Seven Days to Forever

by Ingrid Weaver

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable, Abbie. I'd like to get to know you better, and I thought a quiet dinner with us would be a good way to start."

  "With us?"

  "Yes, Bradley will be with me for the entire weekend. He'd be thrilled if you agreed."

  She was fond of Bradley, just as she was fond of all her students. Still…"I'm really sorry, Peter," she said. "I—I've been fighting off a flu bug. I'd planned to spend the weekend resting, so I wouldn't be good company."

  It was a cowardly way to turn down Peter's invitation, but she didn't want to rule out the possibility of accepting an invitation in the future. She needed more time to think about it, that's all.

  Yet what was there to think about? He had a home in the suburbs. He already had a child. He was a nice, stable, responsible man. Wasn't this what she wanted?

  And would she have needed time to think about it if he'd asked her yesterday, before she'd met Flynn?

  * * *

  Abbie dreamed about double-fudge sundaes that night. They were arrayed on a table in front of her, the chocolate dark and decadent, glistening with heat where it oozed over rich mounds of melting ice cream. The scent was bittersweet, a contradiction of hard and soft, hot and cold, drawing her closer with the promise of sensual delight.

  But there was a maze of tall, thick candlesticks between her and the table, and clouds of moths were singeing their wings as they fluttered around the flames.

  She moistened her lips, stirring restlessly on the bed. Oh, it had been a long, long time since she'd indulged in fudge.

  She felt someone touch her hand. She knew who it was. It was the man she'd been waiting for. He was the one who had lit the candles, so he'd show her how to get past them without getting burned.

  Abbie.

  She stretched her arms over her head and rolled to her back. She couldn't see him, but she sensed his presence in his scent, his warmth, the tingle of awareness that she felt whenever he was near. She made a low noise in her throat. She was hungry. It really had been a long time.

  Abbie, wake up.

  She felt the dream receding, but she didn't want it to end yet. She reached for her pillow and pulled it to her chest. It was oddly heavy. It smelled like an April sunrise. Like Flynn.

  She smiled and rubbed against him. Her nipples tightened at the contact, hardening into firm points. Her palms skimmed over wide shoulders and trailed down muscles as solid as brick. She curled her fingers around his arms. Through the fabric of his sleeves she could feel his tension. Could he feel hers? Flattening her hands over his back, she pulled him closer.

  "Abbie, please."

  Something was wrong. This dream was becoming too real. She fought the lethargy that tugged at her, and strained to open her eyes.

  A palm settled over her mouth.

  She came awake with her heart pounding. She drew in her breath and tasted a mixture of soap and masculine skin. Someone was lying on top of her, crushing her into the mattress. It wasn't a pillow that she was holding, it was a man.

  Before she could panic, she heard a familiar voice. "Abbie, it's me. Flynn." His breath wafted over her cheek as he put his lips close to her ear. "Wake up."

  She wrenched her head to the side and gulped for air. "Flynn! What are you doing here?"

  Her pillow dipped as he braced his hand beside her head. The weight on her chest eased. "I need to talk to you."

  Her arms were still wrapped around his back. She released her hold, and he sat up to reach for the lamp on her bedside table.

  The room flooded with light, yet Flynn still appeared to be in shadow. He was dressed all in black. Black jeans, a black windbreaker, even a dark shadow of unshaved beard stubble on his jaw. Against the backdrop of her rose-colored wallpaper and the frame that held her grandmother's embroidery, he appeared large, male and dangerous.

  And sexier than any man had a right to be. The last time he'd seen her, he'd kissed her. Even in her sleep Abbie had reached out for him—she could still feel the imprint of his chest on her breasts.

  He looked at her as he stroked a lock of hair from her face, his fingertips grazing her cheek. His voice was a low rumble. "What were you dreaming about, Abbie?"

  An image flickered through her mind. Sensual chocolate, thick, erect candlesticks, flames of passion…She wouldn't need to be Dr. Freud to interpret that erotic symbolism.

  He toyed with one of her curls, coiling it around his finger. "Were you dreaming about me?"

  For a mad instant she started to lean into his caress. Did it really matter whether he was the right man or not? He was here, and she wanted to follow his touch and pull him back into her arms. Oh, it was so tempting….

  She clutched the sheet to draw it to her chin. It was a prudish gesture—the oversize pink T-shirt she slept in covered her from her neck to her knees—yet she felt exposed. Not just her body, but her thoughts…and the dreams she didn't even want to admit to herself.

  Damn the man, she'd thought this was over. "How did you get in here?" she asked, refusing to answer his question.

  "I picked your lock."

  "Flynn, you got the wrong idea. Just because I let you kiss me yesterday doesn't mean you have the right to show up in my bedroom like this."

  "I know. That's not why I'm here."

  "No?"

  He paused. Her hair slipped from his grasp. "No," he said. "It's something else. I needed to talk to you in person. There's been a development."

  As she took in his sober expression, her head finally cleared. How could she have been thinking that Flynn had come back because of that kiss? He was a soldier. That's why he was here. That's why he'd barged into her life in the first place. She pushed herself up on her elbows. "Is this about that kidnapped child?" she asked. "Is he…"

  "He's alive," Flynn said. "The kidnappers want to arrange another ransom drop."

  Abbie rolled to the other side of the bed and picked up her robe from the floor. She drew it on as she got to her feet, doing her best to tie the belt securely despite her shaking hands. "That's good news, isn't it?"

  "Depends how you look at it."

  "I don't understand."

  "Last time they wanted the boy's father to deliver the money. This time they want someone else."

  "Well, as long as the child is released unharmed—"

  "It's not that simple."

  "What do you mean?"

  He stood up and raked his hands through his hair. "The boy's father told them that a schoolteacher accidentally picked up the ransom at the museum."

  "Yes, I know. Sarah said that's why those men were able to find me."

  "They thought he had double-crossed them. They say the only way he can prove his good faith now is to have the woman who picked up the ransom the first time deliver it the second time."

  She was sorry now that she'd stood up. Her knees felt too weak to hold her. She staggered sideways and flung out her hand, clutching her dresser to retain her balance. "Are you saying that they want me to do it?"

  He moved around the bed and caught her shoulders. "There is an alternative. Sarah can do this in your place. With a dark wig and some contact lenses, there's a chance she could fool them."

  His touch was firm, meant to support, not caress. She felt his strength and it steadied her. "Is that what Major Redinger thinks?"

  "What matters is what you think, Abbie."

  He'd avoided her question, she realized. "The major doesn't think Sarah can impersonate me, does he? Otherwise, he wouldn't have sent you here."

  "You're right. I'm here because I was ordered to ask for your assistance, but it should be our risk, not yours. This is what we're trained for."

  "What about the child? What will happen to him if the kidnappers find out they were deceived?"

  "We'll continue our efforts to find him. When we do, we'll rescue him."

  Abbie studied Flynn's face, trying to read the truth. "He'll be killed," she stated. "That's what will happen, isn't it?"

  A muscle in his jaw tw
itched. His grip on her shoulders tightened. "The people we're dealing with are fanatics. Even if you follow their instructions to the letter, there's no guarantee they won't kill their hostage, anyway."

  For one cowardly moment she longed to crawl back into bed and pretend she was still dreaming. This was supposed to be over. Her involvement was a fluke. If only she could wake up and somehow be back in her own life….

  "How old—" She had to swallow hard before she continued. "How old is the child? I asked before, but no one would give me any details because of security. Can you tell me now?"

  "Seven."

  That was the same age as Bradley Hedgeworth, the same age as most of the children in her class. She thought about how excited they had been on their trip yesterday and how noisy they'd been on the ride back. They'd tumbled out of the bus when it had reached the school, and they'd run to their parents' arms. They'd been bubbling over with enthusiasm and the innocence of childhood.

  And while she'd been watching her students leave for their homes, somewhere in this city, a child who should have been safe with his parents was living a nightmare.

  "I'll do it," she said.

  Flynn studied her face. "Are you sure? Because once we bring you into this operation, there's no going back. You're going to be given classified information that you'll never be able to reveal to another soul."

  "All right."

  "And until the mission's over, we're going to need you with us 100 percent. You'll become part of the team and have to be available to move at a moment's notice. That means you need to stay with us."

  Stay with those soldiers? With Flynn? The flash of eagerness she felt at the thought jarred her. This wasn't about him, it was about the child. "Fine," she said. "I'll do whatever is necessary."

  "You're going to have to make up excuses to explain your absence to your family. If the mission extends past the weekend, you'll have to make up an excuse for your principal, too."

  "Are you trying to talk me out of this?"

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders. He stepped back, his eyebrows angling upward. He appeared surprised by her question. "I shouldn't. It's my duty to bring you in. I just want you to be sure you know what you're getting into."

  "All I care about is helping the child."

  "You don't even know him."

  "I don't have to. I love children, Flynn. That's why I'm a teacher. It makes no difference who the child is. All of them are precious."

  "He's the grandnephew of the king of Ladavia."

  "The king…" She paused. "Ladavia?"

  "It's a small country in the Balkans."

  "Yes, yes, I know where it is. It was in the news last month because of that terrorist bombing outside the king's palace…." The memory of a black-and-white photo sprang to her mind: pieces of glass and rubble strewn across a cobblestone street, people with dust on their faces and blood on their clothes. The image was far too common these days. She crossed her arms, suddenly chilled. "Those kidnappers, are they connected to the terrorists?"

  "Yes. It's the same group. They want to overthrow the monarchy and seize control of the country before the king can complete the transition to democracy. Do you still want to go through with this?"

  No! The logical, reasonable part of her mind screamed at her to refuse. A child connected to European royalty? Terrorists? This had to be why Delta Force was involved, and why everything had been so secret. The kidnapping would have political repercussions. This was completely beyond the realm of her experience.

  And yet…the kidnap victim was still just a child, with a child's hopes and fears. This was completely beyond his experience, too.

  Abbie concentrated on that as she shut out the voice of reason. For once, she was going to listen to her instincts. Gathering her courage, she looked Flynn in the eye and nodded. "When do we start?"

  * * *

  Flynn leaned his elbow on the side of the refrigerator and stretched out his legs, trying to find a more comfortable position on the metal chair, but it was no use. He glanced toward the darkened area at the rear of the tent where the men who were off duty were snoring on their cots. At this point, even a blanket on the floor would feel good to him, but he wouldn't allow himself to rest until Abbie was settled in.

  Flynn returned his gaze to the group in the middle of the tent. Redinger was holding his briefing near one of the central support poles beside the communication equipment. He and Sarah had already given Abbie the background information on the mission. Esposito was currently bringing her up to date on the state of the negotiations between the Ladavian monarchy and the American government. It was a lot for her to take in at once. Abbie absorbed it all with an air of determined concentration…interspersed by flashes of panic.

  If anyone else noticed the panic, they were ignoring it. Flynn couldn't. Each time she chewed her lip or her gaze darted around, each time she tightened her clasped hands until her knuckles turned white, he felt an odd pang in his chest. Some of it was pity, some was admiration. He wasn't sure about the rest.

  Flynn didn't make a habit of analyzing his emotions—when it came to his dealings with women, he tried to keep them as simple as possible. He should be keeping things simple with Abbie, too.

  For someone who had been awakened in the middle of the night and had been whisked off in secret to a military briefing, she was holding up well. She appeared to have understood the urgency of the situation and hadn't fussed with her appearance, throwing on a sweater and a pair of pants and pulling her hair back into a ponytail. Yet the effect was more striking than hours of primping by some of the high-maintenance women he had known. Under the glare of the overhead bulb, Abbie looked fresh scrubbed and innocent…and far too appealing.

  She didn't belong here any more than he belonged in her world. She was from the realm of family dinners and snapshots of kids, not Army-issue decor and international crises. She was the only person here who wasn't a trained soldier, so she had a different way of looking at the facts she was told. It showed in the questions she had asked.

  The first thing she'd asked Redinger was the name of the kidnapped child. It was Matteo. Until now, Flynn had only thought of him as the Vilyas kid, or as the target they had to free. That was the best way to approach a mission. He had to maintain his objectivity. Getting emotionally involved was murder on a man's concentration.

  So was getting pulled into bed by a warm, sleep-softened woman. He was getting too damned familiar with the way Abbie felt when she wasn't wearing underwear.

  His chair creaked as he shifted his legs again. His discomfort wasn't due to fatigue this time, it was due to the snug fit of his jeans. There was nothing complicated about that aspect of his feelings for Abbie. It was simple, basic sexual attraction. He kept telling himself to ignore it, but he wasn't having much success.

  He still couldn't forget that kiss yesterday, so it hadn't been smart to let her pull him on top of her tonight…but he hadn't tried to avoid it. The sight of her in bed, with her hair spread in a soft cloud on the pillow and her body caught in the slow-motion movements of a dream, had hit him almost as powerfully as one of her smiles.

  And that was the problem. She might be a wholesome schoolteacher and a serious nester but there was passion in her kiss and passion in her dreams, and he felt a hunter's urge to pursue it. So he'd sat beside her on the mattress, closer than he'd needed to, and he hadn't awakened her as quickly as he could have.

  Yeah, well, he'd still managed to do his duty, so the rest of it didn't matter. She'd agreed to join them, hadn't she? Her usefulness to the mission was the priority here, not her effect on his libido.

  It had taken her only a few minutes to haul a tapestry-patterned suitcase out of her closet and pack what she would need. She'd taken almost as long to tend to her plants. That had been the only bad moment—she'd been hesitant about leaving them without having someone come in to check on them. They were plants. Lucky for him she didn't have pets or children.

  I love children, F
lynn. That's why I'm a teacher.

  He deliberately replayed her words in his head. Oddly enough, it did nothing to ease the tightness in his jeans. He scowled and thought about a cold shower.

  "Did you have any trouble?"

  At the low voice he looked over his shoulder. "No problem," he replied quietly.

  Rafe Marek pulled up a chair, turned it around and straddled the seat as he sat down. He folded his arms over the back, nodding toward the group near Abbie. "Good thing she agreed to help," he said, keeping his tone low enough not to carry. "Sarah's a good operative, but she wouldn't have fooled anyone for long. The Locke woman's too short and her body type's all wrong."

  "Abbie's not that short," Flynn said. "And there's nothing wrong with her body type."

  Rafe shot him a look. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

  Flynn realized his mistake immediately. Rafe hadn't been assessing Abbie's body, he'd been referring to the next ransom exchange. Rafe wouldn't be looking at another woman like that anyway—ever since he got engaged, he'd been downright puritanical.

  That's what commitment did to a man. It tied him down and snipped off his freedom.

  Then again, Rafe didn't look as if any parts were missing. Lately he'd been almost cheerful. He'd begun to develop a dimple among the scars on his bad side.

  Flynn put on a yawn and decided to change the subject. "Man, I'm beat. This waiting around is starting to get to me."

  "Look's like that's not all that got to you." The good side of Rafe's mouth twitched upward. "How come you're still awake? You're not on this watch."

  "I brought Abbie into the mission. She's my responsibility."

  Rafe grunted. "That sounds familiar. Isn't that what I said about Glenna?"

  It was, Flynn realized. Glenna Hastings, Rafe's fiancée, had helped the team from Eagle Squadron plan a mission a few months ago. Flynn had done his best to counsel his buddy on the risks of getting serious, but nothing—not even a vengeful drug lord—had been able to keep Rafe and Glenna apart.

  "Don't even think it," Flynn muttered. "This is entirely different."

  "You're right." Rafe propped his chin on his folded arms and studied Abbie. "If she's a schoolteacher, she's way too smart for you."