So things like this did happen to her.
Maybe she was jinxed.
A cell phone sat on the living room coffee table and she snatched it up, turning it on and finding to her amazement it actually had a signal. A toilet flushed somewhere in the house. The sound spurred her into motion.
She was out of breath and sweating by the time she reached the front door. The elaborate electronic lock surprised her, but the door opened easily. She eased the solid oak door quietly closed behind her and dialed nine-one-one. The call rang endlessly and she gave up and dialed her parents instead. She looked out at a thick canopy of trees and frowned in confusion. No road. No vehicle. Not even a bicycle to borrow. Where was this place?
Her call again went unanswered.
She tried their cells. Maybe her parents were at the police station filling out forms about their missing daughter. Maybe they were printing flyers or posting on social media requesting help in finding her. Frustrated, she hung up and dialed Devon. If anyone had the wherewithal to track her whereabouts it was her ex, or his and Rebecca’s father, Gabriel, who was very fond of her.
Again the call rang endlessly, seeming to echo incessantly over the fiber optics network of the world.
A steep path led down toward the beach. Even looking at it sucked the energy from her marrow, then she remembered she wasn’t a guest here, she wasn’t on vacation. Instead, she was the prisoner of a delusional, if handsome, lunatic. She took a step forward and found herself once again swept up into strong arms. With her free hand she grabbed onto his shirt for balance, recognizing his scent before she even saw his face.
He plucked the cell out of her fingers and pocketed the phone. “For the love of Christ, you’ve been awake fifteen minutes and you’re already a giant pain in my ass.”
She fought to get out of his grip, but she had no strength left. Patrick had about seventy pounds of muscle mass on her, plus he hadn’t almost died from a fever.
“You’re going to hurt yourself and put your recovery back another week. I’ve already wasted enough time trying to keep you alive,” he bit out.
The callousness of that comment hurt. “I didn’t plan to get stabbed.”
He strode through the house and dumped her on the bed. She lay there too exhausted to move. Tears pricked her eyes and she turned away, not wanting him to see her so vulnerable. She’d been kidnapped by a rogue agent who’d mistakenly thought she’d killed someone—which should have been laughable except here she was being held captive in a strange house at an unknown location. He’d been watching her. Following her. Stalking her. How else had he been on hand to “save” her? Sure, he’d nursed her for days and probably saved her life, but who knew what else he’d done when she’d been unconscious. A rush of revulsion shot through her. She adjusted her shirt to cover more of her thighs.
His eyes narrowed as if reading her thoughts, a touch of temper spiking those cool depths.
“Just tell me who hired you, Doc, and I’ll arrange transportation back to the mainland ASAP. Getting you out of my hair will be a pleasure, believe me.”
They were on an island? She tried not to give away her surprise or unease. “And what happens when I can’t tell you what you want to know?”
He stared at her with a hard expression. Nothing like the nice guy who’d slept in the chair beside her bed earlier. There was nothing nice in his expression and a little shiver of apprehension slipped down her spine as she realized this guy had total control over every aspect of her life.
The moisture in her mouth evaporated as her fear increased. “What are you going to do if I don’t tell you what you want to know?”
“Oh, you’ll tell me eventually.”
And despite his default laid-back persona, she believed him. This man was not some beach bum, surfer dude. The harsh set of his features told her he’d done things and seen things that would make her cover her eyes in horror. The trouble was she didn’t know the answers to the questions he posed.
She reached for her water but her hand was shaking too much to actually pick up the glass and she almost knocked it over. He grabbed it and held it to her lips. She reluctantly took a sip wondering why she trusted him on one level and thought he was dangerous on another.
The water eased her dry throat. His face was only inches from hers, so close she could see the white gold of his eyelashes. She pushed the cup away. “Are you really CIA?” He said nothing and she could read nothing from his expression. “Are you a spy?”
His lips tightened. “I’m not a spy.”
“So CIA, but not a spy. What do you do for them?” Her breath hitched as she remembered all the times the CIA had been on the news in the last few years. “Were you one of the people searching for Bin Laden? An analyst?”
He shook his head and put the cup on the side table. “It’s classified.”
She’d followed the hearings of the Senate committee and knew some of what the CIA had done in the name of democracy and freedom. “Oh, my God.” She sucked in a breath. “Did you torture detainees?”
His eyes were icy cold now and he didn’t answer. Shocker. Instead he said, “Just tell me who hired you and you won’t have to worry about any of that.”
She shivered, but refused to be cowed. “Are you going to waterboard me if I don’t tell you what you want to hear?”
A half smile played on his lips, a smile that hinted at knowledge, experience, and a measure of absurdity. “I already tried that in the shower. Didn’t work.”
Her eyes flashed to his in alarm. He’d showered with her?
“Hey, it wasn’t that bad. I kept my pants on. Although I admit to being naked in the bathtub because I ran out of dry clothes.” He was searching her face now as if looking for her sense of humor, but she was so beyond finding this situation funny.
“Who do you think I killed?” she asked. It sounded so ridiculous.
One cocky brow rose. “You mean apart from Hector Sanchez?”
Her hand flew to her mouth. She’d forgotten she had actually killed a man. Nausea roiled in her stomach. But Patrick was trying to rattle her, determined not to answer her questions even though he demanded she answer his. She’d killed a man while fighting for her life—it wasn’t the same as being a killer.
“Is your name really Patrick?”
“That’s classified.”
God, he was insufferable. “I need to know.”
“What part of classified don’t you understand?”
“And what part of decent human being don’t you understand?” she snapped back.
He flinched. A chink in the armor. A hole in the wall. It wasn’t much, but it proved he was at least human. She had to keep him on the defensive.
“You’re one of the people who tortured prisoners during the Iraq War, aren’t you? How’d that make you feel, Patrick? Like a big man?”
His lip curled. “How’d it make you feel lying safe and snug in your own bed while others sacrificed themselves for you? Easy to blame the foot soldiers when the smoke clears, isn’t it?”
“You can’t just ignore the law.”
He pointed his finger at her. “Trust me, I know more about the law than you’ve even begun to process.” A furious light shone in his eyes. “And if I deny ‘torturing detainees,’ who are you going to condemn next? The Counterintelligence Officers? The military interrogators? The drone pilots? Who gets the blame and who gets the credit?” He paced. “It was a shambles after 9/11. Utter chaos. We were all just doing our jobs with fuck-all guidance from back home except to make sure there was no imminent threat to the American Homeland. And in case you didn’t notice, we did a pretty bang up job of that at the time.”
She narrowed her gaze. “It doesn’t make it right.”
“It’s hard to play the game with one hand tied behind your back.”
“Tell that to the people you tortured.” Audrey believed in right and wrong. There was no moral ambiguity here.
“You think terrorists follow the Geneva
Convention when they’re sawing off aid workers’ heads?” He leaned closer and she wanted to pull away but she held her ground. “You think they worry about being condemned for war crimes when they make women and young girls their sex slaves and rape them, repeatedly, until they’re either dead or pregnant? Those bastards deserve a bullet in the head at point-blank range for what they do, not a fucking lawyer.” The muscle flexing in his jaw mesmerized her, as did the masculine scent of his skin.
He drew back and lowered his voice. “You know the safest place for any terrorist? FBI or CIA custody. And they know it. They aren’t scared of us because we might ‘torture’ them.” He jammed his hand into his too long hair. “They’re laughing their fucking asses off because they know we can’t touch them, not the way we’d like to.”
“Unless you whisk them away to some Black Camp location.” She looked around pointedly.
He snorted. “You’re out of your mind, lady. This is nothing like a Black Camp. But keep up the denial and maybe you’ll get to see the real deal—and I’d strongly advise against that option.” He clamped his lips shut. He must have figured he’d said too much.
The sudden silence buzzed with anger. She’d rattled him, which had been her intent, but she liked him more for his honest reaction than for the annoyingly honed veneer of cynical amusement. Then his expression changed and his eyes drifted slowly over her body. She tugged the hem of the T-shirt lower.
She glared back, recognizing the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Touch me and I’ll scream,” she warned.
“Oh, you’ll scream all right.” His grin was sexy rather than threatening, which probably wasn’t the effect he was going for. Her nipples tightened and her breath caught with a shot of anticipation. No doubt about it, the guy looked like he knew his way around the pleasure spots of the female body. She hated herself for letting him get to her.
A flicker of self-satisfaction touched his lips, and she realized he’d purposely turned the tables on her once again.
“Is this how you normally get women into bed?” she muttered irritably.
“Trust me, it’s not something I usually have to work at.” His expression became one of supreme self-confidence. “Hey, don’t get me wrong. Under normal circumstances I’d do you.” Those blue eyes of his were boring into her again, trying to upset her and doing a hell of a job of it. “You’re female and not dead, and frankly I’m not that fussy. But I like my women willing and enthusiastic, and preferably not with a killer frog in their pocket.”
Killer frog? Was that his idea of a joke? Considering how Hector Sanchez had died it wasn’t funny. If she’d had the energy she’d have smacked him. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that? Why don’t you run along and poke bamboo under someone’s fingernails.”
“Good tip. Anything else you’d like to pass on?”
“I hate you.” She hugged her knees to her chest, but judging from the way his eyes widened and nostrils flared she’d flashed more than she’d intended. She glared. So what? He’d already seen her naked.
He looked at the ceiling and muttered, “If anyone is a professional torturer around here it would be you.”
She licked her lips nervously.
He watched her mouth and then met her gaze. “You can play the seduction game if you want, Aud. Despite what I said before I’m totally up for it. But it won’t change the outcome of our time together. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She let out a choked laugh. She’d been stabbed, kidnapped, and comatose for days, and she was playing the seduction game? Seduction game? Was he out of his ever-loving mind? She looked like death. Her hair was a wild scraggly mess. She hadn’t brushed her teeth in days.
“I’m keeping you here until you tell me who hired you.” He went over and picked up a duffel bag she hadn’t noticed from the top of a chest of drawers. “You and me are stuck together until I get the information I need, and that’s true even if you force me to have sex with you.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He did not just say that.
He thought she was trying to seduce her way out of this? Who the hell was she supposed to be, Mata Hari? Red-hot rage surged through her like molten lava. She grabbed the water cup and threw it at him, but it was plastic and fell short. She was so angry her vision blurred and her jaw locked. In the past she’d never wished anyone ill but if he stuck around that could change.
His expression had regained its annoying arrogance and that told her he had her back exactly where he wanted her, acting on instinct, not logic. Not asking him the tough questions.
She took a calming breath. “You’re making a big mistake, Patrick. I’m an American citizen. People will be looking for me. My parents, the university I work for.”
He weighed her words for a moment. “They’ll look for a while. Then they’ll forget all about you. That’s the reality. Trust me, I know.”
He turned and left. This time she heard the lock turn.
Chapter Nine
KILLION WAS PISSED. He was pissed that he was pissed. Audrey Lockhart had knocked him sideways. First, the expression on her face when she’d guessed he was CIA, like he was some sort of sexual deviant, rather than a respected and upstanding member of the intelligence community. Then she judged him and all his co-workers by leaping to conclusions about the kind of work he did.
“Fuck.”
He went to the window and stared out at the miles of glistening water. His job was classified. He didn’t talk about it, period. Not even to defend himself. But he wasn’t a whipping boy who’d stand around letting others take potshots at him, either. He was a decorated patriot who fought for his country in a covert war that never ended. This was what he did, this was what he was good at. What the hell would he do with himself if he wasn’t picking up bad guys and squeezing them for information?
Audrey Lockhart had no right to judge him. Sure, she’d suffered. Being attacked and nearly dying wasn’t a picnic. But if she’d murdered Ted Burger then certain risks had to be anticipated.
If…
His problem was this ever-growing tendril of doubt. Doubt about her involvement. Doubt in himself. She wasn’t behaving like an assassin should, on any level. She wasn’t following any of the unwritten rules. She was just being her wide-eyed ingénue self and if it was an act it was a damn good one.
Interrogation required the same skills as a good case officer handling an asset—except an asset was a willing participant whereas a detainee was generally pissed. But it was an intense relationship where trust was critical.
When interrogating detainees in Abu Ghraib—after the terrible events that had preceded his arrival in the country—he hadn’t worried about uncertainty. He’d been sent to glean as much information from key prisoners as possible. Contrary to what everyone thought and accused him of on a regular basis, he hadn’t used “enhanced interrogation techniques.” He hadn’t needed to.
His hands weren’t clean. He didn’t condone torture, but he’d been complicit in watching other CIA and military personnel question suspects and he’d seen them go hard on one captive in the early days of the Iraq war. He’d been too green to know better, too low on the rungs to alter the course of events, but it hadn’t taken long to figure out that it wasn’t the way he wanted to uphold his vow.
At the time the operators had felt justified. They’d been searching for information on a particular high-value target who’d been on everyone’s shit list and they hadn’t been shy about extracting it. The operators hadn’t cared about rules of engagement, they’d been desperate, believing the US was under imminent threat. They’d gained the information they required and Killion had no doubt they’d saved lives. The operators had fast-tracked the interrogation process, but it could have gone either way. The real key lay in the fact they’d scooped up the right person off the street, someone who’d known the relevant information.
Killion might not believe in torture, but he wasn’t about to condemn the people on the ground who’d been part
of the most ill thought out military campaign since the trench warfare of WWI. Actually, no, that wasn’t fair. The campaign itself had been masterful. It was the lack of planning for the aftermath that had been a goddamn disaster.
Despite the early hour, he poured himself two-fingers of bourbon then hunted in the freezer, pulling out a large steak and finding potatoes in the bottom of the fridge. Audrey probably wouldn’t eat much, but cooking eased his mind and he hadn’t eaten a decent meal since Logan’s stew a couple of days ago.
No matter what Killion threw at Audrey she never dropped out of character—that of being an innocent biologist caught up in something she didn’t understand. She’d gotten him to spill his guts. Not operational details, but he usually kept his mouth shut, period.
She pushed his buttons.
It would be hard to break her—mainly because he liked her too much. Maybe he should pass her over to someone who could do the job they were being paid to do.
His phone rang. The island had its own satellite connection. He checked the number. Jed Brennan. He’d been expecting the call.
“How’s the va-cay?” Jed asked.
“About the same as yours was before Christmas, except for the getting laid by a good-looking woman part.”
Jed had helped Vivi Vincent and her young son escape from terrorists during a mall attack last year. All three of them had come close to death and Jed could have lost his career over some of the choices he’d made. Thanks to Professor Lockhart, Killion understood Jed’s decisions a little better now. Not the playing happy families bit, but the running-and-hiding and assessing your position part.
“Win some, lose some.” Jed laughed.
“Smug bastard.” Killion looked out the window at the spectacular view, but all he saw was Audrey’s pretty eyes turning a distinct shade of disappointed. He jammed his fingers into his hair. “Honestly, I’d rather be stranded in Wisconsin eating raw turnips.”
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