew how to do. That was like saying that a beautiful woman should only be decorative. Or that a blond was dumb.
Libby examined the bookshelves in the living room. No romances, of course. She hadn’t looked closely before, but now she was caught by the photos placed strategically along each shelf. Whoever this designer fiancée of his friend was, she was very good. The room looked put together, but not untouchable. It looked lived in, and welcoming. The kind of room you’d want to spend time in.
The bookshelves were on either side of the fireplace, and above the mantel hung a piece of art. Except, on closer inspection, it wasn’t art at all. It was a television that displayed artwork as if it were a painting. She’d seen those advertised but had never actually seen one in person. It was very subtle.
Libby picked up a photo and studied it. Jared was holding a certificate in his hand and standing beside a small, thin woman who looked tired. She had a tube in her nose and an oxygen canister peeked out from behind her. Her smile was genuine, as was the sparkle in her eyes as she gazed at the camera. Jared’s arm was looped around her shoulders.
It didn’t take a genius to realize she was his mother. They had the same bone structure, the same eyes. But there was that tube, and the oxygen…
“Which one are you looking at so intently?”
Libby squeaked and spun. She hadn’t heard him come out of his study. She clutched the photo to her chest, embarrassed she’d been caught. But she was also curious. She turned the photo so he could see it as he came closer.
It took him a moment to smile. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have picked it up—”
“It’s fine, Libby. I wouldn’t have it there if I didn’t want anyone to see it, now would I?”
She shook her head.
He took the photo gently and stared at it. Then he set it on the shelf again, caressing the frame for a second. “My mother died a month after that picture was taken. I’d just gotten an award for a science project. She was so proud.”
Libby’s heart throbbed. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” But there was pain in his gaze as he turned it on her. “She didn’t get to see me graduate, but I knew she was proud when I walked across the stage. She had lung cancer. She was never a smoker, but she worked in smoky environments over the years, and my dad smoked when he was still around. The doctors said that some people get lung
cancer even when they’ve never smoked. She was one of the unlucky ones.”
Libby felt her eyes filling with tears. Over a woman she didn’t know. Or was it for the man she did? “I’m really sorry, Jared. I know that’s not adequate.”
He skimmed a finger over her cheek, then rubbed away the moisture he found there. “Don’t cry, Libby. It’s okay. It was a long time ago. I miss her, but it eases with time. She was a good mom.”
She wrapped her fingers around his arm, held him there with his fingers on her cheek. “I know that I know what it feels like to lose your parents, but I can’t remember.”
“I know, honey. It’ll be okay.”
She sniffed as hot feelings swirled inside her. She was trembling and she needed to hang onto him to stay grounded. “I’m not trying to make this about me. Please don’t comfort me when I’m the one who should be comforting you.”
He dipped his lips to hers, brushed over them softly. “Maybe we should be comforting each other,” he whispered.
Chapter Fifteen
Now isn’t the time.
That was the refrain echoing through his head as he slipped his tongue into her mouth and felt the hot blossoming of desire in his veins and along his nerve pathways.
But it felt so good. She felt good.
Libby melted against him, her body fitting to his in all the right ways. She kissed him back, her arms lifting to wrap around his neck as she stretched up on tiptoe.
It would be so easy to take her up to his bedroom, strip off her clothes, and bury himself inside her. She wouldn’t stop him.
But he should stop himself. It wasn’t fair to her. She didn’t really know who she was. How could you have sex with someone when your sense of self was so muddled? What happened when you remembered—and it turned out you’d taken a vow of celibacy until marriage?
Not that it was a typical vow to take, but what if she had? He’d be taking that away from her. Taking advantage of her lack of knowledge about herself to get something he wanted.
Black Knight (A Black's Bandits Novel): HOT Heroes for Hire: Mercenaries Page 11
