by Fiona Brand
Sam sighed with relief. "Thanks," she said softly. "I'll see if the Carson sisters will look out for them while I'm gone."
Gray insisted on seeing her to her door. He frowned when he saw that she'd left her French doors open and the security light off, and insisted on checking the rooms. Before he slipped through the doors, he palmed the big gun with the smooth ease of long familiarity.
He reappeared seconds later and switched on a lamp. Sam stepped inside, and Gray immediately closed the doors and pulled the curtains.
The gun was back in its holster. He was dressed completely in black, as he had been the evening before, but in the mellow glow of her lamp she could see the black webbing that held the shoulder holster in place.
She had listened to his terse recital of the facts, but the gun shoved the reality of the violent situation they were both apparently caught up in into her face.
He reached out and caught her chin, lifting her head so he could examine the dark shadows beneath her eyes, mute testament to too many disturbed nights. "You're shaking. Damn, I did scare you."
She moved away from his hold. "I guess I'm not used to guns."
"Just like you're not used to terrorists and safe houses." He prowled the small environs of her lounge, his gaze drifting over her belongings, the small horde of photos of her family grouped on top of a bookcase, the ornate Munro family bible her grandfather had kept with its last single entry, her name.
He picked up a small black and white snapshot framed in silver and seemed absorbed by the toddler she had been clutching at her father's much larger hand. He glanced across at her. "I'm staying with you for the rest of the night."
"No." Her denial was instinctive. Gray had moved in on almost every aspect of her life. These small rooms, her possessions, were her world, a world which would be abandoned to who knows what mayhem within a matter of only a few hours. "I thought you said you weren't going to seduce me."
"You've got a spare room, I'll sleep there, but I'm not leaving you alone. If you know someone is within call, you'll probably get some sleep."
Sam eyed Gray warily. She was tempted. Oh, she was tempted. Sleep had become a scarce commodity lately, and she knew she would have trouble achieving more than a state of fitful dozing until it was time to get up. She was so very tired. If Gray was here, there was a slim chance that she might relax enough to actually sleep.
"You need to sleep," he said, pressing his advantage. "Are you going to show me where the linen is kept, or do I have to look for myself?"
Sam stared at him in blank frustration. His gentleness threw her off balance. She didn't want him being gentle or perceptive, and despite the simple comfort of having another human presence near, she didn't want to have him sleeping so close that she could listen to his breathing, hear every slide of the sheets across his skin, the rustle he made as he turned over in bed and hooked his arm beneath his pillow.
Maybe she was wrong in thinking she might sleep; chances were she wouldn't be able to relax enough to even doze.
*
Gray lay in the narrow single bed, listened to the gentle rhythm of Sam's breathing in the next room and wondered if he would go crazy before morning.
The broken street lamps niggled at him. Maybe they were just a coincidence? But Gray had never trusted in coincidence. The only thing he trusted in was the possibility that he had missed something vital and that all his plans would disintegrate because he had miscalculated. Again.
He couldn't afford mistakes – lives were riding on the success of this operation. Sam's life was at stake.
He shifted, kicking the sheet aside, cursing at the stuffy heat of the little flat. The rasping glide of the sheet against his semi-aroused sex almost made him groan out loud. He was so hot, and his skin was damp with sweat. He had half a mind to simply pick Sam up and carry her up to his rooms – at least it would be cooler there – but he had more sense than to touch her now.
Gray surged to his feet in one lithe, frustrated movement and stalked out into the lounge, naked. He brushed the heavy drapes aside and opened the French doors to stare out into the night, letting the cooler air slide over his skin.
No, he couldn't afford to touch Sam, even if he didn't seem able to keep his damn hands off her.
He had run the logic and made the decision. Tomorrow he would install Sam in the safe house and leave Carter on baby-sitting duty. Gray's place was here, with Farrell. He had worked seven years for the opportunity he had just created. An opportunity his gut instinct told him would work when nothing else had. There was too much at stake for him to risk blowing it all by letting his focus slip.
The unease that lately had become as much a part of him as his pulse tightened the skin at the base of his neck as he studied the moon-drenched landscape beyond the small courtyard. He trusted that unease above anything; it had saved his life more than once.
Sam would have to wait.
Once Harper was in the bag, he would have all the time he needed to repair the mistakes of the past and finish the job of taking down that stubborn reserve one brick at a time.
Gray locked up again and padded back to bed, but instead found himself in Sam's room. She had kicked back the covers and was lying on her back, one arm flung above her head on the pillow. The thin singlet she was wearing clung to her breasts and lifted to expose the delicate hollow of her navel. Her skin was moonlight pale and dewed with a satiny sheen of sweat, her panties thin enough to reveal the darker shadow beneath.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides; his breath drifted from between clenched teeth. Despite the attempt at control, his sex stirred and rose, lifting to full, painful arousal. He swore beneath his breath and returned to his room, the too-small bed and the heated ache of building frustration.
He had trained himself to sleep in catnaps, hell, he had trained himself to sleep under fire, but he knew now that he wasn't going to sleep at all.
*
Sam was surprised to find she'd slept like a baby. She woke in the early dawn, faint streamers of light probing the edges of the curtains. Throwing back the quilt, she pulled on her robe, finger-combed her hair and headed for the shower. Sounds in the kitchen drew her there instead.
Gray was standing at her counter squeezing oranges, dressed in the black pants and T-shirt he'd worn the night before. The sleek muscles of his shoulders and arms rippled with every movement of his hands.
He spared her a moody glance. "Breakfast in five," he murmured in a low, raspy rumble.
"I don't usually bother."
"You need to eat."
"I wasn't aware you were monitoring my food intake."
"Baby, I monitor everything about you."
He washed his hands, then dried them on a towel, watching her all the way.
Sam eyed him cautiously. "You look like you got out of bed on the wrong side this morning."
"Put the emphasis on 'wrong bed' and you've got it." He picked up a glass of juice and placed it in her reluctant hand. "I didn't sleep worth a damn. That bed was built for an undersized midget."
Sam pointedly set the juice back on the bench, but he just picked it up and wrapped her fingers around it again, holding her hand against the cool, damp glass with the heat of his palms.
"Drink it," he said, the irritability evaporating as if it had never been. "You can't operate under stress if you don't give your body what it needs."
What her body needed was standing right in front of her.
The scandalous thought brought a blush to her cheeks that had Gray's eyes narrowing speculatively.
Instead of following up on his advantage, he released her and began poking around her tiny pantry. "Where's the cereal?"
"I don't have any."
He gave her a look of disbelief. "Eggs?"
She shook her head.
"That probably rules out bacon. How about bread? The whole of the western world runs on bread, you've got to have some."
"It's in the freezer. I eat it one slice at a time
."
He said something beneath his breath, pulled open the freezer compartment of her fridge and extracted a half-loaf of heavy grain bread. In his big hand the bread looked both puny and unsatisfying.
Sam sucked in an irritated breath and set her juice down on the bench untasted. "I'm going to have a shower."
"Do that," he muttered. "Drive the knife in deeper."
When she didn't move, he tossed the bread and caught it in his palm as if it were a baseball. His mouth curled in a predatory smile that made her pulse hammer. "Go get your shower," he prompted, low and rough, "before I decide to forgo breakfast and join you instead."
Chapter 11
Sam had almost finished packing when someone knocked at her door.
When she opened up, Milly thrust a copy of the morning paper at her chest. "Have you seen the newspaper this morning? According to this, you and the Warrior Prince are the hottest thing since that star went super nova!"
Sam stared at the enlarged black and white photograph splashed all over the front page. She and Gray were locked in what looked like a passionate clinch. The caption, "Lombard To Wed?" was splashed across the page in bold print.
Milly snorted. "You know you were engaged, girl?"
Sam spared Milly a brief glance. "I'm not engaged."
Instead of the snappy one-liner reply Sam expected, Milly fixed her with a level look. "Lombard gave us a version of what's happening. I say 'version' because I know a cover-up when I see one. He said you're in danger from some wacko and that Farrell will be replacing you for a few days, playing at being sick in your flat, while McKenna runs the hotel. McKenna! Beats me how that man manages himself, let alone a—"
"Did Gray tell you anything about the … danger?"
"Only that you were being threatened because of him and it was his job to protect you." Milly looked fierce. Abruptly, she stepped forward and enveloped Sam in a quick hug. "I don't know what exactly is going on around here, but you watch your step, do you hear?"
Sam returned the hug with one of her own. "It's only for a few days, then I'll be back."
At least, she hoped she would be back. She didn't know how long she would have to stay in the safe house, or what would happen to the Royal while she was away. "There's a box of kittens underneath the loading bay. Will you ask Sadie to look out for them while I'm gone."
"More strays?" Milly sniffed. "This place is full of strays."
"But you'll make sure they're all right and leave some food out for the mother?"
"Along with the rest of the cats the kitchen supports. If that humourless man from the health department calls, he'll probably have kittens."
Sam latched the chain behind Milly, then forced herself to read every word of the article about her supposed relationship with Gray, both past and present. She'd read stories like it before and dismissed them as distasteful but part of life. Now she felt stripped bare. Very little had been left out; the details were stunningly accurate. She wondered who in the vast Lombard Group they had questioned to find out so much about her past relationship with Gray.
There was a separate, rather sketchy, piece written about the Lombard family and the kidnapping. Gray had said he'd been wounded; the article stated in black and white just how badly he had been hurt. He had nearly died.
Sam sat on the edge of a couch. The paper began to shake in her hands.
She had nearly lost him.
In all the years since she had walked out on Gray, she had never imagined that he might die. The mere thought of death and Gray coupled in the same sentence was obscene.
Gray hadn't told her how or where he'd been wounded, other than to point out the visible scar on his neck. She knew now; he had been shot. While she'd been sitting in her grandfather's house, waiting for Gray to come and claim her, he had been fighting for his life.
She had run from a situation that had escalated out of her control, panicked by the shock of an unplanned pregnancy and frankly terrified by the vulnerability her relationship with Gray had forced upon her.
She had left Gray when she had needed him most – and when he had needed her even more.
*
The safe house was located in an older suburb with large sections, mature trees and high fences.
The house was large and rambling, with cool, cream plastered walls and bricked courtyards overflowing with a profusion of tropical plants. Inside, the house was airy and welcoming, with well-worn hardwood floors, comfortable furniture and a definite air of being lived in.
"The house belongs to a friend," Gray commented as he carried her cases in. "He's out of the country at the moment."
"Is he in the SAS, too?"
Gray's remote gaze touched on her, and she could almost see him gauging what response he should make. He had been carefully aloof when he'd come to collect her. In a pair of tailored linen pants, a thin shirt of some fine woven stuff that could also have been linen, and leather loafers that were just as expensively casual as his other attire, he had seemed as far distant from the moody, restive creature who had rummaged through her kitchen this morning as it was possible to be.
That distance had suited Sam then. After the stormy scene in the kitchen, followed by the even greater turmoil she'd been thrown into when she'd read the newspaper article, she had needed time to think.
He closed the door, shutting out the warm, humid breeze that carried the threat of yet another rain shower. "As a matter of fact, he is. That's why this house is so useful. Caleb's a security expert. He's installed a sophisticated alarm system, and all the windows and doors have secure bolts and locks."
Sam chose a bedroom and unzipped one of the two cases Gray had placed on the bed, extracted the newspaper she'd slipped on top of her clothes and carried it out to the large sprawling room that combined a state-of-the-art kitchen, dining room and lounge. She set the newspaper on the table, went into the kitchen and made coffee while she waited for Gray to return from his circuit of the grounds. Carter would be here shortly, and she didn't know when she would see Gray again. This might be her only opportunity for a very long time to question him about the past, and she wanted answers.
Gray walked in off the patio, leaving the glass doors open. The cool, moisture-laden air flowed in, bringing the tangy scent of the garden with it. He saw the newspaper on the table and glanced sharply at her. "Who gave you that?"
"Milly."
"I was hoping you wouldn't see it."
Behind Sam, the coffeepot began to fill with dark, fragrant liquid, adding its own rich aroma to the scents of the garden and impending rain. "The article says you nearly died," she said flatly. "I want you to tell me exactly what happened."
Gray glanced at the paper, then back at Sam. She was wearing a camisole and a full, light floral skirt of some drifting, semi-transparent material that was driving him crazy. The swirling lilacs and blues made her seem even more softly feminine and emphasised her delicate, pale skin and the deep, exotic blue of her eyes; eyes that were presently levelled on him and waiting for answers he didn't want to give her.
Milly might be Sam's friend, but she hadn't done Sam any favours today. The details the paper had printed were raw and graphic. He had supplied factual information only, but the press had evidently done some digging of their own. "Maybe you should sit down."
"I'll stand."
Gray's jaw clenched against the tension that gripped him, the loss of control that had put an edge on his already damaged voice. "The story in the paper isn't pretty. My version isn't much better."
"I don't care. I want to know what happened to you."
Gray couldn't conceal his surprise. "To me?"
Somehow he had never thought of what had happened as being in conjunction with himself; for Gray, the story had always been about Jake.
"Yeah, Lombard," she said low and flat, as if she was reining her temper in, but just barely. "I want to know what happened to you."
The coffee machine finished dripping. Sam reached for mugs and began p
ouring. The mundane movements, the straight line of her back underlining her quiet determination to know the truth, somehow made it easier to start. Tersely he began outlining the bare facts of the encounter, but the simple act of retelling conjured up stark images he doubted he would ever be able to forget.
Seven years ago in Sydney the day had been humid with the promise of rain, dark with the weight of clouds, when he'd slipped off his Kevlar vest in order to squeeze through a small, high window in an inner city warehouse they had raided on a tip.
It had been gloomy in the warehouse, the air close, thick with the scent of dust and packing materials and machine oil. The place was a warren of rooms and loading bays, with one huge storage area. He ghosted from room to room, his stomach tight with dread, still reeling from the shock of recovering Jake and Rafaella's bodies the day before, and with every room he entered, he feared what he would find, but urgency drove him on. Sam was missing. And he was sure Harper had her.
He didn't find Sam, but he located Harper, radioed for help, then hunkered down to wait. But there was no time. Harper and his men were leaving. Gray had no choice but to act or lose them. He had to get Sam back, and he wanted Harper with an ice-cold fury.
He took out one of the men as he walked past his hiding place. A whisper of noise alerted him, and he spun, drawing his handgun as a second beefy man charged out of nowhere, crashing into his side and propelling him back against a tall bank of heavy packing boxes. The pistol, a Sig Sauer, spun from his hand. Gray rolled, evaded a roundhouse punch, then sprang to his feet in time to deflect the next bull-like charge. The next moments passed in a blur as they grappled, neither man gaining the advantage in the congested storage area, until the thickset brawler bounced off a steel pillar and went down like a fallen ox.
They had made enough noise to raise the dead. Harper was waiting for him.
"Lombard," he said as smoothly as if Gray had just turned up at his club and they were about to share a companionable half hour over a drink. A blade appeared in his hand.
