Someone was shaking. Was it her? Was it him? Panic lurked. A whimper threatened.
No thinking!
Obeying only that directive and stubbornly blind to all consequences, she moved her head, brushing her lips over his skin, savoring the feel of it, the warmth and smoothness, then the roughness of beard, the hard ridge of jaw. She heard his breath catch, then stop. She held hers…and his mouth came searching. Her lips parted, and his breath flowed gently over them. She held herself still…
In the stillness they both heard it: the rhythmic thumping, too firm and steady to mistake for their galloping heartbeats.
Lucia’s eyes flew open in time to see the helicopter’s shadow flit across the skylight. She felt Corbett’s body stiffen. He lifted his head and his hands came gently but firmly to grip her shoulders and hold her away from him.
“Sounds like our ride has arrived,” he said, and his voice had a ragged edge she’d never heard before. Just for an instant his eyes burned into hers, before she nodded and stepped back, fingers pressed to her lips, trapping the tiniest of whimpers behind them.
“I’ve left some clothes for you-here on the dressing table. They’ll be too big-especially the boots, but they’ll keep your feet warm. Put on both pairs of socks-that should help.” As he spoke, he was reeling in the trailing end of bandage.
She took it from him, carefully avoiding his eyes while she brought the end of the bandage to the one just below his collarbone, tied and pulled the knot tight and tucked in the ends. “My things…”
“Yes, of course. I imagine you’ll find them on board before you.”
She lifted her eyes in an unspoken question, but they got no farther than his mouth, captivated by the lips that a moment ago had been a breath away from kissing hers. Now they seemed like the perfectly sculpted lips of a classical statue. That they moved when he spoke seemed magical to her.
“It’s quite likely Adam ordered the chopper diverted to your flat, as backup in case of unexpected…developments.”
She nodded. He touched her arm and turned to go, then hesitated. She held her breath, but at that moment from the bedroom came the polite trill of a telephone. He said, “Quickly…please.” Then went out, closing the dressing-room door behind him.
Alone, enveloped in the scent that was so evocative of him it made her ache, Lucia let her defenses crumble. Eyes closed, she groped for something solid to hold on to and found the dressing table…gripped it and leaned on her hands while the shudders raced through her body, responses to emotions too overwhelming even for tears.
Don’t think. Don’t feel.
Since she was too tired to do either, she opened her eyes and found the neat pile of clothing Corbett had laid out for her: Black knit pants, ivory wool turtleneck pullover, black-and-ivory ski jacket. Après-ski boots and two pairs of soft, ultrawarm socks. Thermal-lined gloves, and even a black woolen cap to keep her ears warm. He’d thought of everything.
A small hiccup of laughter burst from her as she picked up the cap and touched it to her lips, then slipped it over her head and her still-damp hair and carefully adjusted it to cover her ears.
“Hello, Edward,” Corbett said, cradling the phone awkwardly between jaw and shoulder while he picked up the pullover he’d laid out on the bed.
“Good gad, Corb, I just heard. Are you all right? What the devil’s going on? They said you’d been shot?”
“Yes, well, good luck I was wearing body armor, eh?” Corbett’s grin was wry. He pressed the speaker button and put the phone down on the bed, then pulled the shirt over his head. As he eased it over his bandaged ribs, he could hear his brother’s snort of vexation.
“Luck? Don’t tell me you were expecting something of the sort? And you let Lucia-”
“Precautions were taken,” Corbett said patiently, slipping automatically into the placating manner he’d employed with his elder brother since childhood. “Lucia’s fine. I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.”
“Yes, well, Mum’s quite beside herself. Even Apu has been showing signs of concern, if you can imagine it. You might give them a ring, you know.”
“Can’t do it now, I’m afraid. I’ve a chopper waiting. Do me a favor, won’t you, and let them know I’m quite all right, occupational hazard, et cetera…”
“Off again, are you? I don’t s’pose you care to let your next of kin in on where you’re going and when you expect to return?”
“Sorry,” Corbett said, mentally rolling his eyes at the petulance in his brother’s tone, “you know the drill-client privilege and all that.” Though he could and often did lie to his brother without a second thought, he didn’t enjoy doing so. He told himself it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Edward-he did, as much as he trusted anyone. It was just that he was a firm believer in the old adage that the best way to keep one’s secrets was to keep them-to oneself, that is.
“Must be off. I’ll be in touch.” He thumb-clicked the off button, cutting off whatever protests Edward was preparing to make.
Adam crossed the helipad at a jog to where Corbett waited in the wash from the chopper’s rotors, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands thrust deep into pockets of his long overcoat. He withdrew them to clasp Adam’s firmly in both of his and leaned closer to make himself heard about the noise. “How did it go?”
Adam hitched a shoulder and grinned. “Right as rain, mate.”
“No trouble, then?”
“Nothing me and the boys couldn’t handle.”
“Ah,” Corbett said, nodding absently.
“Just got word from the airfield. Citation’s juiced up and waiting for you.”
“Good. You cleared us for Salzburg?”
“Yep. You’re good to go. As soon as-”
Both men turned together as, right on cue, the elevator door slid open. Adam wondered how being gut-shot would compare to the twisting pain he felt in his belly, watching Lucia step out of that elevator and come toward them. Her eyes went straight to Corbett’s and his stuck to her like limpets. This was it, the beginning of the end. Adam was about to put the two people he loved most in the world on a chopper and send them off to a private hideaway together. He guessed the odds they wouldn’t figure out they were crazy in love with each other at slim to none.
He locked his grin in place and braced himself for Lucia’s goodbye hug. “You behave yourself, you hear me? And no worries…”
“No worries,” she answered back, with a little break. Then she kissed his cheek and ran for the waiting chopper, holding on to her hair with one hand.
Corbett was there again, gripping his hand hard. “Listen, my friend, you keep your head down. And watch your back. You know this is going to get ugly…”
“You can count on it.”
Corbett paused, nodded and started to turn, but Adam caught his shoulder and held on.
“Just one thing.” He wasn’t smiling now, not even close, and he had to push his words past the rocks in his chest. “You know I love you like my own brother, but if you let anything happen to that lady, I will hunt you down like a dog.”
For a long scary moment the other man’s eyes burned into his. Then one corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll have to hunt me down in hell, then, brother, because if anything does happen to her, it’ll be over my dead body.”
“Right you are, then,” Adam returned. “Just so we understand each other.” He squeezed Corbett’s shoulder and stepped back.
“I believe we do.” Corbett gave him a little salute. “Bonne chance, old friend.”
“G’day and good journey, mate.”
He watched Corbett walk stiffly to the waiting helicopter and climb aboard then pull the door shut after him. Watched the shiny black LG chopper lift off, bank sharply and thunder away across the rooftops of the city. Unaware of the cold damp wind, he went on watching the chopper until it was just another pinprick of light in the clearing sky.
Someone was singing.
Lucia lay with her eyes closed and listened, enveloped in
the luxurious warmth of a feather bed, the old-fashioned kind so soft and deep it seemed one might sink into it far enough to drop out of the world completely.
She’d certainly tried her best to do so last night, and for a time, it appeared, had succeeded. Her recollection of the last few hours of the journey, including the arrival at their destination, was limited to disconnected bits and pieces, a montage of hazy impressions:
Cold. Cold that stung her nose and cheeks and made her shiver even in the warm clothes she was wearing.
Fighting to stay awake, fighting a desire to sleep so overpowering it was like torture.
Moving, constantly moving-by helicopter to the group’s private airfield in the French countryside not far from Paris, then by private jet to Salzburg, and finally, by rented car through Austria and into Hungary-so that even when the motion stopped, her body still felt as if she were in a boat on a choppy sea.
Delighted greetings delivered in hushed voices, in a language she recognized only enough to identify as Hungarian.
Warm soup, pungent with garlic and paprika. Gentle hands leading her, guiding her, helping her undress. And into bed. And the sensation of falling into a warm and welcoming darkness.
Where she lay now, listening to the sounds of dishes clattering and cookware clanking and someone singing.
It wasn’t a radio or television or CD player. The voice was female, untrained and probably not young, but had a joyous lack of self-awareness that made it captivating in spite of a tendency to crack and warble. And even though Hungarian wasn’t one of the languages in which Lucia was fluent, and she could only understand a word here and there, the tune was so catchy, the rhythm so bouncy, it made her smile.
She opened her eyes to gray daylight that seemed to come from a small round skylight in the center of the room. There were no windows. There would not be in a house, as Corbett had told her, that was mostly underground. She drew her arms from under the downy comforter and, stretching, bumped one elbow against an embroidered wall hanging. The bed was roughly twin-sized and daybed style, with one long side against the wall. The embroidery was thick and lush, intricate patterns of stylized birds and flowers done in vivid colors on felt backing. Having tried her hand at embroidery, as well as cross-stitch and needlepoint, Lucia knew true artistry when she saw it.
Intriguing aromas-coffee and others less familiar-were beginning to drift into the room along with the singing, and Lucia’s stomach gave an enthusiastic response. Last night’s bowl of soup had been both warm and filling, but was now only a dim memory. She was, she realized, famished.
Throwing back the comforter, she wallowed up out of the feather bed and in doing so made several discoveries that nurtured the amazingly upbeat mood with which she’d awakened. For one thing, she was wearing a loose nightshirt made of thin, much-washed cotton that felt soft as a caress on her skin. And the rug beneath her bare feet was warm sheepskin.
When had she become so aware of these purely sensual things?
How odd it was to feel such a sense of well-being after the last forty-eight nightmarish hours.
The room was fairly large, and it needed to be in order to accommodate the several massive pieces of furniture, which in addition to the bed included a wardrobe, chest and dresser, all carved and painted with flowers and birds in the same style as the embroidery. Looking around, she discovered two more causes for rejoicing: The bags Adam had packed for her, and which she hadn’t yet had a chance to explore, had been brought in and were waiting for her on a low chest near the foot of the bed. And she had a private bathroom-tiny, but complete with a bathtub and a handheld shower nozzle!
As safe houses went, she thought, this one could probably be considered downright luxurious.
The bouncy little tune now seemed to be permanently stuck in her mind, and she hummed it while she set about discovering what sorts of personal belongings Adam had considered essential for a woman in protective exile. Her personal laptop, of course; that one was a no-brainer. And, yes, the floppy handwoven cloth bag containing her current needlepoint projects and supplies. Her overnighter, she found, held toiletries, cosmetics, makeup and…yes, underwear. She couldn’t help it-her cheeks burned as she explored the selection and realized just how thorough Adam had been.
In her big roll-along suitcase she found not only the clothes she’d probably have chosen if she’d packed for herself, but other things, thoughtful little things, some even she might not have thought of. The framed photograph of her parents and her alarm clock from her nightstand; her MP3 player; the glasses she wore when her eyes got tired, and out of sheer vanity, only at home; her digital camera; the novel she’d been reading with her place still marked; the battery-free LCD flashlight from her nightstand drawer-her section of Paris was prone to power outages; the little tin of her favorite hard candies.
The happy little song died on her lips as she held the pretty tin and thought of Adam with wistful sadness. If only she could be in love with him, she thought, instead of Corbett, who only saw her as his protégée. Though, of course, she did love Adam. She loved him dearly, but unfortunately for both of them, rather like the brother she’d never had.
And thinking of Corbett…
He was here somewhere. Close by. Perhaps even now he was sitting in that aromatic kitchen, drinking coffee, smiling along with the singer. For the next several days-who knew how long?-she’d be sharing his living quarters, his personal space. Would he finally let her begin to know him, not just as employer but as a person…a man? Especially after those precious moments in his apartment.
Would he have kissed her if the helicopter hadn’t interrupted? A knot gathered in her chest, and a little shiver rippled through her.
Hurrying, she selected a pair of jeans and a pullover sweater in rich coppery tones she knew complemented her hair and skin, picked up her overnighter and went into the bathroom. The thought of a hot bath was a seductive one, but she was even more eager to be out and about. To go…to see…
Corbett. His face filled her mind, his eyes burned into her memory. She could almost feel his hand on her back, sliding low…pressing her close. Could almost smell his skin…taste it.
Ruthlessly shaking off the memories, she washed quickly, noting as she did that the bathroom, like the adjacent bedroom, was cool but not frigid, in spite of there being no evidence of a heater anywhere. Another aspect of being underground, she imagined. Most likely it would stay evenly cool year round.
Deciding her hair was a wild tangle that she lacked the patience to deal with this morning, she caught it into a gold clasp at the nape of her neck and finger-curled the few tendrils that had managed to escape capture, so that they fell naturally against her cheeks and temples. Then, heart quickening, she composed herself and opened the bedroom door.
And found herself in a large, bright kitchen, which, to her chagrin, was empty except for the woman busily rolling out pastry dough on the flour-covered table. Obviously the singer-she was still humming the jaunty little tune. Evidently, it was firmly stuck in her mind, too.
She broke it off and turned at the sound of the opening door. In spite of a dandelion fluff of snow-white hair, her face was young, unlined except for smile creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She was quite short, and plump in an appealing way, so well-endowed both fore and aft that she reminded Lucia of a little white hen. Her skin was sprinkled with light brown freckles, and her eyes were a clear, vivid blue. Corbett’s eyes.
Seeing Lucia, her flushed face blossomed with a smile, and she gave a little cry that was both a delighted welcome and dismay at her own floury, disheveled state. Hurriedly brushing her hands on her apron and chattering too rapidly for Lucia to understand, she became a small whirlwind of activity, somehow managing to guide Lucia to the far end of the table while almost simultaneously, it seemed, providing her with plate, utensils, napkin and a cup of steaming hot coffee. Lucia barely had time to note that both the napkin and tablecloth were snowy white and decorated with the same exqui
site embroidery as the wall hangings in her room, before platters heaped with cold meats, fresh rolls, hardboiled eggs and assorted pickled vegetables and fruit preserves appeared before her.
At the same time she was flitting about the kitchen, the woman kept up a rapid-fire chatter that didn’t seem to require a reply. Lucia kept smiling and nodding and saying the words, Köszönöm szépen, which she knew meant, thank you very much. And when, during a pause in the other woman’s monologue, she managed to insert the Hungarian words for milk and sugar, the woman clapped her hands like a delighted child.
Having produced a pitcher of milk and a small bowl of sugar, the woman paused, pulled out a chair and seated herself on its edge, like a hen on her perch. Then, speaking slowly and carefully, she asked-in Hungarian-if Lucia spoke magyarul. And she had an odd way of pronouncing her name, making it “Lee-sia,” rather than Lu-see-a.
Lucia shook her head apologetically. “Only a little.”
The woman merely smiled even wider and made an erasing motion with her hands as if to say, no problem. Then, speaking slowly and with much use of gestures, she introduced herself as Kati and asked if Lucia had slept well.
Once again Lucia was able to produce the right words from her tiny vocabulary. “Nagyon jól, köszönöm.” She was less successful, however, when she tried to ask about Corbett.
Kati seemed confused until Lucia tried asking instead about “Mr. Lazlo.” This time she got a bright smile, a nod and an enthusiastic, “Ah, Lacsi!”
From there she went happily into explanations, apparently having forgotten Lucia’s language limitations, until interrupted by some thumps and scufflings from outside the door. At this she popped out of the chair, clutching her apron, and began to bustle about, setting another place at the table.
Lucia sipped coffee and fought to compose herself while her heart lurched into overdrive.
The door opened and a man entered the kitchen along with a swirl of cool damp air. Corbett, of course. Yes, but a Corbett so different from the one Lucia knew, if Kati had introduced him to her as some other Lazlo-a long-lost brother or cousin, perhaps-she would not have been surprised.
Lazlo’s Last Stand Page 7
