Gabriel West Still the One

by Fiona Brand

  When she'd first held the scabbard accoutrement she'd been filled with an inexplicable excitement that had gone beyond the thrill of finding artifacts that had been made and used by people not just centuries ago, but milleniums. Her palms had tingled, and heat had swept through her. She'd lost long minutes while she'd sat, the piece held loosely cupped in the palms of her hands—her mind oddly disconnected. It had taken the persistent buzz of the phone on her desk to pull her back to the present, and even then the subtle, tingling flow had continued, as if the crystalline grains contained within their cool green matrix the

  fiery imprint of life. The belt ornament and the carved bird had both felt similar, but neither was as powerful as the scabbard accoutrement, which was a warrior's piece, worn thin with time—smooth and uncomplicated—designed to encircle the sheath of a sword and proclaim, in this instance, not the warlord the warrior fought for, but his faith.

  It was possible the warrior had either been a warlord himself, with no further insignia other than the solar symbol required, or he could have been one of the early warrior monks, predating the Shaolin.

  The mystery of who had owned and used the jade, and how Chinese artifacts had come to be entombed in a Maori burial cave aside, the pieces had grabbed her at a deeper level than any other artifacts ever had. She'd experienced moments of connection with other objects before, as if the artifact in some strange way held the essence of a different time or place, or even a person, but never as strongly as this.

  When the jade had been stolen, she'd felt a sense of violation out of all proportion to what she should have felt—as if the thief had walked into her home and taken a very private possession.

  Despite the fact that her only link with the jade was a purely business one, and that the possession of the pieces was open to public debate, in a strange way, on a very personal level, the jade had belonged to her.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tyler drove into the underground entrance of her apartment building, escaping the leading edge of a tropical storm front that had swept down from the north.

  She parked in her space, gathered her briefcase, and locked the car, shivering as a damp blast of air tugged at her lightweight jacket and skirt, and frowning because the garage was close to pitch-black. Several of the lights must have died at once, or else the storm had knocked them out, leaving only the lights above the elevator and those in the stairwell shining.

  Thunder rumbled and a flicker of lightning briefly lit the gloom as she walked toward the stairwell. Her apartment was on the ground floor—a luxury she'd been happy to afford for herself because the gardens around the apartment block were so beautiful. When she came home from work, she liked nothing better than to sit out on her tiny sun-drenched terrace, surrounded by cool, glossy green rhododendrons and ni-kau palms and fall asleep on her lounger reading a book.

  A footfall registered, out of sync with hers. She paused to listen, but almost instantly shook off the paranoia that gripped her.. No other vehicle had entered the garage since she'd arrived. What she'd heard had probably been an echo of her own step bouncing off the concrete walls.

  Lately, she'd been jumping at her own shadow. A few odd things had happened, including several phone calls from someone who'd hung up as soon as she'd answered. On a couple of occasions she'd been certain that she'd been followed, even though she hadn't so much as caught a glimpse of anyone.

  Another footfall sounded, this time sharply distinct. A raw flash of alarm went through her and her step quickened. She threw an assessing glance around the gloomy cavern of the garage.

  A hand snaked out of darkness and closed on her arm, wrenching her to a halt. Adrenaline flooded her system, almost stopping her heart. Her arm jerked in automatic reflex as she spun, teeth bared, and stepped into her attacker, throwing him off balance as she snapped her elbow into a face that was eerily blanked out by a balaclava. He grunted with pain and released his hold. A second man materialized out of the smothering blackness and ripped the briefcase from her.

  Fear and rage and the sharp instincts of a child who'd spent more time defending herself than she'd ever spent with tea sets or dolls burst hotly through her. With her right hand now free, she swung, fingers bunched into a tight fist, and connected with the solid bone of a jaw, snapping her attacker's head back. A strangled sound burst from his mouth, and the balaclava was knocked askew, giving her a glimpse of dark skin and high, slanted cheekbones as she wheeled, holding her handbag to her chest so that there was nothing trailing for either man to grab, and flung herself toward the elevator.

  A hand snagged at her jacket. Gritting her teeth, she wrenched free. Hair spilled around her face, half blinding her, and in that moment the doors of the elevator slid open. Relief flooded her as light flared across the bare expanse of concrete, spotlighting her in its beam so that she felt like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. West's startled gaze locked with hers, then white light exploded in her head.

  Chapter 3

  West reached Tyler a split second after she crumpled.

  After the initial kick of surprise, he was rock steady, breathing controlled. His mind shifted smoothly through his options, the change from civilian to soldier instantaneous.

  Aside from the light pouring from the elevator and the stairwell, the car park was abnormally dark. Someone had knocked the lights out, which meant that the attack was planned. West eased forward to crouch over Tyler, at the same time straining to listen, to get some idea of the direction in which the two men had gone, but the rumble of the storm and the heavy drumbeat of rain effectively muffled sound.

  A faint scrape of metal on metal jerked West's head around. He probed the silent reaches of the underground car park, systematically examining the ranks of vehicles, his mind loose, open to peripheral data he might otherwise miss, open to that other sense that was as much a part of him as breathing. An icy calmness gripped him like a cold hand at his nape. The men who had attacked Tyler were still here.

  A flash of movement drew his eye. The cough of a car starting bounced off the walls, and lights swept the gloom as the vehicle spun and accelerated toward the exit. Abruptly, the roar of the engine cut out as the car took the ramp up onto the street.

  West switched his attention back to Tyler. A disorienting sense of deja vu transported him back to a night one month ago and the disastrous meet with Renwick.

  She was lying on her side, still and painfully exposed in the wash of light from the elevator, tawny hair a silky pool around her face, the short skirt of her tailored suit revealing a tanned length of elegant leg that made her seem both exotic and fragile against the grim crudity of the underground car park.

  At first glance he couldn't see any blood. West gently turned her on her back, as he searched for the wound. His heart slammed in his chest when he found the goose egg on the side of her head and felt the dampness of blood.

  "West?" Tyler blinked, and lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the multi-hued glare of light that shifted across her vision. She felt sluggish and sick, and her head felt strange—hot and cold, and prickling—and she was having trouble focusing. There were two of West, and in her opinion, one had always been more than enough.

  The chill of the dusty concrete struck through the crumpled cotton of her suit, making her shiver. Awkwardly, she pushed herself into a sitting position, ignoring his sharp demand that she stay where she was. She needed to get up, get moving.

  Her mind flinched from the fact that she'd been hit on the head, but there was no other explanation for her to be lying on the garage floor. Her right hand was numb, and her arm and shoulder hurt, but she managed to wobble onto her knees. She heard West's soft curse, then his hands closed on her arms, steadying her, and she didn't complain because she was having trouble orienting herself at all.

  He cupped her chin, his fingers startlingly hot against her skin, and abruptly his face snapped into focus.

  He stared intently into her eyes. "What's your name?"

  Bemused, Tyler
answered.

  "Today's date?"

  Pinpointing the date was more difficult, but that was mostly because she hadn't paid much attention to dates lately. She repeated the date. "I don't have any memory loss."

  As disoriented as she felt, she knew she'd been mugged and knocked out. The sequence of events was burned into her mind like a series of freeze frames. She could remember the moment her briefcase had been wrenched from her grip, the flash of light when she'd been hit.

  A car swept into the underground garage and she tensed, her breath coming in sharply.

  "Don't hit me," West murmured, and for the first time she focused directly on his face: hot gold eyes, tanned olive skin, black hair tumbled and loose around his shoulders—the glitter of a silver stud in his ear.

  He looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed, sleepy and unkempt, as alert as a cat, and through the throbbing whirl of nausea and exhaustion she wondered— and not for the first time—if he slept alone.

  Something grabbed in her throat, her heart, a hot pulse of emotion that shook her to the core.

  Hit West? Now there was a fantasy.... She just needed her head to stop spinning first.

  His fingers closed warmly around her clenched fist, making her aware of the numbing ache in her knuckles, the symphony of pain that stretched from her fingertips all the way to her shoulder, skipping her face, then throbbing somewhere deep in her skull.

  "Let me see," he demanded softly. "Open your hand."

  For the craziest moment she thought he'd said, "Open your heart."

  She couldn't help the bemused smile that twitched at her lips. The pain aside, she felt ridiculous— giddy—like a drank on a bender. "Last time I heard, you weren't a medical doctor."

  His mouth curved in a quick, hard smile. "I've been called a lot of names, but never that."

  Reluctantly, she uncurled her fingers. God, she hated it when she got hurt—hated to look at the damage. She heard his rough intake of breath.

  "Oh, jeez, you belted him. Where in hell did you learn to hit like that?"

  She ignored his question in favor of surveying her swollen knuckles, and the grazes decorating them. "I broke his jaw," she said with satisfaction. "I felt it go."

  "Are you hurt anywhere else?" She glanced around and saw her handbag lying beside her. With an effort of will, she snagged the strap. At least she still had her credit cards and her driver's license, and they hadn't gotten her car keys. "Yeah, in my heart. They took my laptop. The bastards took my laptop."

  She thought he said, “When did you get so tough?" then a wave of dizziness caught her.

  She leaned into his shoulder and gulped down a deep breath, which didn't do much to alleviate the dizziness or the pain, then wound an arm around his neck, searching for the leverage to get to her feet .It struck her that in the last five years West had never been so useful.

  She pushed against his shoulder, but a warm palm cupped her nape, effectively holding her in place and making her feel as weak as a day-old kitten.

  "Don't you ever give up? Stay still. You've got a head wound and you're bleeding. I'm going to check you out a bit more, then get you to a hospital."

  "I'm not going to a hospital. I hate hospitals."

  "That's one thing we've got in common."

  As he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it around her shoulders, swamping her in heavy, soft warmth, the rich scent of leather, she worried at the oddness of the terse comment As far as she was concerned the only thing they actually had in common was a marriage certificate. Blinking she resisted the urge to let her forehead rest on his shoulder again, or even worse, snuggle into the curve of his neck. She wasn't a leaner—she couldn't remember the last time she'd leaned on anyone—but right now the temptation was almost too much. She'd been exhausted before the attack; now she felt as though she was swimming through molasses. "I feel... strange—"

  "Stay awake."

  She felt his fingers moving gently over her scalp. He found a tender spot and she winced.

  His breath stirred in her hair. "Oh yeah, he hit you good. You've got a lump, and a cut that's going to need stitching. Go to sleep and I'll tan your hide."

  The unexpected humor would have made her smile if she hadn't felt so startled and so sick.

  "Promises," she muttered, then everything receded, slipping into blackness again.

  A hoarse curse scraped from West's throat as Tyler sagged into his chest. He caught her hard against him, lowered her to the concrete, then on another soft curse, jerked his T-shirt over his head, tore a strip of white interlock off and bandaged the seeping cut on the side of her head. When he lifted her into his arms, her head lolled against his shoulder and fear shafted through him. Head wounds were dicey things, she'd wake up with the mother of all headaches at the very least. He refused to think about other possibilities.

  Seconds later he strapped Tyler into the passenger seat of his car, slid behind the wheel and searched one-handed for his cell phone as he took the ramp out of the underground garage.

  He found the phone, pressed the emergency code, and waited for the operator to put him through to Accident and Emergency. When the hospital had all the details, he settled down to driving, the damp night air chill on his bare skin as he shoved the car through traffic. Rain continued to stream down in a light, steady drizzle that rose up off the slick streets as a thin mist, wreathing the fast-moving, raucous flow of inner-city traffic.

  West's heart was pounding, his belly tight with apprehension. He felt savage, wary and electrified by what had just happened. His mind fastened on the moment when the elevator doors had opened and Tyler's dark gaze had found his, hooked somewhere deep inside him and clung. That moment had almost stopped his heart.

  He'd moved into the apartment in Tyler's building with the specific purpose of getting close to his wife, but a part of him hadn't believed Tyler would ever allow him close again. Just minutes ago she'd all but crawled inside his skin.

  The lights ahead flashed red. He swore beneath his breath, considered running the light, then braked.

  The abrupt jolting motion sent a shaft of pain through Tyler's head. She winced and opened her eyes, for a moment disoriented by the glare of lights off rain-slick roads, and West sitting beside her, his torso bare. The last thing she remembered she'd been kneeling on cold concrete, leaning on West, and he'd been wearing a T-shirt.

  The lights changed. West accelerated and, gingerly, she straightened, keeping her head as still as possible. The second she moved, she felt the touch of West's gaze as powerfully as if he'd reached out and physically touched her. "How long have I been out?"

  "Five minutes. We'll be at the hospital in two.

  And don't argue. Aside from needing stitches you've probably got a concussion."

  "That's a safe bet." Her head throbbed with a deep, frightening ache and she was seeing colors.

  That was the clincher. The only other time she could remember seeing colors had been when she'd been thrown from a horse at age thirteen, without the benefit of a protective helmet.

  West turned into a car-park entrance and pulled into a space. Tyler recognized the A&E entrance of Auckland Hospital.

  She reached up to touch the bandage that was wound around her head, and somehow managed to misjudge the distance so that her fingers connected with her head more violently than she'd intended. Hot pain flashed through her skull, and her stomach rolled.

  She sucked in a shallow breath, then another, and groped for the door handle. "I'm going to be sick."

  Instead of the door releasing she must have hit the window button because glass slid down and damp air flowed across her face. She heard a soft imprecation. Seconds later her door swung open and West leaned in, released her seat belt, and she found herself hauled out into the rain. His arms came around her as her stomach cramped painfully, anchoring her against him as she emptied the meagre contents of her stomach into the shrubbery bordering the car park.

  When she was finished she sagge
d against him, uncaring that it was raining and that they were both getting wet. An odd peacefulness settled over her at his silent support, his heat and strength engulfing her. All of the issues that existed between them aside, she was too needy, in too much pain, and too disoriented to do anything but accept his help.

  The thought drifted into her mind that West might have broken her heart, but he had never broken her trust.

  As crazy as it seemed, it was true. He had made promises, and he had kept them, and she'd married him knowing that their relationship would be constantly sidelined by SAS operations. If she was honest, in that sense, she had let him down.

  A car cruised past. The bright gleam of headlights scythed the drizzle and broke the fragile peace.

  "Are you ready to make a move?" West's voice was low, with that calm note that said he would stay here holding her in the rain if that was what she wanted.

  She'd forgotten that about him—that still, quiet quality. Years ago it had intrigued her. She'd fallen in love with his dark, soft voice, but somewhere along the way, the very qualities that had drawn her so powerfully had started to grate.

  He had been too controlled, too patient, and she hadn't had enough of either quality.

  "Can you walk?" His voice was close to her ear.

  "Just."

  He left her leaning against the car while he closed the window and collected her bag and the leather jacket. She heard the gentle thunk of locks engaging, then he draped the jacket over her shoulders, wrapped his arm around her waist and urged her toward the brightly lit entrance of A&E.

  The rain eased off as they approached the steps, leaving the night still and sodden and heavy with the scents of car exhaust and bitumen.

  Tyler lifted her head and caught her reflection in the glass doors, then wished she hadn't. Her face was as white as the makeshift bandage around her head; her hair was straggling around her shoulders and what she could see of her suit beneath the jacket was wrinkled and sticking clammily to her skin.

  West, in stark contrast, looked fresh and sharp and gorgeous, his bronzed shoulders sleek and glistening under the lights. The fact that he had no shirt didn't seem to affect him. "You know, West, I had this fantasy of how in control I'd be the next time I bumped into you. This isn't it."