THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  Cur­sing a blue stre­ak, Jack and Cleo ra­ced for the last re­ma­ining li­fe­bo­at. Cleo to­re off the oran­ge co­ver, then flop­ped in­to the bo­at. Do­no­van fol­lo­wed and cran­ked away. The bow til­ted, drop­ped at a sharp an­g­le and al­most sent her splat­ting in­to the wa­ter. She wrap­ped both arms aro­und a se­at and hung on for de­ar li­fe.

  Swe­aring, Jack re­ver­sed the crank and ga­ve it anot­her co­up­le of turns. This ti­me the back end of the bo­at plun­ged stra­ight down. Cleo's arms we­re al­most wren­c­hed out of her sho­ul­der soc­kets be­fo­re he got the craft re­la­ti­vely le­vel.

  They jer­ked and hum­ped and se­esa­wed dow­n­ward. When they hit the wa­ter, the for­ce of im­pact rat­tled her te­eth and sent wa­ves cras­hing over the gun­wa­les. Blin­king the salt from her eyes, Cleo di­ved for the latch se­cu­ring the cab­les. She got the for­ward cab­le free and to­re off what was left of her fin­ger­na­ils strug­gling with the re­ar cab­le.

  "We're cle­ar! Fi­re her up."

  The en­gi­ne kic­ked over af­ter only one fal­se start. Ab­so­lu­tely cer­ta­in that first abor­ti­ve at­tempt had tur­ned her ha­ir a snowy whi­te, she col­lap­sed on­to a se­at whi­le Jack sho­ved the throt­tle up to full po­wer.

  The bo­at lur­c­hed, gat­he­red spe­ed, to­ok off. Cleo ris­ked a glan­ce over her sho­ul­der and sin­ce­rely wis­hed she hadn't. The fla­mes had re­ac­hed the car­go area. Sna­king out from the dec­k­ho­use, they lic­ked at the pods stac­ked one on top of the ot­her.

  "Fas­ter, Jack. Puh-le­e­ez, just a lit­tle fas­ter."

  He co­uldn't he­ar her. Nor did he lo­ok back. The an­g­le of his jaw told Cleo he knew the­ir chan­ces we­re slim to no­ne­xis­tent.

  She star­ted ma­king lists of all the things she sho­uld ha­ve do­ne be­fo­re zip­ping off to Mal­ta. Li­ke up­da­te her will to in­c­lu­de six months' se­ve­ran­ce pay for Mae. Be­qu­e­ath the an­ti­que sa­mu­rai sword she'd pic­ked up in Japan to Go­ose. Set Do­re­en up with an unem­p­loy­ment fund of sorts. Call Wis­hy-Washy Wan­da and of­fer so­me ad­vi­ce on wal­lpa­per.

  Say go­od­b­ye to her dad.

  The idea that Pat­rick North might very well get a pho­ne call in­for­ming him that his only da­ug­h­ter had di­ed in a fi­ery ex­p­lo­si­on in the mid­dle of the Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an Sea was not so­met­hing Cleo wan­ted to think abo­ut.

  Inste­ad, she wren­c­hed her tho­ughts back to Jack. If she had to be blown out of the wa­ter, she co­uldn't think of an­yo­ne she'd rat­her be blown out with. She fi­gu­red this was as go­od a ti­me as any to tell him so.

  "Hey! Do­no­van!"

  "What?"

  "I just tho­ught you sho­uld know. I think you're Si­er­ra Ho­tel."

  His grin flas­hed out. Cocky. Ir­re­sis­tib­le. All Do­no­van.

  "You're pretty hot yo­ur­self, North."

  "In ca­se I don't get a chan­ce to tell you so la­ter, you're for­gi­ven for the plas­tic res­t­ra­ints."

  "Don't be too hasty. I'm plan­ning on a se­cond ro­und af­ter we-"

  The ex­p­lo­si­on blew the rest of his sen­ten­ce all to hell. It al­so blew him hal­f­way ac­ross the bo­at.

  He slam­med in­to Cleo, knoc­ked her off her se­at and went down with her. Wrap­ped in a tan­g­le of arms and legs, they ro­de wa­ve af­ter wa­ve of per­cus­si­ve blasts.

  With each blast, the li­fe­bo­at lif­ted out of the wa­ter. Slam­med down. Roc­ked from si­de to si­de. Wa­ter po­ured in, le­aving Cleo awash and snor­ting out salty spray. Deb­ris ra­ined down aro­und them.

  Fi­nal­ly, the ex­p­lo­si­ons we­re re­du­ced to a se­ri­es of his­sing elec­t­ri­cal spurts. The wa­ves sub­si­ded. Jack's he­avy we­ight, ho­we­ver, did not.

  It pin­ned Cleo to the bot­tom of the bo­at, smo­os­hing the air from her lungs. It had al­so, she re­ali­zed as she tri­ed to wed­ge her arms bet­we­en the­ir chests, pro­tec­ted her from the fal­ling deb­ris. When he pri­ed him­self off her, they sat up to vi­ew the dra­ma un­fol­ding be­hind them. Sho­ul­der to sho­ul­der, they wat­c­hed a clo­ud of black smo­ke spre­ad ac­ross the sea and the co­lumn of fla­mes that used to be the Pit­sen­bar­ger sink slowly in­to the Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an.

  "J­esus."

  Jack's soft mur­mur ra­ised the ha­irs on the back of Cleo's neck. She hud­dled clo­ser whi­le deb­ris pop­ped up li­ke odd-sha­ped corks. The less-bu­oyant pi­eces so­on sank out of sight. Bits of plas­tic and wo­od and fo­am con­ti­nu­ed to bob on the sur­fa­ce long af­ter an eerie stil­lness had en­ve­lo­ped the li­fe­bo­at.

  In a vo­ice that re­ver­be­ra­ted with both awe and chag­rin, Jack shat­te­red the mo­ment. "When you blow things up, you do it right, wo­man."

  "For the re­cord, I did not ca­use the Pit­sen­bar­ger to blow. Ra­dio Man did."

  "Af­ter you 'got in his way.'"

  "It was eit­her that or watch the Se­ahawk ta­ke a di­rect hit from a sho­ul­der-la­un­c­hed mis­si­le."

  "Hel­lu­va cho­ice," Jack ag­re­ed, sle­wing aro­und.

  The mo­ve­ment sank him back in­to the se­awa­ter and tip­ped Cleo on­to his ba­re chest aga­in. He set­tled her mo­re com­for­tably, stro­king her ha­ir as the smo­ke swir­led ac­ross the sur­fa­ce of the sea.

  She was so busy so­aking in the com­fort from Jack's so­lid bulk, it to­ok her a whi­le to re­ali­ze she ne­eded to gi­ve as well as re­ce­ive. Lif­ting a hand, she tra­ced a fin­ger­tip over the old bul­let wo­und in his right sho­ul­der. Just the fe­el of that scar ge­ne­ra­ted a rush of me­mo­ri­es of anot­her fi­re­fight, anot­her clo­se es­ca­pe. It al­so stir­red a sharp, pri­mi­ti­ve ne­ed.

  Part of it was be­ating the odds. All she had to do was glan­ce at that black pall of smo­ke to fe­el a shi­very thrill ra­ce along her ve­ins.

  But most of it was Jack.

  "How long do you think it will ta­ke se­ar­ch-and-res­cue to find us?" she as­ked.

  "Not long, on­ce I ac­ti­va­te the li­fe­bo­at's ho­ming de­vi­ce."

  "We've got a ho­ming de­vi­ce?"

  "It's re­qu­ired by ma­ri­ti­me law for any li­fe­bo­at car­rying mo­re than fo­ur pas­sen­gers."

  "Funny, I only see two in this bo­at."

  She co­uld tell the in­s­tant both her to­uch and her com­ment re­gis­te­red. His mus­c­les went ta­ut un­der her hand and his vo­ice tip­ped in­to a low drawl.

  "Now that you men­ti­on it, that's all I see, too."

  He eased her down, stret­c­hing his long length out be­si­de hers. Wa­ter slos­hed over them, un­he­eded. Smo­ke bloc­ked the sun, the sky, ever­y­t­hing but Do­no­van's cro­oked grin.

  "Ever do it in a li­fe­bo­at, North?"

  "No. You?"

  "No. But I'm ga­me if you are."

  She was ga­me.

  She was most de­fi­ni­tely ga­me.

  Par­ti­cu­larly af­ter Do­no­van slid his hand un­der the jun­g­le print and wor­ked a hand in­si­de her bo­xers.

  25

  A re­turn to re­ality ca­me with the whap-whap-whap of the Se­ahawk. The chop­per cir­c­led thro­ugh the smo­ke, mar­king the lo­ca­ti­on of the va­ri­o­us li­fe­bo­ats that had sped in all di­rec­ti­ons to es­ca­pe the ex­p­lo­si­on.

  It was fol­lo­wed a short ti­me la­ter by the buzz of se­arch pla­nes sco­uring the area. By then Cleo's sto­mach was ex­p­res­sing se­ri­o­us dis­p­le­asu­re at ha­ving be­en dep­ri­ved of sus­te­nan­ce for so long. The growls had gat­he­red eno­ugh vo­lu­me to al­most drown out the slap of the wa­ves aga­inst the bo­at and the dis­tant dro­ne of air­c­raft.

  'Think we sho­uld ac­ti­va­te the ho­ming de­vi­ce?" Jack as­ked la­zily, a smi­le in his vo­ice.

  "Mmmm."

  "Is that
a yes?"

  Cleo wa­ged a bri­ef in­ter­nal war. She lay stret­c­hed out be­si­de Jack on the nest they'd ma­de from the in­f­la­tab­le li­fe­j­ac­kets stas­hed in the bo­at. Her he­ad was pil­lo­wed on his sho­ul­der. Splashy red-and-gre­en span­dex on­ce aga­in co­ve­red the mo­re vul­ne­rab­le por­ti­ons of her ana­tomy. The silk bo­xers we­re slos­hing aro­und in the bot­tom of the bo­at, tho­ugh, bu­ri­ed un­der se­ve­ral la­yers of li­fe vests.

  Unfor­tu­na­tely, her pesky con­s­ci­en­ce had al­re­ady star­ted nat­te­ring at her with the sa­me an­no­ying fre­qu­ency as her sto­mach. She knew Slo­an and his sis­ter had ma­de it in­to a li­fe­bo­at and de­par­ted the Pit­sen­bar­ger. He was still tec­h­ni­cal­ly her cli­ent, tho­ugh, and Cleo ne­eded to wrap things up with him.

  Then the­re was the mat­ter of the ship.

  They'd fa­ce a bar­ra­ge of qu­es­ti­ons. The air for­ce wo­uld con­duct a bo­ard of in­qu­iry. The navy, as well, sin­ce the Na­val Se­alift Com­mand had con­t­rac­ted for the ship.

  And, Cleo tho­ught with a sin­king sen­sa­ti­on, the U.S. Mer­c­hant Ma­ri­ti­me Aut­ho­rity, sin­ce they li­cen­sed the crew and man­ned the ship. Then, of co­ur­se, the­re was the Co­ast Gu­ard, which re­gu­la­ted the Mer­c­hant Ma­ri­ne. She was pretty su­re the De­par­t­ment of Ho­me­land Se­cu­rity wo­uld get in­to the act, too.

  The list was en­d­less. To so­me­one who ten­ded to an­noy, an­ta­go­ni­ze or ge­ne­ral­ly piss off of­fi­ci­al­dom wit­ho­ut even trying, it was al­so hor­rif­ying. Shud­de­ring, Cleo cur­led up aga­inst Jack.

  "For­get the ho­ming de­vi­ce! Let's sne­ak away and he­ad for the Gre­ek Is­les."

  Do­no­van pla­yed with her ha­ir, cur­ling a damp strand aro­und his thumb. She co­uld he­ar the la­ug­h­ter and the reg­ret in the an­s­wer that rum­b­led up from his chest.

  "As tem­p­ting as that so­unds, the Old Man's pro­bably bit­ten thro­ugh se­ve­ral pi­pe stems by now."

  Oh, God! She'd for­got­ten abo­ut Ge­ne­ral Bar­nes. The Gre­ek Is­les wo­uldn't put eno­ugh dis­tan­ce bet­we­en Cleo and her for­mer boss when he he­ard abo­ut the Pit­sen­bar­ger. She was thin­king An­tar­c­ti­ca when Do­no­van re­min­ded her that his in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on was far from over.

  "I ne­ed to bri­ef Bar­nes on the hi­j­ac­king. I al­so ne­ed to fol­low up on the gut fe­eling that this cha­rac­ter Do­mi­no is mo­re than just a bro­ker."

  Wig­gling up­right in the oran­ge nest, Cleo sho­ved her tan­g­led ha­ir out of her eyes. "I got that fe­eling, too. The hi­j­ac­king was or­ga­ni­zed and well fun­ded. So­me­one mas­ter­min­ded it from the start. It ma­kes sen­se that so­me­one wo­uld be the per­son who sto­od to pro­fit most by it."

  Jack ca­me up on one el­bow and let his eyes drift over the bits of deb­ris still flo­ating on the dar­ke­ning sea. "I want him, Cleo. I want him bad."

  "So do I."

  The sur­vi­vors from the Pit­sen­bar­ger we­re flown to the navy ba­se at Nap­les. So­me of the ma­ri­ners we­re in pretty bad sha­pe and had to be tre­ated for va­ri­o­us inj­uri­es, as did a num­ber of the hi­j­ac­kers.

  To Cleo's pro­fo­und dis­gust, the pudgy lit­tle ra­dio ope­ra­tor wasn't among them. The ships and pla­nes com­bing the Med had fo­und no tra­ce of his li­fe­bo­at. Not sur­p­ri­sing, sin­ce one of the ot­her hi­j­ac­kers ad­mit­ted that par­ti­cu­lar li­fe­bo­at had be­en out­fit­ted with spe­ci­al ra­dars and a high-spe­ed en­gi­ne to fa­ci­li­ta­te just such a qu­ick es­ca­pe.

  They didn't ad­mit much el­se, tho­ugh. Jack gril­led them for ho­urs thro­ugh in­ter­p­re­ters be­fo­re le­aving them to the navy JAGs, who wo­uld work the­ir ex­t­ra­di­ti­on back to the Sta­tes for cri­mes com­mit­ted aga­inst a ship flying the U.S. flag.

  Do­no­van lo­oked li­ke hell war­med over when he re­j­o­ined Cleo, Marc and Johan­na Mar­s­ton. Johan­na had al­re­ady ar­ran­ged tran­s­por­ta­ti­on to Lon­don. Li­ke Jack, she had to bri­ef her su­pe­ri­ors. Un­li­ke Jack, ho­we­ver, the Bri­tish agent was tra­ve­ling via a Ro­yal Air For­ce tran­s­port la­id on es­pe­ci­al­ly for her. Do­no­van wo­uld zip back to the Sta­tes abo­ard Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering's cor­po­ra­te jet. With her usu­al ef­fi­ci­ency, Di­ane Wal­ker had pac­ked them all up and set­tled the ac­co­unt at the Auber­ge St. Ge­or­ges. She was due to ar­ri­ve in Nap­les wit­hin the ho­ur. Johan­na sa­id go­od­b­ye on the ve­ran­da of the hos­pi­tal. Night had set­tled in per­fu­med splen­dor over the ba­se per­c­hed on a cur­ve of the Bay of Nap­les. The bright lights of the Ita­li­an city win­ked ac­ross the bay. The dar­ker sha­dow of Mo­unt Ve­su­vi­us lo­omed be­yond the lights.

  Cleo and Jack wa­ited in an al­co­ve whi­le brot­her and sis­ter ma­de the­ir fa­re­wel­ls. With all that had hap­pe­ned, it was a jolt to re­mem­ber that Slo­an and Lady Mar­s­ton had met for the first ti­me only that mor­ning. They ob­vi­o­usly felt the od­dness, too. Cleo co­uld see the tug of emo­ti­ons in the­ir fa­ces, so ali­ke now that she knew the con­nec­ti­on.

  Svel­te and eye-cat­c­hing in that black jum­p­su­it, Johan­na clas­ped her brot­her's hand. "I ha­ve a co­untry ho­use in Kent. You must bring Di­ane and co­me for a vi­sit. Per­haps you might bring Ale­xan­der, too. I sho­uld li­ke to get to know you both."

  "I'd li­ke that, too."

  She he­si­ta­ted a mo­ment be­fo­re of­fe­ring a word of ad­vi­ce. "I must say I was qu­ite im­p­res­sed with Di­ane. It's no­ne of my bu­si­ness, of co­ur­se, but I do think you sho­uld marry the wo­man."

  "I co­uldn't ag­ree mo­re. I've be­en trying to con­vin­ce her to for­ma­li­ze our par­t­ner­s­hip. She's pro­ving sur­p­ri­singly stub­born."

  Johan­na smi­led at the ir­ri­ta­ti­on bu­ri­ed in his reply. Ob­vi­o­usly, the han­d­so­me exe­cu­ti­ve wasn't used to be­ing re­buf­fed.

  "Try har­der," his sis­ter ad­vi­sed. "As I le­ar­ned from the loss of my de­ar Barty, one simply can­not ta­ke li­fe-or lo­ve-for gran­ted."

  Johan­na's ad­vi­ce rat­tled aro­und in Marc's he­ad as the dri­ver he'd hi­red whis­ked him, Cleo and Do­no­van out to the air­port. The Gul­f­s­t­re­am had al­re­ady to­uc­hed down and was wa­iting at the pri­va­te jet ter­mi­nal. Di­ane was wa­iting be­si­de it.

  When they clim­bed out of the car, the roc­k­s­te­ady as­sis­tant who'd hel­ped him bu­ild a cor­po­ra­ti­on from the gro­und up star­ted to­ward him. Wit­hin two steps, she'd bro­ken in­to a jog. Be­fo­re Marc co­uld pay the dri­ver, she was ra­cing ac­ross the tar­mac. Te­ars stre­aming down her fa­ce, she threw her­self in­to his arms.

  "I he­ard abo­ut the ex­p­lo­si­on on the ra­dio. They sa­id the­re we­re ca­su­al­ti­es. I co­uldn't re­ach you. I co­uldn't re­ach an­yo­ne! I tho­ught… I was so af­ra­id…"

  "I'm sorry. I had them con­tact you as so­on as we got pic­ked up."

  No­isy, gul­ping sobs sho­ok her. She thrust back, el­bows stiff, skim­ming his fa­ce with an­xi­o­us eyes. "Are you hurt? Yo­ur thro­at… Yo­ur vo­ice…" "I'm okay. I just swal­lo­wed a lit­tle smo­ke." She drop­ped on­to his chest aga­in. Marc fol­ded his arms aro­und her, fe­eling a fi­er­ce rush of lo­ve tin­ged with mo­re than a to­uch of gu­ilt. Trish's tra­gic de­ath had bro­ught him both a sis­ter he ne­ver knew he had and this in­c­re­dib­le wo­man he was only now get­ting to know.

  He co­ul­dn't-wo­ul­dn't-squ­an­der that le­gacy. "Cleo, you and Do­no­van ta­ke the Gul­f­s­t­re­am back to the Sta­tes. I ha­ve so­me bu­si­ness to at­tend to he­re in Italy."

  Swal­lo­wing her sobs, Di­ane pus­hed out of his arms aga­in. "You didn't tell me," she gul­ped, strug­gling for com­po­su­re. "I didn't ma­ke any ar­ran­ge­ments or re­ser­va­ti
­ons."

  "I'll ta­ke ca­re of the ar­ran­ge­ments."

  "But…"

  "All you ha­ve to do is say si."

  "What?"

  "That's Ita­li­an for yes, isn't it?"

  "It is, but I don't…"

  "When the pri­est or ma­gis­t­ra­te asks for yo­ur res­pon­se, all you ha­ve to do is say si. Think you can ma­na­ge that?"

  She ope­ned her mo­uth. Drew in a de­ep bre­ath.

  Anti­ci­pa­ting anot­her re­fu­sal, Marc pre­em­p­ted any fur­t­her dis­cus­si­on by the sim­p­le ex­pe­di­ent of co­ve­ring her mo­uth with his.

  The kiss was long and hard and put him in a fe­ver of im­pa­ti­en­ce. Wit­ho­ut anot­her word to Cleo or Jack, he yan­ked open the pas­sen­ger do­or of the li­mo and thrust Di­ane in­si­de.

  "The Amal­fi co­ast," he in­s­t­ruc­ted the dri­ver.

  "But whe­re on the co­ast, sig­nor? Sor­ren­to? Ra­vel­lo? The ferry to Cap­ri?"

  "J­ust dri­ve. I'll tell you when to stop."

  With a shrug that spo­ke vo­lu­mes abo­ut Ame­ri­cans with mo­re mo­ney than sen­se, the dri­ver clim­bed in­to his se­at and put the car in ge­ar.

  "That was in­te­res­ting," Cleo com­men­ted as the ta­il­lights di­sap­pe­ared aro­und a han­gar.

  "Very," Jack ag­re­ed. "Think Di­ane will ag­ree to go be­fo­re that pri­est or ma­gis­t­ra­te?"

  "Not be­fo­re she lays down so­me very spe­ci­fic gro­und ru­les. I'm gu­es­sing Marc's past is abo­ut to catch up with him."

  Cleo co­uldn't dod­ge her past, eit­her. It smac­ked her right in the fa­ce so­me forty mi­nu­tes af­ter the Gul­f­s­t­re­am gli­ded in­to D.C.'s Re­agan Na­ti­onal Air­port. Jack had be­en in­s­t­ruc­ted to re­port to An­d­rews Air For­ce Ba­se im­me­di­ately upon lan­ding to bri­ef Ge­ne­ral Bar­nes. He ar­gu­ed and ca­j­oled and, fi­nal­ly, blac­k­ma­iled Cleo in­to ac­com­pan­ying him.

  As pay­back for sen­ding her in­to the li­ne of fi­re, he pro­mi­sed to ke­ep her ad­vi­sed of the con­ti­nu­ing se­arch for Do­mi­no.