by Bruhns, Nina
His head spun like a helo going down hard, and every muscle in his body felt like soggy spaghetti, but he forced himself up to his hands and knees. He lowered himself into a push-up and started counting. By five, his arms were shaking, his knees wobbling dangerously. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain in his fingers and stabbing behind his eyes, and the nausea lurching in his stomach. He held out until twenty. Then he collapsed.
Jesus. Pathetic. He used to be able to do ten times that many push-ups using only his fingers and toes, and not even break a sweat.
Shit. He didn’t know how he knew that, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind. He’d been buff and ripped and . . .
And now he was trembling like a baby and sweating like a pig.
A pig. Ha. How fucking appropriate.
He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to keep from bawling like a baby, too.
He had to get out of here.
He fucking had to get out of here. And he would. He had to.
Or, for real, he’d fucking kill himself.
GINA glanced nervously at the front door of the hospital. What in the world had possessed her to agree to this meeting?
Just because Gregg van Halen’s voice was low and soothing, his phone manners warm and affable, was no reason to put herself in jeopardy. Rainie was gone. Vanished.
What if the same thing happened to Gina? He was from the CIA, but what assurance was that? So was Rainie’s kidnapper. Van Halen might have been sent to shut Gina up because she was making such an unholy fuss looking for that Forsythe character Rainie had asked her to find out about. Hoping against hope Forsythe could tell her what had happened to her friend.
For the past half hour she’d been a porcupine of nerves and indecision. Should she really go? Or should she run as fast as she could in the opposite direction?
Except she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t.
Rainie had been gone almost three days. Gina wanted her friend back safe and sound. And she’d do anything to make that happen. Anything.
Including getting all dressed up and meeting this alleged agent Gregg van Halen for dinner.
She’d pulled out all stops and put on the slinky red dress she kept hanging in her hospital staff locker for last-minute dates, along with a pair of strappy heels she could barely walk in. Usually she didn’t do much walking after her date saw the dress. She hoped it would have a similar brain-numbing influence on van Halen.
Tonight she planned to dazzle him with her killer body and outmaneuver him with her brilliant mind. The man didn’t stand a chance.
She hoped.
Smoothing the dress over her hips, she regarded the double glass-front doors of the hospital with a tingle of apprehension.
“Dr. Cappozi?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. The voice had come from right behind her.
She whirled. “My God!”
“Not exactly. But I appreciate the confidence.” She was still wobbling on her heels and he stuck out a hand to steady her. “Gregg van Halen.”
She jerked away from him. And almost fell on her butt.
Okay, wow.
She didn’t know quite what she’d expected a CIA agent to look like, but this definitely wasn’t it.
He was about a hundred feet tall with short cropped blond hair and muscles out the wazoo. She couldn’t help but notice because he was wearing a white T-shirt that fit him better than a latex glove on a surgeon, along with low-slung jeans that hugged his package like a lover. Ho. Lee. Cow. Wasn’t it some kind of federal law that CIA agents were supposed to wear cheap black suits and reflector sunglasses?
Of course, maybe he wasn’t a CIA agent.
The way his eyes were taking her in from head to toe—slowly, thoroughly, like he was contemplating . . . yeah, exactly what she’d wanted him contemplating—was very un-CIA-like.
He towered over her; his shoulders were unreasonably broad, the sheer power of his very male frame . . . um, somewhat intimidating. Suddenly she questioned her strategy.
“Dr. Cappozi?” he repeated.
She took another step backward. “Yes, I, um—You know, this wasn’t a very good idea after all, Mr. van Halen—”
“Please. Call me Gregg.”
“—so, um, I think I’ll just keep calling the office for Jason Forsythe—”
“Mr. Forsythe is currently out of the country,” he said, and that yanked her attention back. “But he should be returning by the end of next week if you—”
“Next week?”
“Or . . .” Van Halen shrugged. “You could talk to me.”
He stood there, his angular, shadowed face carefully neutral, like he wasn’t backing her into a corner. Which of course he was. Which meant he was maneuvering her. Which meant he had ulterior motives. Okay, not good.
But God help her, she had to find out about Rainie.
First things first. “Do you have any identification?”
Wordlessly, he fished a thin wallet out of his jeans pocket—Jesus, how did it fit?—and flipped it open.
In the picture he had a golden mustache and was wearing some kind of uniform. Lots of stripes and medals on his chest. Holy moley.
Okay, so Wade was right; she really didn’t go for older men these days—yeah, yeah, go ahead and call her a cradle-robber, but youth was uncomplicated and older meant expectations, which she didn’t want to deal with—and this guy had at least a decade and more on the twenty-five years she preferred in a date. But damn. I mean, the man looked good. If you didn’t look too closely at his weathered face and seen-too-much eyes, you’d never know he was pushing forty.
Not that she hadn’t already noticed his extreme hunki ness. In the flesh. As it were. So not good.
He flipped the wallet closed again before she had a chance to read the fine print. Not that she would have. She’d been too distracted by his drool-worthy picture.
“Where would you like to go?” he politely asked.
My place?
Okay, wow. Totally inappropriate thought.
Focus on Rainie, girl.
“How about that new Italian bistro over on Seventh?” she suggested.
“Sure,” he said. “Let’s grab a cab.”
She was a bundle of nerves anyway, and now she also had this crazy insane attraction to contend with, which made her even more nervous as she slid into the taxi ahead of him. How could you outmaneuver someone if all you could think about was jumping his delectable body?
Damn, that was her strategy, distracting him with thoughts of sex. Obviously not working. Or rather, working too well . . . but on the wrong party. Somehow she had to take back control.
“So how long have you worked for CIA?” she asked after he’d told the driver the address.
He gave her the shadow of a smile. “Long enough to know we don’t kidnap innocent American citizens.”
She bristled. “Look, if all you’re interested in is telling me I’m wrong, I might as well get out right here.”
The shadow flickered. “Don’t worry, that’s definitely not all I’m interested in.”
Hello! Was he flirting with her? Maybe it was working on the right party.
But the man had yet to crack a smile. He seemed so rigid he was in danger of snapping in a stiff wind. And yet, the undercurrent was unmistakable. At least she thought it was. . . .
God, she was so confused she didn’t say another word until they arrived and were seated at a small table at the back of the restaurant. Very dark and private.
He ordered a bottle of Chianti and breadsticks while they looked at the menu, and when the waiter came back, he poured as they ordered their entrees. Wine. So not a good idea. Handsome-as-sin men and good wine together had an alarming tendency to lower her IQ by about fifteen points per glass. Possibly twenty. And she needed all her wits about her with this one.
When the waiter left, she started in, “Mr. van Halen—”
“Please, call me Gregg.”
She grabbed a breadsti
ck just to have something to do with her hands that didn’t involve drinking alcohol. Geez. Turnabout was definitely not fair play.
“Okay. Gregg. Tell me where Jason Forsythe is and why he can’t talk to me personally.”
Gregg’s square-jawed face remained somber. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say where he is. I can, however, assure you I’ll do everything in my power to resolve this problem for you. Now, Gina—may I call you Gina?” He raised a perfect brow. Thank God he didn’t smile.
“No,” she cut him off at the knees. Far better to keep the distance intact. “You may call me Dr. Cappozi.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said without missing a beat. Bastard. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what has happened to cause these suspicions in your mind?”
Interesting phrasing. Nonetheless she complied. The whole time she spoke he regarded her impassively, but she could practically see the gears turning behind those hard blue eyes. Spectacular eyes, really. Like brilliant blue diamonds. Way more than two carats’ worth.
“And that’s when my ex-fiancé gave me Forsythe’s phone number. Special Agent Wade Montana with the FBI,” she added pointedly. So van Halen would know if she disappeared, there was someone important who’d be looking for her. Just as she was doing for Rainie.
He nodded, taking a sip of his Chianti. “Well, it’s an interesting story. I’ll look into it and call you tomorrow.”
“That’s it?”
“Not much I can do tonight.” He tipped his head ever-so-slightly. “Unless . . . you can think of something?”
Okay. That was definitely a come-on. Wasn’t it? And yet, he didn’t seem the least bit distracted.
“No, you’re right,” she replied, looking down at her plate of barely touched lasagna. “First thing tomorrow will have to do.”
God help her. This guy was so far out of her league it wasn’t funny. She’d graduated summa cum laude, top of her class at Columbia, but Gregg van Halen had skills.
He didn’t bat an eyelash at her rejection. “Tell me about your job,” he said. “I understand you’re a medical research scientist.”
And for the next half hour he pretended to be fascinated by the details of her past and current projects in the field of immunology, where she was perfecting a controversial new live-attenuated vaccine for the RSV, or respiratory syncitial virus, delivered via the intranasal route. Controversial because it involved gene splicing and genetic alteration. A political hot topic because of the interest terrorists had in using the same method for purposes of bioterrorism.
“So you’re telling me someday when I go overseas I’ll be able to skip those nasty smallpox and yellow fever shots and just get a spray in the nose?” he asked.
“That’s the idea.” She couldn’t help being flattered by his interest, even if she knew it was only his way of getting her mind off Rainie. Or possibly getting her into bed. Most men’s eyes glazed over after the first two sentences of explaining what she did in her job, let alone ask a million questions and actually get it. Another reason she preferred younger men. They never asked what she did. Why pretend to care when all you were after was sex?
Van Halen had managed to appear interested for an entire half hour. He must really think he was getting lucky tonight.
She deliberately checked her watch. “Well, it’s getting late.”
Immediately he rose and pulled out her chair for her, putting a hand to the small of her back as they threaded their way through the tables to the exit.
“I’ll get a cab,” he said once they were out on the sidewalk.
“No need. I can—”
“I insist.”
Before she could protest he’d flagged down a taxi and herded her into the back. He slid in beside her.
Against everything she was telling herself, her pulse began to pound.
Sleeping with this man would be really, really stupid. Gregg van Halen was completely inappropriate as a lover. Maybe not quite the enemy, but certainly the opposition. Possibly even dangerous. Wasn’t that what had gotten Rainie into this terrible situation in the first place? Sleeping with a dangerous, inappropriate man? And now Rainie had disappeared. . . .
He told the driver the address. Her address. Which he knew by heart. And then he slid even closer. So her knee touched his firm, muscular thigh. His leg shifted and suddenly they were touching from hip to ankle.
Oh, God. Her pulse went off the chart.
He didn’t say a word, and she didn’t dare look at him.
Hell, the problem wasn’t that she didn’t want to sleep with him. The problem was that she did. With a desire that took her breath away. Talk about insane.
Rainie always said when it came to men Gina’s intelligence deserted her. This was no exception. Boy, was it no exception.
All too soon, they rolled up to the door of her building. Van Halen got out and extended a strong hand to help her climb out of the cab.
She took a deep breath. “Thanks for dinner. I really appreciate you looking into this for me. I’m so worried about my friend. It’s just not like her, and I—” She stopped abruptly. She was babbling. She felt her cheeks heat. God, when was the last time she’d blushed? “Anyway.” She turned.
Her cheeks heated even more, along with the whole rest of her, when he suddenly stepped behind her. Right behind her. And again they were touching, this time from their heads all the way down to their feet. His broad chest caressed her shoulder blades; his muscular thighs pressed into the backs of hers. The corded muscles of his arms brushed over her bare skin as his strong, blunt fingers glided down the sides of her body and gently grasped her hips. With a subtle motion he pulled her against him. What she felt was not subtle. Jesus, God. It was long and hard, thick and ready, and the feel of it pressing against her bottom sent a rash of goose bumps careening over her entire body.
This was not the tentative arousal of a twenty-five-year-old looking for some action. This was the hungry cock of a mature man who knew what he wanted and would take it mercilessly without a second thought. He’d do her so hard and so well she wouldn’t be able to stop smiling for a week.
“Gina,” he whispered. His warm breath stirred through her hair and down the column of her throat.
Oh, merciful Lord. This was it.
“Shall I walk you upstairs?”
TEN
AFTER three hours, Kick deemed it safe enough to stir within his hot, sightless cocoon. He hadn’t heard voices for a long time—not real ones, anyway—and the sound of the Jeep driving back and forth on the ridge above him had faded for good. By the cooling sand above him, he figured the sun had finally gone down, and the tangos had decided to call it a night.
Of course, if the situation were reversed, he’d sure as hell be sitting still as a stone Buddha on top of that cliff cradling his rifle and waiting for the enemy to emerge, no matter how long it took.
But that was just him.
He hoped to hell these guys weren’t as patient—some might call it obstinate—as he was.
He supposed he should be grateful for that obstinate streak. It was only thanks to it he’d survived the past three hours of hell, hiding motionless under the burning sand, keeping perfectly still. Every minute had been pure torture. Cramps, heart palpitations, sweats, shakes. As long as he was moving, running from the enemy, keeping Rainie safe, he didn’t have time to think about the drugs he was missing. The endless craving sitting square on his chest like a sharp-toothed monster gnawing viciously at his entrails. Now that he was clearheaded he could feel every goddamned bite, magnified a thousandfold from what they had been under the influence. A double-edged sword, that razor-sharpness. The yen was terrible. But for the first time in sixteen months, his thought process was lucid and rational. Undistorted except for the clean, sharp pain. That alone was worth all the rest.
He stuck his thumb on the end of the rifle barrel he’d been using as a breathing tube and powered his arm up through the couple feet of sand that enveloped him to the surface. Ja
ck-knifing to a sitting position, he wiggled from the parachute he’d wrapped around himself, the field pack and the duffel, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.
Outside, it was totally dark. Quiet as a tomb.
He glanced up at the cliffs opposite. Sketched only in the light of a billion glittering stars, the sepia rock face looked eerie and ethereal. He couldn’t see the low horizontal crevice where he’d hidden Rainie. Good. Because if he couldn’t see her, no one else could, either.
He’d listened carefully for the first hour after deliberately causing the avalanche of sand that had concealed him from the tangos, fearing they would retrace his path searching for him, and find her instead. But he’d left a convincing trail for them to follow. They’d never gone back.
After shaking out the parachute and stuffing it in the duffel with the other one, he quickly reversed his steps through the darkness, running back across the wadi and up the gap in the cliff. Impatiently he eased his body and the awkward pack around the jut and onto the narrow ledge, one swift step at a time, so he wouldn’t stumble and fall onto the rocks below.
“Rainie?” he quietly called. Didn’t want to surprise her. Getting shot by friendly fire would be a hell of an ending to this gig.
There was a scuffle and a thump, then the distinctive metallic sound of a gun bolt.
Please, God, let it be her. “Rainie, it’s me,” he called a little louder, his heart pounding. “Are you there?”
He heard a gasp. “Kick? Oh, my God, Kick!” An instant later, her silhouette appeared, crawling out from the black recesses of the cave into the starlight.
He closed the last few feet, threw the pack into the corner, and went to his knees to scoop her up, dizzy with relief. “Jesus,” he breathed into her hair, trying to tame his galloping heartbeat. “Jesus.”
“You came back,” she choked out.
“Damn straight,” he said, easing the gun from her clenched fingers. He was about to say, “I always keep my promises,” but the words wouldn’t go past his dry tongue. Instead, he whispered, “Jesus, girl, you’re shaking like a leaf.”
