by Brynn Kelly
“And I’m too good. Which makes us perfect. You’ll keep me grounded and maybe I’ll scare you, just a little, in a healthy way. But we might have to make a stop on the way to Corsica.”
She frowned. “Texas?”
“Time to front up. Stop running. Stop pretending that all this extreme stuff is helping me, is bringing my brother back.”
She smoothed her thumbs over his. “It’ll be good for you.”
“Be a damn sight easier with you there. Wait—is Texas even on the way to France?”
“When you’re going from one end of the Earth to another, pretty much anywhere is on the way.”
“So? How about it?”
Her face fell. “I can’t. For starters, right now I’m financially in the sh—”
“I’ll pay for everything. Not because I’m a misogynist, you understand. Just because it makes sense.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“Tia, your helicopter wouldn’t have gotten shot if you hadn’t taken me up there.”
“I would have gone up anyway to drop off the climbers’ kayaks. I would have died.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” He kissed her knuckles. “Just promise me you won’t let this decision be about money—I’d hate to lose you over something that doesn’t have to be a problem.”
“I could pay you back when I’m on my feet again.” She was just thinking aloud, thinking hypothetically, but it filled his lungs with hope. “That could take years.”
Years. Years was good. He cleared his throat. “Was that a yes?”
“No!”
He flinched. Crap.
“I mean,” she said softly, “I can’t make a decision that big so quickly.”
“I think you already made it. You know it right there, don’t you?” He pressed their hands to her heart. “Just like I do. You just need to go with it. Maybe we both need to stop shutting ourselves away.”
“I can’t...” She shook her head, her brow scrunched.
“While you’re thinking about it...” He leaned in and kissed those shiny, hair-streaked lips. She kissed him back. They’d been doing this for weeks, but every time, he got a buzz like it was the first. He would never get enough of her.
Please, Tia. Say yes.
* * *
TIA GENTLY BROKE the kiss and rested her head on Cody’s shoulder, looking out over the river. This time tomorrow she’d be back in Wairoimata, alone.
Or maybe not...
There’s only one risk I want to take and it scares the life out of me.
It scared him? She was the one who liked playing it safe. And so far that’d got her nowhere but alone. Was she brave enough to do this? It was pretty bloody obvious she was falling in love. She got breathless whenever she looked at him. She felt like she was permanently high on happy pills.
She breathed in the fresh cologne that had become achingly familiar. He was right. Time to take a risk, challenge her instincts. She stepped back, smiled at him and walked to the bungee guide, who was sorting harnesses.
“Can I use his jump?” she asked. “He’s too chicken.”
The guy shrugged. “Yeah, sweet. You’ll have to do the safety briefing, but we can fit you in.” He raised his voice. “That okay with you, mate?”
“Sure,” said Cody, crossing his arms, looking baffled.
Hell, she was a little baffled.
Half an hour later, she stood on the platform, trying not to look at anything. Definitely not down. But straight ahead at the plunging cliffs wasn’t much better. Or the packed viewing platform to her left. Who were those people? What the hell was she doing?
“Ready to fly?” asked the guide.
“I don’t know,” she said, looking at Cody, who was standing in the spot where she should have been. The safe spot. The sensible spot. Now, he was a view she could look at all day. “Am I?”
“Only you can make that choice.” Cody gave a half smile. “But you can do anything. You’re increíble.”
Oh yeah, he was good for her.
“Time to leave the safe harbor,” she called. “See if that bungee cord stops me.”
His smile dropped. “Does that mean you’re coming?”
Wind buffeted her jacket. Her throat felt like it was closing. Her stomach ping-ponged. Nervous about the jump, or what lay beyond? The guy counted down, Cody joining in.
Screw it. She jumped, her body clenching in cold panic. She shouted, channeling all the stress and elation of the last three weeks into one word: “Yeeeeeesssss!”
Over the rush of air, over the spectators’ cheers, she heard the voice she was in love with, along with everything else about Caparol Cody Castillo.
“Estupendo!”
Indeed.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from EDGE OF TRUTH by Brynn Kelly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AFTER SETTING BOOKS in Asia, Africa, Europe and the UK, with American, European, Scottish, Australian and Ethiopian heroes and heroines, I’ve loved coming home with a New Zealand setting and a Māori heroine.
Thank you to my insightful editor, Allison Carroll, who always gets my stories and knows just what tweaks they need, and the talented team at HQN Books. And to my agent, Nalini Akolekar, for your calm and steady presence.
And a huge thank-you to all the generous and enthusiastic critique partners, beta readers, technical advisors and cheerleaders who helped bring this novella to life, including Brad McEvoy, Mia Kay, C. A. Speakman, Rosalind Martin, Christine Sheehy, Priscilla Oliveras, Griffin Jenkins and Leah Fitzpatrick.
Me te aroha nui ki a koutou katoa.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After an award-winning twenty-year career as a journalist, Brynn Kelly has abandoned fact in favor of her first love, fiction.
She’s delighted that she gets to spend her days in a bubble of delicious words and fiendish plots, turning all those stranger-than-fiction news reports into larger-than-life romantic thrillers.
Brynn has a journalism and communications degree and has won several prestigious writing awards, including the Valerie Parv Award and Pacific Hearts Award. Her acclaimed debut novel, Deception Island, was nominated for a Golden Heart® Award by Romance Writers of America. She’s also the bestselling author of four nonfiction books in her native New Zealand.
www.BrynnKelly.com
Edge of Truth
by Brynn Kelly
CHAPTER 1
Tess clutched the bare mattress and gulped a lungful of stale air, her heart jackhammering against her ribs. A nightmare? No—men were shouting, outside. She widened her eyes, then squinted. Open, closed, open, closed, it made no difference. Black was black was black.
She sat up with a lurch and shuffled back against the damp stone wall to at least get a fix on which way was up. Not a sliver of gray slid between the floorboards above. Had to be night. She’d been asleep? For how long? She laid her palm over her face and blinked, the lashes tickling her skin. Definitely open. This wasn’t the kind of nightmare you got to wake from. As further proof, her big toes throbbed in unison where Hamid’s men had ripped out the nails.
A door squealed, and something solid was dragged across the floor overhead. From their nest in the corner of her cell, the mice scratched and squeaked—even they knew something was up. She shakily exhaled. Six days she’d been here, and each night had been heavy with silence until the distant song of a muezzin’s call to prayer. What was different about tonight?
A flashlight beam flickered through the cracks. More voices—instructions, perhaps. A series of clinks, a heavy scrape—they were opening the bunker hatch. Was she to be freed? She swallowed. Or executed?
Fresh air puffed over her face as the hatch lifted. She drew up her knees and hugged them. The f
lashlight beam tracked around the cell, pausing on a food tray the mice had finished up, and a scattering of empty plastic water bottles. The light flicked to her, scorching her eyes and drilling pain into her brain. She shut them tight and sealed her palms over top. Even then her vision pulsed bloodred.
If they were planning to make another video, or if Hamid was coming to ask again if she was ready for death, the next sound would be the rasp and bump of the rope ladder being lowered. But this early? This felt more like the hour of...
Enough overthinking. She breathed deeply through her mouth—she’d stopped inhaling through her nose days ago, so she couldn’t smell herself rotting.
People had survived years like this. She had to keep believing that the kidnap of a high-profile American TV journalist would prompt a large-scale search, even in East Africa. She had to keep visualizing a company of marines scouring the arid terrain. Or would they be out to get her, too?
Overthinking.
The rasp didn’t come. More scuffles and scrapes. She forced her eyes open. Shadows circled the dirt floor. Above the hatch, figures moved and a man grunted, as if with great effort. Something blocked the square hole, returning the cell to darkness. It wasn’t the hatch cover, so what was—?
The thing dropped. She shrank back as it thudded down a few feet away. A strobe of light flashed on a large curled shape before the hatch thunked shut. Metal scraped on metal—the bolts sliding home. She shivered. Voices and footsteps retreated, a door squealed shut, a key clicked in a lock, leaving the darkness absolute. She let her crown drop back on the cold stone. Not execution, not yet. Maybe they were storing something down here. But at this time of night?
As her shuddering breath subsided and the mice settled, she made out another sound. Air rasping, in and out, in and out. Holy crap. The thing was alive.
“Hello?” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat. “Hello?”
No answer.
She crawled off the mattress and felt her way along the packed dirt. Her right hand hit something warm, covered with smooth fabric. It flinched. Human, at least.
“It’s okay,” she said.
She splayed her fingers. Under the fabric the skin was firm but yielding. A stomach? A groan rose up—a man’s voice. Her left hand touched something hard. Bones—a row of them. He shuddered and arched away. His spine? Which meant her other hand was currently exploring a particularly solid butt. She released her grip.
He muttered something unintelligible. French?
“Are you hurt?” In the cloying silence, the walls whispered back.
A grunt. She’d have to find out for herself. Maybe they’d sedated him with the same drug they’d used on her after they’d dragged her from the Land Rover. She glided her hands over his curved back. No sign of injury—nothing but hard ridges of muscle, under a thick cotton jacket. At his shoulders, her finger caught in a loop. An epaulet. Military? An enemy soldier to Hamid and the al-Thawra network was likely to be an ally to her—and there’d be more where he came from.
Unless his team was dead, as hers might well be. Her cameraman had taken a volley of bullets within seconds of the ambush. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face—the flicker of disbelief and realization before he slumped, lifeless. Just a young Zimbabwean news junkie who thought working with her would propel him into the big time, and all it got him was... She sucked in air through clenched teeth.
Her translator better still be alive. Last she’d seen him, al-Thawra thugs were dragging him feetfirst along a stony road. He was just an honest, reliable local dad who’d needed the money. Had she been explicit enough about the risk of working for her, about the need for secrecy? He’d been so eager for the job. If she’d got him killed, too...
No. Cling to hope. She’d been the target, not him.
She dipped two fingers under the soldier’s collar and scooped. No dog tag. Thick, corded neck, suede buzz cut. His crown was hot and...sticky. Ugh. She snapped her hand away. Had to be blood. He moaned. A bit of light would be handy—she’d rather not stick her fingers in his brain.
“You’ve got a wound up here. I’m going to check it. Hold still.”
Like he was capable of anything else. She closed her useless eyes and brushed her fingertips over the spot. An inch-long gash gaped over a lump the size of half a tennis ball. Ouch.
“It’s not too bad,” she said. Like she had any idea. “I have a first-aid kit.”
He needed sutures, but alcohol wipes and adhesive strips would have to do. God help him if it got infected down here. He muttered again. She caught a guttural R. Definitely French, maybe from Djibouti—no other army this side of the Congo would speak French. Or L’armée de Terre? But why would a French soldier be out here?
“Is anything else hurting?” Silence. “I’m just going to check.”
She leaned over him, her knees touching his back. Her hair slipped loose. She looped and twisted it into a knot. One benefit of hair that hadn’t seen shampoo in a week—it was greasy enough to tie without a band.
She ran her fingers over his shoulder and a rolled sleeve, down to his right hand. Jesus, the guy had muscles. As she slid her fingertips into his palm, his hand closed. Just a reflex, but she gave in to it, letting the flicker of comfort shoot right up to her chest.
“Merci, madame.”
The deep words came from so low in his throat she could have imagined them—she’d been imagining a lot of crazy things lately. Maybe not a reflex, then? She squeezed back.
“De rien,” she said, her choked R giving away her rusty tourist French. God, was he ever welcome, whoever he was. She shouldn’t be thankful some other luckless schmuck had wound up here.
Reluctantly, she eased her hand from his. He’d be more comfortable on the mattress but first she should make sure moving him wouldn’t worsen any injuries. She patted his stomach, then stroked up. At his chest, hard pecs tightened. Nothing wrong with those reflexes.
His neck and jaw were rough with stubble—almost a beard—rising up to a sharp, smooth cheekbone and speed bumps of tiny wrinkles beside his right eye. His forehead was unlined, though a little rough and peeling. The skin between his eyes was bunched into two crevasses. Was this how blind people built a picture of someone? The bones were in the right places, though the nose felt wonky. He didn’t recoil when she skated her fingertips along it, and there was no open wound. An old break, perhaps.
“Can you roll onto your back?”
He sighed, and seemed to understand, shifting and resettling and—she guessed from the sound of rubbing fabric—straightening his legs. He was moving freely enough. She checked his other arm. A gravelly graze on his elbow but otherwise okay. The fingers of that hand didn’t curl around hers. Which was fine.
She skipped the business part of his trousers—nothing much she could do about that if it wasn’t working, and she already knew there wasn’t a thing wrong with his butt. His legs felt fine. Very fine—powerful thighs slid into long, strong calves. His trousers—combat pants, presumably, given the number of pockets—were tucked into socks. His boots were intact. Best leave them on—in this filth, his feet were better off contained.
“Back in a sec,” she murmured.
She felt her way to the mattress and found her backpack, which had been ransacked for everything but her first-aid kit and a few toiletries. No phone, no laptop, no documents, no notes—little more than Band-Aids, sunscreen and lip gloss. I need you to stay pretty for my videos, Hamid had said, shoving the backpack into Tess’s stomach.
Hamid had stood there, a few feet from where Tess now sat, flicking through her notebook. You’ve been trying to find my base. Congratulations, my friend. You succeeded. If I’d known you were so keen to drop in, I would have invited you much sooner.
How did you find me? Tess had demanded.
The same way I usually find people
. The same way I found your whistle-blower, the traitor Latif. Hamid held up Tess’s phone. With the help of America’s very useful National Security Agency. My job is a bit like yours, you know. It’s all about the contacts.
That’s impossible. I was careful. She hadn’t been online in a fortnight. She’d been using burner phones, contacting no one she knew. We were all careful.
Not all, Hamid said. Not all. Your translator texted his wife several times.
Tess’s face went cold, all over again. She removed the first-aid kit from her backpack. She could do nothing for her crew now but she could help this soldier. Returning to him, she coaxed his head onto her lap, cradling his shoulders with her thighs while keeping her bandaged feet clear.
What had this guy done to incur al-Thawra’s wrath? Or was Hamid trying to draw France into their phony conflict?
“I’m going to clean the cut on your head. It might sting a little.”
At his solid weight, a memory flashed up of her final weekend with Kurt, when he’d taken leave and met her in Cairo. Ugh. Turned out even a Medal of Honor didn’t make a man honorable—even if half of America swooned over him. No more military heroes for her.
Next time she’d go for a dependable small-town accountant whose chief attribute was loyalty. Someone who could be relied on to come home after work—alive, and not smelling of another woman. Charm and bravado spelled trouble. She frowned. That was if she got a chance at a next time and didn’t end up in two pieces like the last unfortunate American kidnapped by Hamid.
She ripped open an alcohol wipe and ran it over her hands. Working on feel and guesswork, she smoothed the next few wipes over the lump, wringing out the alcohol so it dripped on the wound. He hissed, his shoulders tensing against her.
That’d have to do—she was low on wipes, and she might need to change the dressing in a day or two, if they both lasted that long. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to send the message to her other senses that they were on their own, as she held the wound closed with one hand and pressed on the suture strips with the other. Several times the strips tangled and she had to start over. She finished by winding a bandage around his head. Better than nothing.
