Before she could reach the door, she heard the scrape of a key. There was a muffled exclamation, followed by a light knock. "Abbie?"
She glanced around. Flynn was gone. Nothing stirred except the branch of the fig tree that was closest to the balcony. She fastened the knot in the belt of her robe and unlocked the door.
Clara Locke stood on the threshold. Her silver-streaked brown hair was pulled into her usual neat bun. The blouse that showed beneath her thick gray sweater had tiny flowers like the wallpaper in her kitchen. A hint of the almond-scented hand lotion she always used floated in with the draft from the corridor, along with the aroma of chicken soup from the round plastic container she held.
She was so blessedly ordinary and familiar that Abbie wanted to cry.
Clara shifted her handbag and the plastic container to the crook of one arm and gave Abbie a lopsided hug. "I'm sorry to get you up, dear, but my key wouldn't work."
Abbie returned the hug. She held on a little longer than usual before she drew her mother inside and closed the door. "I'll give you another key."
"Would you like me to warm up some of this soup for you?" Clara asked, heading for the kitchen. "It's chicken and rice, your favorite."
"No, please, don't go to any more trouble, Mom. I ate a little while ago."
"All right." Clara put the container in the fridge and picked up the electric kettle. "I'll fix you a cup of tea with honey. You always liked that when you had a cold."
"Thanks, but I don't have a cold."
"Yes, I can see that." She filled the kettle and plugged it in, then came back and studied her carefully. She tested the temperature of Abbie's forehead with the back of her hand. "You look flushed, but you're not feverish. I don't think you have the flu. Actually, you look as if you're brimming with health."
"It, uh, comes and goes."
"Abigail." Clara hesitated. She took her hands. "Darling, is there anything you want to talk about?"
"No, Mom. Why should there be?"
"I came over here because I'm worried."
"Yes, I'm sorry about not answering the phone, but—"
"Oh, Abbie, you never were any good at lying. I suspected as much last week and now I can see the truth written all over your face."
Her mother couldn't possibly have guessed, she told herself. Flynn wasn't visible. Clara couldn't know anything unless she had seen them arrive on the motorcycle, but even then she wouldn't have any idea what was happening.
"It started on your birthday, didn't it?" she asked.
"Yes, that's when I started to feel ill."
"Please, Abbie. You don't need to pretend any longer. I understand."
"Mom—"
"I realize thirty was a milestone for you. We're all aware of how you love to make plans. I was concerned that you might be putting too much importance on the date, and when you didn't come to your party, I feared I was right."
Abbie struggled to grasp what her mother was saying. She lapsed into confused silence.
Clara drew her to the couch and sat down beside her. "Ellie and Martha have been worried, too. They said you sounded distant when you returned their calls. When Joshua heard from some of the other children at his Little League practice that you weren't at school this week, he told his mom and so Martha phoned to check. She knows as well as I do that you love your job. Only something very serious could keep you away."
"Mom—"
"I've respected your privacy because I know how determined you can be when you set your mind to something, but you don't have to go through this alone. It's nothing to be embarrassed about, Abbie. Everyone has the blues now and then." She patted her hand. "You can always talk to us, darling. We all love you, and we want to help you in whatever way we can."
Understanding finally dawned. Tears threatened once more, but this time for a different reason. Her family didn't believe she was sick. They thought she was holed up in her apartment because she was going through some kind of still-single-and-turning-thirty crisis. A biological clock issue triggered by her birthday. Her mother hadn't come over to give her chicken soup, she'd come to give her a heart-to-heart talk and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
As if she didn't already feel guilty enough for deceiving her family, now she discovered they were not only willing to forgive her, they were meeting her lies with kindness.
If only she could tell them the truth. She was in the midst of a terrorist kidnapping. She didn't have time for an emotional crisis…or time to fall in love…or time to have her heart broken….
But wasn't that exactly what was happening? Oh, God. Was it the truth?
"Don't give up, Abbie." Clara smiled, her face settling into a network of lines that were as sweetly familiar as her streaks of gray and her scent of almond lotion. "Life seldom goes exactly as we planned."
A lump formed in her throat. "Yes, I'm starting to realize that."
"I hope so. Because sometimes we get so focused on what we're searching for over the horizon, we can walk right past the treasure that's under our feet."
It must be an effect of the stress, Abbie thought, feeling the first tear inch down her cheek. She had cried more in the past five days than in the eight years since Stuart had left her. She did know what she wanted, didn't she? She knew what she was searching for. She did.
"Let's forget about the tea, dear." Clara handed her a tissue and returned to the kitchen to unplug the kettle. "You look as if you could use something stronger."
* * *
Flynn checked the luminous dial of his watch. Almost an hour. How long did it take to placate a worried relative and show her out? He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tensing and relaxing his muscles in sequence to keep up his circulation.
A siren sounded in the distance. He tuned it out and concentrated on the murmur of voices that came through the glass door. Abbie and her mother were speaking too quietly for him to distinguish any words. He could distinguish the tone, though. It was the same tone he'd heard when Abbie had spoken with Neda Vilyas. Full of sympathy and compassion. Supportive. Loving.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. He could feel the hard case of his cell phone under his right knuckles. He'd switched the ringer to vibrate silently—the team would call him if the LLA scheduled the next ransom drop. Flynn had already warned Abbie she might be needed at any moment. Could she have forgotten why they were here?
No. Not Abbie. She was as serious as the rest of the team when it came to the mission. He knew she was scared. She was determined to go through with it, anyway.
He admired her courage. It was hard to face one's fear.
Show me more, Flynn.
He dropped his head back against the building's wall and looked at the sky. He'd shown Abbie the constellations because he hadn't wanted to show what he felt. There weren't many stars visible from here. The balcony of the apartment on the floor above shielded his view overhead. The buildings across the street and the light from the city concealed practically everything else. Didn't make any difference. He knew they were there.
Stars don't leave. They're always right where you left them.
Abbie had understood without being told. No one else had made the connection before. It had taken him years to figure it out himself. Yes, stars didn't leave. Unlike parents and sisters and lovers, they were safe. They were constant. They would live forever.
Her insight didn't surprise him. Right from the start she'd had a way of looking past the surface into the depths he'd successfully guarded from the rest of the world.
He turned his head to glance into the apartment. Abbie and her mother were still on the couch in the living room. They were on their second glasses of wine—odd they were having wine when Abbie was supposed to be sick. They wouldn't be able to see him past the leaves of Abbie's plants and the glare of the lamp on the glass door, but he was careful to keep in the shadows.
He was good at that. Standing on the outside, looking in. Passing through without stopping. Did Abbie
understand that, too?
Abbie nodded at something her mother said. Clara patted her knee and stood.
Finally, Flynn thought. He edged closer to the glass and watched as they walked toward the apartment door. Abbie gave her mother a hug, locked the door behind her, then turned around and slumped back against the panels. Her shoulders heaved with a sigh as she rubbed her face.
Flynn counted off ten seconds before he slid the balcony door open and stepped inside. He crossed the room, keeping his voice low. "How did it go?"
She started and dropped her hands. "Did anyone ever tell you that you move too quietly for a man your size?
"Not in my profession. Your mother was here longer than I expected."
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting."
"No problem. There hasn't been any word from the LLA. Looks like you convinced your mother of your cover story."
Abbie shook her head and walked over to pick up the empty wineglasses from the coffee table. "She didn't buy it. She never believed I was sick."
"Then what did you tell her?"
"Don't worry, I didn't divulge any classified information. I didn't have to tell her anything." She gave a short laugh and carried the glasses to the kitchen. "My mother assumed I was avoiding everyone because I was upset about turning thirty."
He followed her. The laugh hadn't been from humor. "And are you upset?"
"That would be stupid, wouldn't it? There are more important things to worry about."
"Not for me." He caught her shoulders. "What else did she say?"
"She said I'm too…rigid."
"You're not rigid. You're strong. And you're the most compassionate person I've known."
"She didn't mean it badly. She said it out of love, because she's worried that I'm so focused on my goals I might miss seeing the obvious right under my nose." She shrugged off his grip. "Don't, Flynn."
"What?"
"Don't touch me right now."
He held up his palms and stepped back.
She put the glasses in the dishwasher and brushed past him. "We should get back to the command center."
"We've stayed away this long. Another few minutes won't hurt."
"You're wrong. They will hurt. I'm going to get dressed."
He followed her to the bedroom. "What does that mean?"
"I'm going to put on my clothes so we can leave." She dropped to her knees beside the bed and reached beneath it. She pulled out her jacket.
"What did you mean about hurting? Talk to me, Abbie. Tell me what's wrong."
She thrust her hand beneath the bed again. This time she retrieved a shoe. She tossed it over her shoulder and got down on all fours so she could extend her arm farther. "I pushed everything too far. I can't reach it."
Flynn solved her problem by shoving the bed aside. He knelt beside her and gathered the rest of her clothes.
"I should have thought of simply moving the bed," she muttered, sitting back on her heels. "I guess my mother was right. I miss the obvious."
"You've had a tough few days. Once this is over and your life gets back to normal—"
"Normal. Of course. Once this is over you'll leave and I'll pick up my life where I left off. I'll go back to work. I'll finish the baby blanket I'm knitting for Ellie, I'll take my nephews to a movie on the weekend and return my library books. Those books are overdue. The fine must be stacking up and I wouldn't want to get into trouble."
"Abbie—"
"Oh, yes. There's no lack of things to do. My car needs an oil change soon. I can schedule that for the weekend after next. And I really should shop for some plants to replace the ones that fell on that terrorist's head. The bookshelf looks so empty without those geraniums. Then maybe I'll call Peter and see if he still wants to go out with me. There. You see? I'll be fine. Give me my clothes, Flynn."
Flynn looked at the garments he held. Her sweater and pants were crumpled into a loose ball. He started to hand them over when a flash of black lace caught his eye. He hooked his finger under it and pulled it free.
It was a bra. Low-cut, underwire black lace that was sheer enough to see through.
She held out her hand.
Flynn let the bra dangle from his fingers. He imagined what it would look like on Abbie. His blood started to pound. The undergarment didn't match the rest of her sensible clothes. It was sexy, meant for seduction, not comfort. Someone else might have been surprised by her choice, but not Flynn. This suited Abbie perfectly. She might not display her sensuality, but it was there beneath the schoolteacher who worried about overdue library books. It was an intrinsic part of the woman who loved her family and could weep over a stranger's son.
He folded the scrap of lace into his fist. "You took this off. Why?"
"I had to. The lines from the lace would have shown through my T-shirt."
His gaze dropped to her chest. Her robe had fallen open while she'd been reaching under the bed. Her pink cotton T-shirt stretched smoothly over the curves of her breasts. She was right. The bra would have shown through the shirt because the fabric was soft enough to outline exactly what it covered…and supple enough to reveal the way her body responded as he watched.
He lowered his gaze to her thighs. "Did you leave anything on under that shirt?"
"Flynn…"
"Is it black lace too, Abbie?"
"Give me my clothes, Flynn."
He looked her in the eye and pitched her clothes across the bed. They hit the far wall with a whispered thud and tumbled to the floor.
She shuddered.
He leaned toward her. "Peter wouldn't understand the black lace the way I do, Abbie."
"I don't wear it for you or for him. I wear it for myself."
"I know."
"We should leave."
"I know."
"Now, Flynn. We don't have time—"
"We have the moment."
"Yes, that's right. All we have is the moment. That's why we shouldn't do this."
He slipped off his watch, reached into his pocket for his cell phone, then put both on the floor behind him. He lifted his hand to Abbie's face, holding it a breath away from her cheek, close enough to feel the heat of her skin on his palm but far enough to leave the choice up to her. "You're wrong, Abbie. The call that could end the mission might come through at any time. That's why we should do this. Because all we can be sure of is the moment."
Her gaze steadied on his. She circled his wrist with her fingers.
Flynn had never begged for anything in his life. He'd learned not to. But the longing that washed over him as he looked into her eyes was so powerful, it would have sent him to his knees if he hadn't already been on them.
Just this once, he didn't want to be on the outside looking in. He wanted to taste the love Abbie surrounded herself with before she, too, would walk out of his life. "Abbie, please."
Her fingers tightened. She didn't push him away. She lowered his hand and brought it to her breast.
Chapter 13
It wasn't adrenaline. It wasn't the wine her mother had given her. Abbie was afraid she knew what was making her heart race and her hands shake, but she wasn't going to think about that now. If she and Flynn would only get this moment, then she didn't want to waste it.
He spread his fingers over her breast.
Abbie moaned and swayed closer.
He moved the heel of his hand in a firm circle, sending bursts of delight pulsing over her flesh. He nudged her robe off her shoulder, dipped his head and replaced his hand with his mouth.
Oh, yes. It was more than adrenaline or wine. Whenever he touched her, wherever he touched her, she felt herself come alive. She braced her hands on his thighs. His muscles tensed into hard ridges. She traced the ridges to his knees and back to his groin, then slid her fingers over his hips and grasped his buttocks.
Less than a week ago she'd tried not to notice how his jeans had molded what she was now caressing. He'd drawn her then. She hadn't known why. She'd dreamed of him, but she hadn't wanted
to admit it. He wasn't what she'd been looking for…but here he was, and this wasn't the time for doubts and it wasn't the time to think. How could she think when he was moistening the front of her T-shirt and sliding the wet fabric over her nipple with his tongue?
She moaned and rose to her knees, her back arching as she followed the pleasure he was giving her. The question was no longer why was she letting him do this. It was why had she waited so long.
She pulled his shirt over his head and splayed her hands on his chest, reveling in the textures and contours she discovered. When she'd touched him like this yesterday, he'd stopped her. Was it only yesterday? Time no longer seemed relevant. How could she measure her feelings in days? Or moments?
Flynn looped his arm around her waist to bend her backward and ease her to the floor. He rid her of her robe and her T-shirt, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her panties. "Black lace," he murmured. "I knew it."
She lifted her hips to help him ease the garment off. "I lied, Flynn."
He pressed a kiss to her stomach. "What?"
"I did wear it for you. Only I hadn't known it would be you."
He lifted his head, his eyes dark. The expression on his face was…predatory. He scooped her off the floor and tossed her on the bed.
She raised herself on her elbows to shake the hair back from her eyes. She felt her mouth go dry as she watched him take a condom from the back pocket of his jeans and strip off the rest of his clothes. Each movement sent muscles rippling under taut skin. He was all male, his body lean, powerful and magnificently aroused.
The mattress dipped as he stretched out beside her. He hooked one foot behind her knees and rolled her against him, then slipped his hand boldly between her thighs and made her quiver. And he knew the instant her body needed more.
It was fast, as reckless and exciting as the motorcycle ride over here. Their skin grew slick. The scent of her soap mixed with the earthy scents of Flynn and of sex. She trembled around him as he filled her. She called his name as she climaxed. Everything he'd said the night before while he'd held her panting against the warehouse wall was coming true.
Seven Days to Forever Page 17
