Maverick

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Dan could read upside down, a skill that had proved useful over the years, but he didn’t need it here. Not with all the formulae looking like chicken tracks on the page. No words, just numbers and symbols. Some student, earning money for college by working as a hotel night porter.

  The U.S. Marine Corps had paid for Dan’s college education, and in return he’d given it love and devotion, a thousand rounds a month of practice shooting and 150 push-ups a day.

  Claire handed over the key. A real key, not the chip card most hotels had nowadays. Dan frowned.

  Cards had their security holes but they were way safer than a brass key, no question. Cracking a card key security required some computer skills, a little savvy. Real hotel keys were security nightmares, since the locks had to accommodate master keys, which were held by the manager, the deputy manager, the front desk staff, and every single maid and waiter in the hotel. And probably the manager’s dog had a copy.

  It wasn’t even a Yale, just an old-fashioned key that would fit an old-fashioned lock. The kind that was pickable in under a minute.

  Dan wouldn’t let her back into the room until he checked it first.

  Claire turned from the counter and smiled up at him, at the exact second a picture of being with Claire in her room—her bedroom—flashed into his mind, and oh, fuck. There it was, an image of a naked Claire on the bed, real as life.

  He’d been celibate an entire year, like a goddamned monk. Sex had somehow fled his life, departed to some unknown destination. But now it came roaring back. He’d always had a strong sex drive, and hormones now flooded his body, a huge tsunami of prickling heat all over his body, red hot around his groin.

  Every single hormone that had deserted him over the past year pinged to life. Full, pulsing life.

  He swelled erect, right there in the small, pretty lobby of Claire’s hotel.

  Oh, shit.

  A boner—a real blue steeler. At the worst possible time. Thank God he had on a heavy winter coat down to his knees.

  Claire dropped the key into the young guy’s outstretched hand and turned to Dan, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. Through a wool winter coat and a thick cotton shirt, he felt the heat of her small hand like a brand.

  She looked up at him. “Shall we go?”

  “Gah,” he answered. Or something. Some kind of noise issued from his mouth, he had no idea what.

  It struck him all over again that this was Claire. The woman he’d been mooning over for… ever, it felt like. A woman who gripped his imagination even when he thought she was dead.

  Smart and beautiful and brave. Claire, right here with him. Claire, pale and shaky, barely on her feet. Claire, who needed him.

  So he needed to keep his head out of his ass and to keep his shit wired tight. Sure, he wanted her, had done for a long time now. Had been blinded by lust since he’d first set eyes on her. But she was traumatized and had been badly wounded, and he could just fucking tuck it away now.

  He willed his boner down a little and tipped an imaginary hat. “Ma’am?”

  That got a smile out of her. A fleeting one, but he felt like he’d made the sun shine all by himself. One thing was for sure. She hadn’t spent the past year smiling.

  Well, he was going to dedicate himself now to raising a smile on her face more often. Not to mention trying to get her to gain at least fifteen pounds and lose that sad expression.

  Step one, feed the woman.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Dan pulled out Claire’s chair and seated her into it as if she were the Queen of Georgetown.

  Such elaborate manners from a Marine made her smile. Marines weren’t known for their romanticism or chivalry.

  If you needed a rifle or a good man at your back during combat, a Marine was the man for you. If you were looking for hearts and flowers, well, look elsewhere.

  He looked every inch a Marine, though—incredibly strong, rough and rugged, face drawn and serious, as if seating her were a mission and he was going to do the best job possible. Just like a Marine.

  The restaurant, however, was luxury civilian, all the way.

  On the second floor of an 19th century townhouse, it was warm and cozy and shrieked money and style. It looked exactly like the kind of place you had to book weeks in advance to have any hope of finding even a bad table, let alone the one near the fire that the maitre d’ had steered them to.

  Claire opened the huge écru linen napkin and placed it on her lap, fingering the fine material with pleasure.

  She leaned forward. “I hope I haven’t taken you away from something, Dan. I appreciate your spending time with me, but if you’re busy, I could have ordered something in my hotel room.”

  He lifted his head at that, his eyes catching hers. They were so dark, so impelling. “I guess I need to make something really clear here,” he said, voice low and serious. “Right now, there isn’t any place in the world I’d rather be. Or anyone I’d rather be with.”

  Oh.

  Their eyes met, held. She was the first to look away, a little astonished at the flutter she felt in her stomach.

  He was deadly serious.

  Wow. She was used to flirting, had been since puberty. But the blast had clearly knocked out the flirtation lobe of her brain because she had no comeback at all.

  Flustered, she opened the menu.

  The food was Mediterranean fusion with the kind of loving, elaborate, flowery descriptions that, if you weren’t hungry, could be faintly nauseating, and if you were, made your mouth water. To her surprise, her mouth was watering.

  She ran her eye down the menu. “Have you eaten here before?”

  He hadn’t looked down at the menu, simply continued looking at her.

  “Yeah, I eat here a lot. The owner is a Greek-American, a former Marine and a friend. This place opened about a year ago, and I try to throw as much custom his way as possible. But I wouldn’t have brought you here if the food wasn’t really good,” he finished earnestly.

  Claire hid a smile. Semper fraternis, the second half of the Marine motto, the one people forgot about, though Marines never did. Forever brothers. Marines joined a brotherhood that lasted a lifetime.

  She looked around, at what was on other diners’ plates and at their happy faces. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen so many happy people all together. It was like all that happiness and contentment were realigning the molecules in the room.

  “Well, everything looks and smells wonderful. I was just wondering if you had any suggestions.”

  “The tarragon rabbit is good, and so’s the seafood couscous.”

  Claire glanced down. Each dish had a seven-line description, promising everything but eternal youth and world peace. “How about we have one of each and share?”

  “Done. Hector the head waiter’ll automatically bring me the house wine, which is really good. A Syrah from Lebanon. Is that okay with you?”

  A Syrah from Lebanon sounded wonderful. “Fine.”

  Somehow the waiter knew that they were ready to order because a second later there he was at the table, greeting Dan quietly as an honoured regular.

  The waiter uncorked a bottle and poured them both a finger in the red wine glass. Dan waved for her to go first. Claire narrowed her eyes at the explosion of sun-drenched fruity flavours bursting in her mouth.

  He smiled at her expression.

  “Tell me,” she blurted, “tell me what happened that day in Laka.” Then bit her lips.

  There was a protocol to this kind of thing—no one knew that better than she did. Her social antennae used to be sharp, finely-tuned. If you wanted information from someone, you were supposed to approach the subject subtly, not just blurt out your question, as if that were the purpose of going out and anything else was a waste of time.

  He’d taken the trouble to offer her this dinner, and she’d tried to cut to the chase instead of enjoying it.

  Claire hung her head, examining the tablecloth. Pretty, li
nen, cream-colored with subtle patterns woven into it. She looked up, wincing, expecting to see him frowning with displeasure at her bluntness, but all she saw was a dark, patient gaze.

  “Sure,” he said, his deep voice a low rumble. He reached a long, thick arm across the table and took her hand.

  Claire was so surprised, she didn’t react, just stared down at their joined hands. It was odd, feeling her hand completely encased in his. His skin was rough, lightly callused. The grip light, yet strong. Her hand felt… good in his. Warm. Safe. Right.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  She shifted uncomfortably. Amnesia scared a lot of people. Hell, it scared her. The coma was almost better, no one could expect her to have memories of that. But she’d been conscious during the siege, and the week before. She’d lived, presumably interacted with people, gone to work, gone home, probably had a beer with Marie, as she did every Wednesday afternoon when the staff got out early.

  There was nothing there of all of that. Just a huge, gaping, black abyss where other people had memories.

  “I don’t remember anything,” she whispered.

  Dan’s hand tightened briefly. “What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked quietly. “And we’ll take it from there.”

  “I told you this morning, the last thing I remember is the reception at the French Embassy on the 18th. After that—nothing.”

  Dan shook his head. “I had just arrived and spent that day and the next being briefed.” His mouth lifted in a half smile. “But I heard from impeccable sources that the food at the French Embassy was spectacular and they imported the champagne—the real stuff.”

  Claire smiled. “I don’t usually eat and drink much at these do’s, but I had a few canapés and I can report that, yes, the food was delicious and the champagne was the real deal and it was excellent.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that,” she said softly, “nothing.” The word hung there, stark and cold. “I remember walking home from the French Embassy instead of having the Embassy driver accompany me because it was such a pleasant evening. It’s about a twenty-minute walk. I had a glass of ice tea on my balcony, went to bed after going over some reports… and the next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital room in Clearwater, Florida, and it was the 28th of February. There’s nothing in between.”

  Nothing but darkness and the images and sounds that haunted her nightmares. She leaned forward, hand still in his much-larger one. “I read the reports afterwards, when I could read. But I don’t have a feel for what happened. There’s no resonance there. It’s like reading an historical report. Something that happened a hundred years ago. But you were there. What happened?” She watched his eyes. “Tell me everything.”

  “Okay.” Dan took a deep breath, broad chest expanding. “I was on duty, the second shift, noon to 8 p.m. The Embassy was empty, or so I thought. I’d told my men to stay in Marine House. I thought everyone was at the Ambassador’s.”

  Claire shuddered. “I can’t even begin to imagine my spending more than fifteen minutes at a reception the Crockers threw, unless a gun was put to my head.”

  “Amen.” He grinned at that. “I was convinced I was the only person left in the entire compound, and around sixteen hundred, you come walking down the corridor. Surprised the shit out of me.” He dipped his head. “Begging your pardon.”

  Claire felt another smile coming on, unused muscles coming into play, pulling the corners of her mouth upward. “Marines swear, Dan. It’s in the job description. Please don’t censure yourself for me.”

  As a matter of fact, the complexity, inventiveness, and sometimes sheer poetry of Marine profanity was a secret hobby of hers. She had a little notebook full of beauties she’d heard in her day.

  She clutched his hand. “So… where was I? Where had I spent the day?” It felt so… odd asking someone else, almost a perfect stranger, information about herself. Luckily, Dan didn’t make her feel strange at all. Some people treated her as if she were suffering from dementia.

  Not Dan. His gaze was direct, and he answered her questions as if they were the most normal thing in the world.

  “In the secure room, apparently. I don’t know when you got in, but it was before noon, which is when I came on duty. And I still don’t know how you got in without Sergeant Ward, who was on duty until noon, seeing you. When he handed me the duty roster, he said the Embassy was empty.”

  Claire pursed her lips, shrugged her shoulders, did her best to look innocent.

  It was standard DIA practice. The fewer people who knew their comings and goings, the better. If she hadn’t announced herself, it was because she’d been working on something confidential, and she’d have slipped in by a side entrance.

  “So you saw me at 4:00 and then—"

  “All hell broke loose.”

  She nodded. All the reports said that the rebel army made its move around 4:00 p.m., an hour before last light.

  But it still made no sense to her.

  She remembered clearly the reports she’d written about the Red Army and the Mbutu regime. Her analysis had been that there was no danger of the desultory civil war making it to the capital, knowing full well that the State Department would base its decision on whether or not to evacuate family members and civilian staff partly on her analysis.

  Claire didn’t make mistakes. She must have been appalled at hearing and seeing the Red Army pouring into Laka, contradicting every report, every cable, she’d written over the past year.

  The Red Army attacking Laka, bombing the U.S. Embassy in the first direct attack against American interests on African soil since the Kenya bombings, was huge. History-making. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Why couldn’t she remember?

  She lifted her head. “So… shooting suddenly breaks out. What happened then?”

  “What happened was I rushed you to Post One, fast. Made you rip your pants on a nail.”

  Claire smiled. “Well, you were probably saving my life, so I guess a pair of ripped trousers is a small price to pay. Though—they didn’t attack the Embassy right away, did they?”

  “No. We spent some time together before.”

  His eyes were so dark she could see tiny orange flames from the hearth reflected in them, so piercing she felt as if he were walking around inside her head. He nodded his head slowly, gaze never leaving hers. And smiled.

  It rearranged his features completely, lightening them, making him look younger. She’d thought he was in his forties, but she saw he must be in his thirties. Early thirties, even. Marines usually had three postings in the Embassy Security Detachment, usually early in their careers. She’d thought he was older because his default expression was so somber.

  At that precise moment the food arrived, the waiter slipping huge platters of steaming, delicious-smelling food in front of them.

  Oh no.

  Claire looked at the heaps of food in horror. Her stomach clenched closed painfully, just shut right up. There was no way she could she handle all that food. Just seeing it nauseated her. Her stomach started a slick greasy slide up her esophagus. She sat rigidly, willing the bile rising in her throat back down. Cold sweat coated her body, and she placed her hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see them trembling.

  Saliva filled her mouth, the prelude to vomiting.

  Oh God, what to do? Dan was being so kind. She was stuck between the hard place of offending him and the rock that was lodged in her stomach.

  A stocky, very dark-skinned man in a floor-length apron and chef’s toque appeared, and he and Dan went into the male greeting dance, back-slapping, high-fiveing, fist bumping.

  “Dan the Man!” the chef boomed.

  “Stavros!” Dan boomed right back and thumped him on the back hard enough to raise some flour. With his arm still around the chef’s back, he steered Stavros to Claire. “Claire, I’d like to introduce you to the guy who cooked your dinner, Stavros Daskalakis. Stavros, Claire Day. She was
stationed in Laka, too. DIA.”

  Stavros’s eyebrows rose to meet the lower rim of his toque. “A spook.”

  “A spook,” Claire agreed, rising on shaky legs. She held out her hand, having surreptitiously wiped the sweat off on her pants. She turned her back on the groaning table. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  He caught her hand in his spotlessly clean one. “The pleasure is all mine.” His eyes slid to Dan’s. “Prettiest spook I ever saw.”

  Claire didn’t say anything. About 90% of DIA analysts were men, most of them trained to be bland and colorless, totally unnoticeable. Saying she was the prettiest wasn’t saying much.

  Dan smiled easily. “Hey, Stav, why don’t you show Claire your pottery collection? I think she’d like to see it.”

  Stavros looked blank for a mere fraction of a second. “Sure,” he said and steered Claire to the far wall, where there were fairly authentic-looking ancient Greek vases, black on red and red on black. Normally, she liked classical art but right now she saw the vases through a gray mist, completely concentrated on not barfing all over Stavros’s nice hardwood floor as he recounted the history of each vase.

  She heard his voice dimly, like a gnat buzzing in the distance. Yet years in the diplomatic service, as a spook, had trained her well. She could ooh and ahh and make polite conversation in the middle of a firefight, let alone with massive nausea cramping her insides.

  Stavros put an ochre-and-black vase in her hand so she could feel how light it was. Apparently, that was a sign of antiquity, all the water in the clay having completely evaporated over the centuries. She held it for a nanosecond, smiled—that was hard, she had to think about every muscle—and handed it back before it slid out of her sweaty hands and two thousand years of Greek history shattered on the floor.

  Whatever had possessed her to think she was ready for real life? Her system was so fragile she couldn’t even handle dinner, for God’s sake.

  What had she been thinking, to come up here to Washington, to bother a man she didn’t remember, simply because she thought she’d seen him in her dreams?