by Tiffany Snow
I rested my forehead against the cold glass, past memories floating around me like invisible ghosts. Whereas the future loomed, dark and forbidding. I felt paralyzed—unable to go back to the way things were before, but also unable to move forward. Why hadn’t Jackson told me about his part in Operation Gemini—the name of which now made sense. Twins. Twin operations. Only one had been predestined to fail. Clark had barely made it out alive.
There was a tentative knock at the door. “Come in,” I said, without bothering to ask who it was. I didn’t turn. I knew who’d come.
“You didn’t kill Jackson, did you?” I asked.
“Not yet, but the night’s still young,” Clark quipped.
I felt his presence move behind me and saw his reflection in the glass. “I’m sorry,” I said. “About your brother. And for those other men.”
“You had nothing to do with it.”
“But my father did.”
His hands rested on my shoulders. “I don’t believe in the daughter paying for the sins of the father.”
I leaned back against him, letting his strength help support me. “Do you think I was meant to find that file? Find out the truth?”
“I think it was easier than it should have been. But why? I don’t know why.”
“Maybe Dennon is having us do his dirty work,” I speculated, “leading us to the Danvers file and tracking him down. If the shooter is out for revenge, then the government certainly wouldn’t want information about Operation Gemini to come out. If we eliminate Danvers or Buckton—whoever the guilty party was—no one would know what happened. No one will know those men were deliberately sacrificed.”
Clark’s hands were squeezing my shoulders too tightly, but I didn’t think he realized it. The pain in his eyes was almost too much to bear. I almost regretted voicing the thoughts out loud.
I flinched. “You’re hurting me, Clark.”
His grip loosened immediately. “Sorry, Mack.”
I winced at the nickname, then told myself to stop being stupid. Turning to face him, I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror, and if it hadn’t been so demoralizing, I’d have laughed. Me in all my nerd glory, looking like an overgrown twelve-year-old, complete with preteen bedroom. And Clark standing two inches from me, dressed in black, his shirt open at the throat, and looking like a fantasy come to life.
“What?” he asked. “What’s the matter? You’re upset.”
I blinked a few times. “No, I’m just tired.” Maybe he’d gotten me the pajamas because that’s how he saw me. I wasn’t a woman. I was just . . . a girl. A really smart, really young, naive girl who liked to play with toys.
His fingers lifted my chin until I was looking up at him. “Don’t lie. And my mind-reading skills aren’t so hot, so I’d appreciate the translation.”
“Nothing,” I insisted. “I’m just . . . feeling a bit sorry for myself, that’s all. Everyone’s allowed a pity party, now and then.”
“Am I invited?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.
I shook my head and looked away, forcing a smile. “Not tonight. Mack should go to bed.” Pulling back the covers, I sat down on the bed.
Clark was still looking at me funny.
“What?”
“You don’t like it when I call you Mack,” he said. “You’ve told me that before.”
“No, I haven’t,” I argued. “Why would I say such a thing? It’s my name.”
He sat down on the bed, and I had to pull my knees to my chest so he wouldn’t sit on my feet.
“You didn’t like it,” he insisted. “Told me to call you something else.”
“When was this?” I was scouring my memory and could recall no conversation where we’d discussed this particular subject.
“When I was carrying you out of the server farm that you blew up in the South China Sea,” he said.
Oh. “Well, that explains it,” I said. I was suddenly nervous, for some reason. I took off my glasses and set them on the table next to the bed. “Things are little fuzzy about that.”
“You weren’t at your best.”
“Hmm.” I couldn’t put my feet under the covers because he was sitting on them. I tugged a little, hoping he’d get the hint, but he just sat there.
“Don’t you want to know what you wanted me to call you?” he asked. He leaned a little closer, and my nerves shot up again. Maybe it was the way he was talking. As though he was about to tell me a secret.
“I was in pain and barely conscious,” I said archly, avoiding his gaze. “I could’ve told you to call me the queen of England and wouldn’t remember.”
Clark didn’t answer, so I glanced up at him. He was watching me with a look in his blue eyes that made my heart skip a beat.
Reaching out, he took my feet, one at a time, and stretched them across his lap. Then he inched the socks down and peeled them off.
“What are you doing? My toes are cold.”
“I’m warming them up,” he said, which was true. His hands were large and my feet weren’t. He massaged the instep and used his thumbs on the sensitive pad underneath my toes. Slow and gentle, yet firm, he got the blood moving through me until my feet were toasty warm.
By which time, I could hardly breathe. I had no idea feet were such erogenous zones. Or maybe they weren’t, and my mind was just in the gutter. But the slow strokes of his thumb, the pressure of his hand curving around my instep—all of it made my heart race as if I’d run a marathon.
“Better?” he asked after a while.
“Yeah,” I said in much too high a voice. I sounded strangled. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I mean, yes, they’re better, thank you.”
He glanced up at me, his lips curved in that wicked way that made me wish I could draw, just to re-create that look.
“I like those on you,” he said out of the blue.
“What? You like what?” I normally wasn’t this slow.
“Those pajamas.”
And suddenly the warm caramel in my veins went cold. I was so stupid. A hot guy massaging my feet and I’d let it go to my head. Clark just had that effect on women. He couldn’t help it, and it didn’t mean anything.
“Don’t make fun,” I snapped. “It’s not nice.”
He frowned, his hands pausing in their work. “I’m not,” he said. “I bought them for you. Why would I make fun of you for wearing them?”
Now I felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry, you wouldn’t, I didn’t mean . . .” I trailed off. I couldn’t untangle the feelings Clark created inside me, feelings and desires I had no business having. “It’s just sometimes . . .”
“Sometimes what?” he prompted.
“Sometimes I wish I was one of those women who wear silk negligees and baby-doll camisoles to bed. That I was tall and sexy with come-hither eyes and those pouty lips.” I shrugged, embarrassed. “I’ve looked through too many Victoria’s Secret catalogs, I guess.”
“I get that,” he said. “I mean, look at men. If you go by the covers of romance novels, we should all be cut, wear leather, have tattoos, and ride a motorcycle.”
I just looked at him strangely. “But . . . you are all those things.”
He pointed a finger at me. “I do not have a tattoo.”
I burst out laughing at his mock seriousness. He smiled, too, as my laughter faded.
“Pouty lips and being tall aren’t what make you sexy,” he said after a moment.
“I’m not sexy,” I retorted with chagrin. “Look at me.”
“I’m looking,” he said, his smile fading. “But I think you and I see two different things. I see a petite woman with curves in all the right places, whose waist is barely bigger around than my thigh. She’s wicked smart and funny, and proven that her loyalty and courage are much larger than her size.”
“Loyalty and courage?” I snorted. “You sure you’re not describing a Labrador?”
“And the best thing about those pajamas,” he continued, ignoring me, “is what I know you’ve got hidde
n underneath them.”
My desire for self-deprecation went out the window as he scooted closer, putting one of my legs behind him so he was situated squarely between my thighs. The hem of my pajama dress had ridden up, and his hands rested on my bare knees.
“So, what is it tonight?” he asked, his voice that sweet spot between a whisper and a rasp.
I couldn’t look away from his eyes as I answered. “A lace string cheekini panty in ginger glaze.”
He leaned forward and I stopped breathing.
“That’s what makes you sexy, baby,” he breathed in my ear. His lips grazed my cheek in the lightest of touches, then he was on his feet and turning out my light.
“You’re leaving?” I asked, breathless.
“I don’t think Jackson would appreciate what would happen if I stayed,” he said. “Good night.” He headed for the door.
“Good night, Clark,” I said as he left.
I flopped down on the bed, breathing hard. Good lord, but that man could melt an ice cube inside of thirty seconds.
My cell buzzed and I glanced at the screen. I knew that number.
“You’d better not have your feet up on my desk,” I said by way of greeting.
“You get hurt a lot,” Kade Dennon said, ignoring my comment. “But are hard to kill. I like that. You could say I have a bit of a soft spot for tough chicks.”
“What a charmer,” I mouthed off. “And I’m better, thanks for asking.”
“You’re walking and talking, so that’s what I figured,” he shot back. “So how’s Clark? Is he dead yet?”
“Of course not. But I am working on clearing him. And me.”
“Good to know.”
I picked at my sheets, thinking. “You don’t really think I’m working to kill the president, do you.” Call it a hunch, but I thought if Dennon really thought I was a threat, I wouldn’t have been allowed to see the light of day again.
“Nah, but I wasn’t sure if you’d need the added incentive to find the real shooter.”
“What do you mean, ‘added incentive’? To try to clear Clark?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure if you were the loyal-to-a-fault, stupidly self-sacrificing, save-him-at-any-cost kind of girl. I happen to have experience with that variety. Laudable, and sometimes hot, but also a shitload of trouble.”
“He’s my friend, and partner,” I said, ignoring the comments about my character. “Of course I’d do anything I could to clear his name.”
“Exactly. A shitload of trouble. So now you’re tracking down members of the team, including Buckton and Danvers.”
I wasn’t surprised he was keeping tabs. “If Buckton is a suspect, why can’t TSA or Customs detain him?” And save us the bother.
“We’d rather handle this on the down low,” Dennon replied.
“Because of Operation Gemini,” I guessed. So I’d been right. Plus, we were deniable, and expendable. Sounded familiar. “You’ve never said how President Kirk was involved.”
“Nope. I haven’t. Man, they weren’t kidding when they said you were super smart.”
I guessed by his tone rather this his words that he was being sarcastic. Smart-ass.
“Gotta go,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.” He ended the call.
I tossed and turned for a while, with too much stuff going on inside my head. Or maybe I’d just slept too much, but when my phone said it was nearly two in the morning and I was still awake, I decided it was because I hadn’t had my two Fig Newtons before bed.
Getting up, I quietly opened my door and peered down the hall. The house was still and dark. Everyone was asleep. I’d put Clark in Bill’s room and Jackson in Oslo’s. I only had a twin bed, after all, and I didn’t think Dad would appreciate his daughter shacking up in his own house, even if it was with her fiancé.
I tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the third stair from the top because it creaked as though it was alive, and walking on it seemed like a personal affront. Then I wished I’d kept those fuzzy socks on, because my feet were freezing.
The kitchen was only slightly warmer, and the little light above the stove was on, dispelling the darkness somewhat. I didn’t know if Dad had any Fig Newtons, but Heather had left some of the chocolate cake she’d made for dessert.
Ice-cold milk and a slice of chocolate cake. Just what the insomnia doctor ordered. I was just pouring the milk when I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see that my dad had come out of his room.
“Thought I heard someone up,” he said quietly. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I shook my head. “Too much to think about, I guess. Want some?” I motioned to the milk and cake. He raised his eyebrows.
“Well, I hate for you to eat alone,” he teased, smiling a little.
“That’s mighty big of you,” I teased back. I got another glass and plate, and soon we were sitting at the table attacking to two giant slabs of cake.
“Your man seems like a fine choice,” he said once we’d finished.
I was leaning back in my chair, regretting those last two bites I’d had. But it had been so good. “He is,” I said. “We have a lot in common.”
“You enjoy his company?” he asked.
“I do. We get along well. He’s dependable, too, and financially sound.”
“You sound like you’re talkin’ about a horse you’re thinkin’ of buying, not a man you’re goin’ to marry.” He paused to take a swallow of his milk. “You love him, don’t ya?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“’Cause that other one looks at you,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “And I noticed you look at him, too.”
“We’re partners, and good friends,” I said.
“Which is what a marriage should be,” he added. “Is he not . . . dependable or . . . financially sound?”
I blinked. “Yes, I mean . . . I think so.”
“Then why ain’t you with him?”
I was at a loss as to how to answer. This was a bizarre conversation to have, especially with my dad. He’d never displayed more than a passing interest in my friendships or personal life. Now to be suddenly quizzed about Jackson . . . I wasn’t prepared for it. So I answered with what popped into my head.
“I guess . . . I’m not with him because he never asked.”
Dad didn’t reply; he just looked at me until I had to look away. I was embarrassed now, and unsure how to act. Looking at things from Dad’s point of view and his limited time left, I could see how he’d want to know he was leaving me in good hands, that I’d be happy. It was sweet that he’d go outside his own comfort zone to bring up this topic when I knew he had to be as uncomfortable as I was.
“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his robe. He set a folded envelope on the table.
“What is it?” I asked, reaching for it. My name was written in faded ink on the outside of the envelope.
“It’s a letter,” he said, “from your mother.”
I glanced up in surprise.
“She wanted you to have it one day, when you were older and realized the truth. Said I should only give it to you then.”
I didn’t know what to say. Shock didn’t seem like a strong enough word to convey what I was feeling. My mom had left me a letter, speaking to me from beyond the grave. It was difficult to process. How had she known to write it? Had she been afraid she wouldn’t be around when I was older to talk to me herself? Or had it just been easier to say in a letter?
“Dad,” I began.
“Shh!”
I shut my mouth, startled. Dad wasn’t looking at me anymore. He’d twisted, looking over his shoulder into the darkened hallway beyond the kitchen.
“What—?” I began, but he interrupted me again with a harsh whisper.
“Someone’s in the house.”
18
A chill swept over me that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
“Maybe it’s Jackson,” I whispered. “Or Clark.”
�
��Maybe,” he said. “You stay here. I’ll go check it out.” He got silently to his feet and headed for the entryway.
I was frozen for a moment, then stood, too, listening. I heard nothing. Fear for my dad had me exiting the kitchen through the other entry. Our ground floor was built old-style, with lots of separate rooms. There was no such thing as an open floor plan in the forties. The formal dining room was behind the kitchen, then you circled through the hallway to the family room and entryway.
It was dark as pitch in the dining room, the only light coming from what was glowing from the moonlit snow outside. Mom’s china cabinet reflected bits of light in the cut glass displayed on its shelves. I heard the tick of the clock on the mantel in the family room. I’d never noticed how loud it was.
I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t hear anything. Dad had heard something, obviously. But where was he?
The carpet was soft under my toes as I took careful steps forward, my eyes peering into the shadows. I thought about flipping on the light, but not only would that tell a possible intruder exactly where I was, it would also blind me for a few precious seconds that might make a difference.
My heart was pounding so loudly, I could hear the blood in my ears. I reached the doorway to the dining room, and beyond that was the blackness of the hallway. I paused again, hearing nothing. Panic made me decide to chance it.
“Dad?” I hissed. My voice seemed much too loud.
I stepped into the hallway, holding my breath . . . but nothing happened. I peered down its length but could discern nothing out of the ordinary.
Letting out a breath of relief, I walked into the family room. Dad had to be in there, though why he hadn’t answered me or come back had me worrying. Was he all right?
A hand on my arm nearly made me pee my pants, and I jerked, startled. I looked up, and in the darkness could just discern Clark’s features.
“Oh God, Clark,” I heaved, my heart racing double time. “You scared me. I thought you were an intruder.”
He smiled, which was strange. “You must be China. It’s about time we met.”
