Seduced by the Operative

by Merline Lovelace

  Recognizing that fact, however, didn’t necessarily mean Luis had to like it. Or accept it.

  Torn by conflicting urges, he lit his cigar and pulled in the taste of rum-soaked tobacco. Every primal instinct he possessed shouted at him to kick open her bedroom door and stake his claim once and for all. Only the thin veneer of civilization, crafted by education and society, held him back. That, and the absolute certainty Claire would use the same lethal moves on him as she had on their attacker.

  Porter. Edward Porter.

  Luis’s stomach knotted at the memory of the knife the bastard had held to Claire’s throat. Frowning, he racked his mind for a connection, any connection, to the warning to back off that Porter had whispered in her ear.

  Was it him? Had he drawn the attack and the warning? God knows, he’d made his share of enemies as Cartoza’s chief of security. The leaders of at least three drug cartels operating out of neighboring Colombia had put a bounty on his head.

  His jaw working, Luis rolled the cigarillo from one corner of his mouth to the other.

  The shapes came at her out of the darkness. Amorphous. Indistinct. Shrouded in swirls of mist that felt icy cold on her skin. They seemed to drag forward, weighted down by a universe of worry, of fear.

  Closer they came. And closer. Until the mist parted and she could see some in dresses topped with dingy aprons, others in baggy pants and homespun shirts. And there! A mincing popinjay in bright silks! She was trying to take in his ruffled cuffs and knee britches worn above high-heeled, buckled shoes, when another figure emerged from the crowd. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see any of their faces clearly, but the set of his shoulders triggered something. Some memory. Some primal recognition.

  Her joy was instant, liquid and molten, filling every corner of her being. She held out her arms, crying to him.

  Dave! Dave!

  He moved closer, part of the crowd that flowed around her. She could almost see his face now, almost make out his features. Her heart beat so hard and fast she could hear it, feel it hammering against her ribs.

  Dave!

  She tried to run to him but her legs wouldn’t move. Tried to call out to him but her cry became a low, agonized mewl as his features, still indistinct, blurred even more. Slowly, so slowly, the pale oval of his face began to disintegrate.

  No! Dear God, no! Don’t leave me! Not again!

  Helpless, unable to move, she writhed with a grief so sharp it stabbed into her heart like a surgeon’s knife. Before her eyes everything that was Dave, everything that had been her husband, melted away. His clothing, his tall, muscular frame, his very being.

  Until all that remained were bones. A skull staring at her with empty, soulless eyes. A collection of bones moving as if by wire. Coming toward her. Reaching for her.

  She backed away. Heard an ominous rattle. Spun in a circle to find herself ringed by macabre skeletons. All reaching for her. All moving toward her. Pulling her hair. Tearing her clothes. Peeling away her flesh.

  She fought back. Fought Dave. Fought them all. Kicking, biting. Flailing her fists. She couldn’t stop them. Their bony fingers as sharp as talons, they tore the flesh from her face.

  The scream jolted Luis awake.

  In a move as instinctive as it was swift, he rolled out of bed and grabbed his ankle holster from the nightstand. He didn’t stop to pull on his jeans. Yanking the Glock out of the holster, he raced for Claire’s room.

  Another scream ripped through the night. His veins icing, Luis cocked the pistol on the run. He burst through the door to Claire’s room and dropped into a crouch. Enough light came through the transom over the drawn drapes for him to sweep the room. Two seconds later, he surged upright and hit the light switch.

  The sight of Claire tangled in the covers, thrashing back and forth as she clawed the air, put an icy chill dead center in his heart.

  “Jesu!”

  Shoving his weapon onto the bedside table beside the slim volume they’d purchased earlier, he caught her wildly flailing wrists.

  “Claire! Mi amor!”

  “No! No!”

  “It’s Luis. I am here.”

  She fought him, astounding him with her strength. He had to exert a good deal of effort to maintain his grip on this slender, delicate woman.

  “You’re dreaming. Claire, do you hear me? You’re dreaming. Wake up, my darling.”

  Her eyelids flew up. She stared at him, her pupils huge, dark pools of terror.

  “Lu…?” She slicked her tongue over dry, cracked lips. “Luis?”

  “Yes.” He eased his brutal hold. “I’m here.”

  The fight went out of her, but not the horror. Her eyes were wild. Shudders racked her entire body.

  With a muttered oath, he released her wrists and yanked away the constricting covers so he could slide into bed beside her. When he took her in his arms, she collapsed against his naked chest. Her hands clutched desperately at his arms, her nails dug deep into his biceps.

  He held her. Just held her. Stroking her hair. Murmuring words of comfort and assurance. Feeling helpless and alarmed and shaken to his core by the violent tremors she transmitted from her body to his.

  He couldn’t gauge how long it took for her terror to fade. A good ten or fifteen minutes, he guessed, although it seemed like hours. Eventually the shudders ceased and she dug her nails out of his upper arms.

  Still he held her, waiting while her breathing steadied and the quiet of the night settled around them. When she finally angled her head and met his gaze, the unspeakable tragedy in her eyes grabbed him by the throat.

  “It was Dave,” she whispered. “I dreamed about Dave. He…He melted away right before my eyes.”

  Luis certainly didn’t have the wall full of degrees Claire did, but he could make the connection.

  “I understand,” he murmured, aching for her even as he kicked himself for urging her to take steps she obviously wasn’t ready for. “To accommodate me you moved David out of your bedroom, literally and perhaps figuratively. Now guilt has hit you. With a vengeance.”

  She pushed a little off his chest. A deep crease formed between her brows. She was still shaken, still troubled, but the Claire he knew had already emerged from the terrified woman of a few minutes ago.

  “This was more than a manifestation of suppressed guilt. His flesh just melted away. Right before my eyes. Like in Stacy Andrews’s nightmares.”

  Another shudder rippled through her.

  “Dave wasn’t the only one in the dream,” she told him slowly. “There were others. A great many others. Strange people dressed in strange clothes. Surrounding me. The flesh shredded off their bones, until they were all skeletons reaching for me and ripping at my flesh.”

  Listening to her, Luis felt an instinctive urge to make a hasty sign of the cross. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that!

  Like most Central Americans, he’d been born and raised a Catholic. But he’d seen too much of the brutal and deranged to sustain a belief in the goodness of man or a benevolent God. His world was too dark, too vicious—or had been until he’d met Claire.

  But the old beliefs apparently went deep. So deep he found himself formulating a silent, instinctive prayer for help in keeping his woman safe from all evil.

  “It’s a classic case of transference.” With a ragged sigh, she dropped back down on his chest. “I’ve been so obsessed with Stacy’s nightmares, spent so many hours analyzing them and trying to find their source. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised they would invade my subconscious as well.”

  Luis wasn’t quite ready to accept the rational explanation. Not after seeing the stark terror in her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close again, while she talked through her residual fright.

  “It probably didn’t help to read that guidebook we bought just before I fell asleep,” she murmured against his chest. “According to the author, Prague has more than its share of ghouls and ghosts. The restless undead apparently pr
owl at will. Did you know Prague Castle is haunted?”

  Luis visualized the vast complex of palaces, courtyards and cathedrals that seemed to float above the city. “I’m not surprised such tales arise, considering that the cathedral contains the relics of many saints. And as I recall, generations of Prague’s royal family are entombed in the castle crypt.”

  “The royal family plays a major role in some of the legends,” Claire murmured, with a glance at the guidebook lying facedown on the nightstand beside his Glock. “Supposedly, the four wives of Emperor Charles IV wander through their dank crypt at night, fighting among themselves and hoping for a last glimpse of their husband. Then there’s the ghost of Saint John of Nepomuk.”

  “The saint on the Charles Bridge, whose plaque we rubbed for luck?”

  “That’s the one. According to legend, he heard the confession of Queen Johanna, wife of King Wenceslas the third or fourth.”

  She nudged her cheek against his chest, seeming to relax with the telling of these old tales. Luis held her loosely and let her ramble on.

  “When St. John refused to divulge what sins the queen confessed, this not-so-good King Wenceslas had him tortured and thrown from the bridge. Supposedly, John wandered the surrounding area for nearly three hundred years before his soul found a home in the statue erected in his honor.”

  Her words grew slower, her voice a little sleepy.

  “There are other ghosts,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his chest again. “Ten lords who had their heads cut off and stuck on poles on the bridge. People swear they’ve heard their mournful cries carried on the wind at night.”

  Luis swallowed an oath. Until this moment, he’d revered the medieval bridge for its beauty and romance. Now he’d think of severed heads and tortured priests every time he strolled its graceful Gothic spans.

  “No wonder you had such dreams,” he muttered, casting a disapproving eye on the guidebook.

  “There are more stories,” she said sleepily. “You should read the one about the lost souls who wander each night in Prague’s Jewish cemetery.”

  He didn’t need to read it. He’d visited the old Jewish Quarter and could easily imagine ghosts drifting among the hundreds of tilting, moss-covered gravestones. Irrationally relieved that the overhead light was still on to chase away the shadows, he stroked Claire’s hair.

  “Enough of these tales. Sleep now, querida. Tomorrow we speak with the cardinal, yes? And then we go home.”

  Shooting the slim volume a last, evil look, Luis cradled Claire in his arms through the rest of the night.

  Chapter 7

  By the next morning, Claire had recovered her customary calm. Luis, on the other hand, continued to feel the aftereffects of her horrific nightmare.

  He studied her as he sat across from her at a late breakfast. They’d had room service deliver it. At Claire’s request, the waiter had set up a table on the terrace. The weather was perfect for eating outside. The muggy heat of yesterday had given way to a balmy spring morning. Tender green leaves rustled in the trees lining the square below, while a little more than a block away, the cathedral spires rose above castle ramparts and speared into a cloudless blue sky.

  The setting couldn’t have been more tranquil or the meal better prepared. Fragrant steam rose from a heavy silver coffeepot. Domed trays yielded eggs poached with white asparagus and succulent ham steaks. Claire had consumed both with her usual appetite, but the acid rolling around in Luis’s stomach had him laying down his fork after only a couple of bites.

  Seeing her so terrified had shaken him badly. Still shook him. Claire was normally so contained, so in control of her thoughts and emotions. She’d stripped herself bare last night, and Luis had yet to understand his reaction to that very different Claire. Somehow, some way, her terror had altered the delicate balance between them and made his heart trip with unfamiliar emotions.

  The fierce protectiveness he felt toward her wasn’t new. He was a man, and a very basic one at that. He made no apologies for the fact that both instinct and inclination conditioned him to protect those near and dear to him.

  But this gut-wrenching ache to keep her safe from all fears…The wish that he could erase every last vestige of the pain of her husband’s death…The growing conviction she had somehow become the center of his universe…That he couldn’t envision his world without her…

  These feelings were so intense, so all-consuming, his hand shook when he reached for his cup. Coffee slopped over the rim and splattered on the snowy tablecloth. Smothering a curse, he dabbed at the stain with his napkin.

  “Luis?”

  He glanced up to find Claire’s gaze on him. No trace of her tumultuous night showed on her face. Not a single, pale gold strand of hair was out of place. Unlike him, she appeared to have put the episode completely out of her mind.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, searching his face.

  He hesitated, not quite ready to confess the emotions churning in his gut. He had to sort through them first. Try to understand when and how he’d made the jump from simply wanting this woman to wanting everything she had to give.

  Burying his feelings, he shrugged. “I read portions of your guidebook while you were in the shower. I’m not surprised you woke screaming.”

  Carefully, Claire laid down her fork. The invigorating shower and the bright, sunny morning had gone a long way toward blunting the aftereffects of the horrific dream. Her main concern now was Luis.

  He must have spent the entire night—or what was left of it after he’d burst into her room—stroking and soothing her. She remembered his warmth and the bone-deep reassurance she drew from the feel of his arms around her. Remembered as well the comfort she derived from his mere presence.

  He, on the other hand, looked like he’d spent the hours until dawn battling the very demons that had frightened her. His eyes showed a tinge of red, and not even his crisp blue cotton shirt and knife-pleated tan slacks could disguise the tension cording his body.

  “Did you get any sleep at all last night?” she asked, with an apologetic smile.

  “Not much.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. I, however…” His handsome face troubled, he reached across the table to grasp her hand. “I would not hurt you for the world, Claire.”

  “I know that.”

  “If I have pushed you too hard,” he said, holding her eyes with his, “if in my arrogance, I caused you pain or precipitated the guilt that triggered your nightmare, I am sorry.”

  Touched by his gruff apology, she turned her hand over and threaded her fingers through his.

  “Yes, you’ve pushed too hard,” she said with a wry smile. “And yes, you’re incredibly arrogant. I’m learning how to deal with both. As for the guilt…” Her smile faded, but she didn’t look away. “I’ll work through it.”

  Eventually.

  She hoped.

  Luis accepted her quiet statement with a squeeze of her hand and let the matter drop.

  “We still have several hours until the appointment with Cardinal Tuma. What do you wish to do until then?”

  She’d already dressed for the coming interview in a slim back skirt and short-sleeve, scoop-neck ivory silk blouse, with ties that looped into a loose bow. Her low-heel pumps were both comfortable and stylish, and would have made for easy walking. As much as Claire would have liked to let Luis show her more of this fascinating city, the urgency behind their visit to Prague took precedence.

  “I’d better review my case notes before we meet with the cardinal.”

  “Then I shall make use of the hotel’s spa and exercise room,” he said, pushing away from the table. “First I’ll call down for a late checkout, yes? We can leave our bags with the concierge while we walk to the castle.”

  A hard workout in the Savoy’s lavishly appointed gym helped Luis sweat out some of the stress from the night before. A deep-muscle massage by a semi-sadistic masseuse kneaded away the res
t.

  By the time he and Claire set out to walk the few blocks to the maze of buildings and battlements that comprised Prague Castle, he felt almost relaxed. Which didn’t explain the odd feeling that gripped him when they strolled past sentries in ornate period uniforms and passed under a massive stone arch leading to one of the castle’s courtyards. The sensation was barely perceptible. A slight, almost indiscernible tingling at the base of his skull that drifted down his spine, inch by slow inch.

  Eyes narrowing, Luis tightened his grip on Claire’s elbow and skimmed a glance around the cobbled courtyard. It was as long as two football fields. Ornate palaces ringed it on three sides. Some housed museums, others the offices of the president of the Czech Republic and various government departments.

  The massive bulk of St. Vitus Cathedral dominated the fourth side of the courtyard. The seat of the archbishop of Prague, the towering Gothic structure had served as the burial place of saints and emperors for centuries. Bohemian kings had been crowned there for more than six hundred years, and their crown jewels still occupied a secure vault in the cathedral’s southern vestibule. Not even the scaffolding marching all the way up to its spires could detract from its Gothic beauty.

  Given its historic significance, Prague Castle drew hoards of visitors. Tourists waited in long, roped-off lines to enter the cathedral. More queued up at the various museums on the castle grounds. Others chattered in a dozen different languages as they snapped pictures in front of fountains and elaborate facades. Laughing teens trailed after long-suffering teachers attempting to instill a sense of history in adolescents more interested in sex than medieval architecture.

  Luis saw nothing in the crowds to account for the tension now gathered at the base of his spine. Maybe it was the noise. The marble facades of palaces surrounding the courtyard magnified and bounced back every sound. Added to that was the intermittent rattle of jackhammers. Their nerve-crunching blasts signaled the repair work necessitated after the earthquake that had rocked Prague last year.