“Sometimes it’s harder to sit in the background unable to take part in the action.” He knew firsthand what torment that inflicted.
“Yes, you feel anxious and helpless though you’re not responsible for that aspect of the operation.”
“Or you are responsible and still you can do nothing because it’s too damned late!”
His hand clenched, shattering the glass. With a ringing pop the bulbous bowl flew apart in a fireworks starburst that sprinkled tiny crystal shards and amber droplets onto the sofa and Oriental carpet.
“Damn!”
“Are you hurt?” Vanessa flew to him and grabbed his hand.
Blinking away the memory, Nick looked down at his hand. He felt no pain, but blood welled from the pad of his thumb where a needlelike shard protruded. He dropped the rest of the glass’s stem and plucked out the offending sliver. “Looks like I am. I’ll go take care of this.”
She clucked and tsked at him, herding him to the other end of the sofa. “Here, scoot down this way, away from the broken pieces. You’ll cut your bare feet.”
Once he was vertical, she cradled his wounded thumb in her small hands. Her warmth and gentleness seeped into him. “Let’s get this cleaned out and disinfected.”
He wanted to yield, to let her pamper him, but she was not going to bandage him like a little boy who’d fallen off his bike. He’d already allowed her to glimpse too much of his private pain. Coddling him would mean more intimacy. Intimacy meant questions. He firmed his mouth. “A minor cut. Nothing. I’ll manage.”
Her expression flashed from concern to hurt, then recognition. Recognition of what, he couldn’t fathom. What did her perceptive green eyes see? He almost caved and let her nurse him.
She released him, her expression neutral. “Yes, you go ahead and bandage that. I’ll clean up this mess.” She turned and strode down the hall toward the kitchen.
Uncertain, he stood in the same spot for a moment. What the hell just happened? One minute, she’d been Nurse Vanessa, all mother-hen worry and kiss-it-make-it-better tenderness. The next she couldn’t wait to get away from him. Did she see his determination? Or did she remember that they ought to steer clear of togetherness?
Shaking his head, he padded toward the stairs.
She emerged from the back of the house with a hand vacuum, broom and dustpan. “Nick.”
He halted on the second step.
“Before you come back down, put something on your feet. In case I don’t find all the bits of glass.” With that she breezed into the living room.
She cared after all. Unaccountably pleased, he took the stairs two at a time.
***
After clearing away the broken glass, Vanessa stowed the cleaning tools in their places in the utility closet and returned to the living room. What had just gone on? What torment built to critical mass inside Nick?
It wasn’t about his half brother. Not this time. All that anguish about responsibility and helplessness sprang from another source. Add his sardonic comment about not being a hero, and it had to stem from his military service. Some hidden trauma.
Well hidden.
Nothing in his file was suspicious. Whatever happened churned inside him. His emotional reactions might affect this mission, so she needed to know. Pulling it out of him would mean delicate moves on her part. He’d already raised new barriers against her seeing his physical pain.
Many times she’d seen the same tight jaw and closed expression on her brothers when they came home from basketball or soccer games with cut eyebrows or banged-up shins. The male code: show no pain; show no weakness. Her mom ignored their protestations and cuddled them anyway. Stoic Troy endured the pampering, but Jason, ever the luxury-loving baby, milked it for all it was worth.
Vanessa figured Nick to be more the stoic type. Except for that inner volcano that erupted just now.
Besides, treating his cut in the closeness of the master bathroom might have been dangerous in another, more personal way. No, she’d wait here for another window into what made Nicolas Markos tick.
“Danielle,” Nick yelled from upstairs.
She hesitated a second at the unfamiliar name, then smiled at his putting her in her undercover identity. She scurried into the hallway. “Problem?”
He appeared at the railing, a washcloth pressed to the injured thumb. “Yes, dammit. The cut’s deeper than I thought, and I’m too right-handed to do much with my left. I need your assistance after all.”
With a nod, she started toward the stairs.
“Would you bring me another drink on your way up?”
To his suite. His bathroom. His bedroom. Her face heated at the possibilities.
“On second thought,” he called, “bring the bottle.”
She was a professional. She could handle this situation. He wanted the drink for medicinal purposes. And a little more liqueur might ease the tension humming along her nerves. But no, if she hoped to elicit more from her complicated companion, she needed all her wits and defenses about her. She collected the bottle and one snifter before climbing the stairs.
The master suite was every bit as decadent as she remembered from her quick tour with Snow. A bedside lamp illuminated a mirrored ceiling, silken covers and drapes and an ankle-deep white carpet. Averting her gaze from the rumpled jade-green sheets on the two-acre bed, she looked beyond to the sitting area, which led to closets and a dressing room as big as her studio apartment. A few days’ worth of newspapers littered a sea-green upholstered settee. A tray laden with dirty dishes sat on a small table.
So that was where he retreated to escape sharing meals with her.
“I’m in the bathroom. Turn right,” he called.
Nick sat on a stool to the right of the sink, the washcloth pressed to his wounded thumb. Impassive demeanor in place, he extended his left hand for the liqueur glass.
“Sure I can trust you with this one?” She couldn’t prevent the biting tone.
A wry expression canted his mouth, and humor glinted in his eyes. “Unless you want to hand-feed me.”
Her mind binged on an image of herself holding the goblet and pressing the rim to his lips. The lips that had kissed her so thoroughly. Then tipping the liquid into his mouth and watching his throat work as he swallowed. Don’t go there.
Dry-mouthed, she poured him a generous amount.
He downed the Benedictine in one gulp. “That’s better. Damn thing stings like the devil. Bandages and antiseptic are there on the sink.”
The bedroom’s color scheme extended into the bath with white tiles and forest-green cabinet and towels. The spacious room boasted a shower stall separate from the Jacuzzi-equipped bathtub. No antiques except in the design of the brass towel racks. Heated, of course. Alexei had enjoyed his luxuries.
“Let’s see that cut.” Determined to be businesslike, she cradled his hand in both of hers. “You washed it out?”
His strong, lean fingers dwarfed hers. His heat seeped into her, softening her insides and threatening her composure. Hard calluses on his palms surprised her. Running an international import company didn’t entail physical labor.
He nodded. “Washed it, rinsed with peroxide. You probably heard me howl.”
Pleased at his rare show of humor, she replied, “I thought a tomcat was serenading on the back fence.” She lifted the blood-soaked washcloth and peered at the cut. “Deep, but small enough that you don’t need stitches. You’ll have to keep pressure on it for a while.”
“Wrap it good and tight, doc. I don’t want to get blood all over those fancy silk sheets.”
Intrigued at the disapproval in his voice, she cocked her head at him. “You don’t like Alexei’s bedroom decor?”
He snorted. “I like the silk sheets, but they’re the least of it. Most of his choices tick me off. The extravagance in this house reminds me every day of the greed that led to more than one death. Including his.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his shoulders jerked.
>
“Hold still.”
“Sorry.” He clamped his mouth into a tight line and lowered his gaze as she worked to treat his thumb.
She squeezed antiseptic ointment on the cut. “The anger that crushed the glass wasn’t about your brother, was it?”
“No.” The finality of his tone didn’t invite questions.
She had to think how to draw him out. But his nearness made it hard to think at all. The liqueur’s rich scent mingled with his soap to lure her closer. She applied a sterile bandage while fighting the urge to run her fingers through his tousled hair.
When she bumped up against his knees, she blinked and stepped back. “There, all wrapped up like Tutankhamen.”
She busied herself with stowing the first-aid materials in the medicine cabinet.
“If King Tut had had some of this fine liqueur, he might still be alive.” One eyebrow quirked up as he held out his glass for more.
She restrained herself from pointing out that particular extravagance of his brother’s was another he liked. She poured. “Your wound will need the bandage for a day or two, but after that, opening it up will allow oxygen to promote healing.”
He mumbled a growl as he swigged from the snifter. “Now you even sound like a medic. Medical training or DARK?”
“You’d be surprised at the variety of undercover roles I’ve played. Yes, doctor was one. I’ve also been a barmaid, a banker and a secretary.”
“Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. Is that the kids’ rhyme?”
Is he a little drunk? “Lawyer yes. Indian chief no.” She handed him two ibuprofen tablets and a glass of water.
He ignored the water and downed the tablets with liqueur.
He probably wasn’t in the mood to be warned about mixing pills and alcohol. Watching him, she chose her tactic.
“A wound can fester and turn to poison if it’s kept covered for too long. Fresh air can heal all kinds of hurts, even old, buried ones.”
Chapter 6
NICK LOOKED UP to see her watching him, a gentle smile on her face. Her quiet, calm and clear honest gaze implied she cared, but probing his mind was probably part of her damn job. She was making sure he didn’t flip out and scuttle the mission.
DARK must have a file on the Somalia strike. Though she didn’t act like it, she probably knew the worst. Knew why DARK wouldn’t want him involved except as the traitor’s brother.Why the hell did she want him to spell out his shame?
He rose from the stool, nearly kicking it over. “Old wounds never heal if you keep opening them up.” He stalked into the bedroom and to the window beyond the bed.
He didn’t hear her follow. Just as well if she left him alone. The nearer she was the more irresistible he found her. She was strong and savvy, warm and comforting.
With a body he ached to possess. On the stool, he’d had an eyeful. He’d inhaled her scent and barely resisted nuzzling her breasts. The erect nipples poking the thin jumpsuit had begged to be tasted.
“Something happened to you in Special Forces,” she said, coming up beside him. The direct look in her brilliant green eyes offered encouragement, inspired confidence.
“Something. Yes.” He set his glass on the windowsill. No more mind-fuzzing. His edges were blurred enough that he could face it. “What does my file say about Somalia?”
She tilted her head as if considering her answer. Small furrows appeared between her eyebrows. “You were a sergeant with the third Special Forces group sent as security for humanitarian relief.”
He worked up an encouraging expression, but his attempt at a smile was probably more of a sneer. “Right so far. Go on. What else?”
“There’s mention of an op to secure a weapons cache in a remote village. Something went wrong and men were lost.”
“Then you know everything. My screw-up killed four men. End of story.”
“But surely—”
“You have enough without me rattling the skeletons.” He’d tortured himself enough for one night.
His gaze snagged on her sweet mouth, a much better alternative to think about. He slid a hand behind her neck and tugged gently until he closed the space between them to barely an inch. Her fresh scent lured him to forget everything else. The bed was only a foot behind her. He began edging her backward. “Instead, let’s talk about how hot you look in that slinky commando gear.”
Her feathery lashes fluttered in uncertainty and she swayed toward him.
She wanted him. Knowing that stoked the coals inside him to a blaze. Only inches to the bed now. He danced one hand down her back, closer to that pert round bottom he ached to hold. They could be on the bed, wrapped around each other. He went from aroused to hard in a nanosecond.
But before his lips could touch hers, she sidestepped, the furrows again between her brows. She scooted around the bed, out of reach. “Clever job of derailing, but a dangerous detour. For both of us. You want the real Danielle. I’m just a convenient warm body. And I don’t trespass.” Her voice shook.
Good, Somalia had flown from her head. “And such a sexy, warm body. You’re off base about who I want. I know exactly who I was about to kiss.” He trailed after her on her escape route.
She stopped at the bedroom door and faced him. “Sexy? Me? Now I know you’re merely trying to change topics. You have to pretend in public, but in private allow me my pride.” Temper infused high color in her cheeks and flared her nostrils.
“No pretense. You’re damn cute when you’re angry.”
“Cute. Exactly. Not sexy. Not seductive. Wholesome. The cute sister. The good buddy, the best friend. That’s me.”
He scratched his nape with his good hand. She had some strange ideas about herself. “I apologize for stepping over the line. Honey, you make me forget I’m supposed to be engaged.”
“Give it up, Nick. Good night.”
He stood in the doorway until he heard her door close. Confusing female, but weren’t they all? Fascinating. Bright and competent, witty, confident in her profession, but insecure as a woman. Maybe having a cover model for a sister was to blame. But they were nothing alike. Vanessa had her own beauty. Anyone with testosterone could see that. He sure as hell didn’t think of her as his buddy.
But damn, he’d better try, or he’d blow his cover story of the engagement.
He stretched out on his rumpled sheets and tried to ignore his thumb and another throbbing need caused by that particular confusing woman.
***
As soon as she’d secured the motion sensor on her door, Vanessa stripped off the jumpsuit. She’d considered the garment only protective cover until Nick’s ogling turned it into seduction fashion.
She slipped on her comfortable cotton nightgown. The garment was one of the few items of her own clothing she’d brought. No one but her would see it. Although the housekeeper knew she kept her toiletries and clothing in this guest room, Vanessa made this bed carefully every day to keep up the pretense that she spent her nights in Nick’s bed.
Nick’s bed. She could’ve spent tonight there if she’d yielded to temptation. And his blatant invitation. He seemed to have no compunction about betraying his fiancée and expected her to have none. That incongruous lack of principle in a man bound to regain his honor worried her.
His final words as she left came to her: “You make me forget I’m supposed to be engaged.”
Supposed to be engaged? What an odd choice of words for a man in love! Or was he?
She heaved a tired sigh. She was being overly picky and suspicious, the default trait of her profession. A man of the world like Nick, with a glamorous fiancée, didn’t really want plain girl-next-door Vanessa. He simply needed distraction from the demons plaguing him.
Demons, oh yes. She climbed into the four-poster bed. Demons of guilt for what he believed he’d done or not done years ago. What happened in that Somali village ate at him like a cancer. That incomplete confession increased her insight. His anger at his brot
her’s crimes stemmed from a strong sense of responsibility — and a need to redeem his own honor as well as his family’s.
Her heart squeezed. If she could banish his demons, she’d be tempted to go to him. But taking him in her arms would be dangerous. It would be wrong. She had to ignore her attraction to him while she acted the fiancée role. And while she spied on him to ensure he didn’t deviate from DARK’s program.
She punched her pillow and turned over. Chasing sleep was a losing race.
***
Vanessa saw Nick only briefly the next day. She found him in the study on a conference call with New York and London. He punched the speaker button off and growled, “My restaurant supply business is going down the tubes. One disaster after another, and all I can do is delegate.”
She made sympathetic comments. When his expression softened, she said, “I’ll be working next door on security arrangements for the Friday reception.”
Leaning against the closed door, she thought he seemed grateful for the cool-down after the night’s heated encounter. He was probably regretting coming on to her. Better all around. Better that they could avoid each other in the house.
Suspicion. Detachment. No intimacy.
She pushed off and headed next door.
Ah, just once, she wanted a man to mean it when he said she looked hot and tried to seduce her. She wanted him to want her, not her undercover persona. She wanted him not to have an ulterior motive, like an introduction to her hotter sister. Or like a detour from his problems in sweaty sex.
She wanted a man who didn’t already have a fiancée.
***
That night, the DARK cameras and motion sensors recorded no intruders. No burglars, New Dawn or otherwise, attempted to enter through the severed fence.
On Wednesday morning Snow drove Nick and Vanessa to Markos Imports, where Nick fought another round with the employees about selling the business. Clearly his determination to sell arose from his aversion to anything of his brother’s.
Later the car took them to the suitably gloomy Georgian structure housing Falstone and Drumm Funeral Home. The authorities had only just released Alexei’s body for cremation, so Nick had to schedule the service. When Snow stopped the Mercedes beneath the funeral home’s portico, Nick hesitated, his hand on the door.
Dark Cover (The DARK Files #2) Page 6
