He knew she wasn’t ready to make love, but he couldn’t resist teasing her, just to watch her face change expressions. “We should sleep together.”
At his suggestion, she froze, then sputtered sarcastically. “You’re so romantic.”
“That’s me. Clay Rogan at your service, ma’am.” He stood and made a pompous little bow. “It’s the poet in me that’s trying to come out.”
She laughed and shook her head, her hair spilling over her look of exasperation. “What am I going to do with you?”
He held his arms wide. “How about a hug?”
She moved toward him without hesitation, and he cradled her against him, her head tucked under his chin, her chest and hips pressed to him. She felt right. And while he wanted to make love to her, he wanted her to want him even more.
“We’re adults. We can share the bed without making love,” he murmured into her hair.
She leaned back and studiously looked at him. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Unless you intend to attack me like a savage, I suppose I’ll be safe enough.”
She chuckled again. “All right. I promise not to take advantage of you.” She glanced over her shoulder at the furniture. “Besides, the sofa is way too short.”
So was the bed, but he wasn’t about to point that out. Not when she’d consented to spend the night under the same blanket. He let her use the bathroom first, then showered and shaved.
When he returned, she was wearing a long cotton nightshirt and had scooted over to her side of the bed so far she looked like a light breeze would blow her off. He took a seat on his side and realized she was as tense as a virgin on her wedding night.
Didn’t she know him well enough by now to realize he would never push her to do more than she wanted? He wasn’t accustomed to coaxing unwilling women into bed. In fact, he rarely found the woman unwilling, so he found her inherent distrust of him almost insulting.
“You don’t snore, do you?” he teased.
“How would I know?” she muttered, giving him her back.
She really needed to loosen up. He couldn’t fall asleep unless she relaxed.
“How about a massage?” he asked.
She turned over and let loose a huff of air. “I charge fifty bucks an hour and only work between the hours of ten and six.”
“I meant, how about I give you a massage? And it’s free.”
“Nothing’s free.” She lifted her head to look at him. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…Men often get the wrong idea about what I do for a living.”
“I understand.” He leaned over and placed his fingers along her shoulders on either side of her neck and began to knead her tight muscles. “If I mention I work for the agency, people expect James Bond.”
“I’ll just bet the ladies all want The Spy Who Loved Me.” She kept her tone light, but he could hear giant question marks behind her sarcasm.
“There hasn’t been a woman in my life since my divorce.”
“I believe you. But how many have been in your bed?”
“I’m not a monk.”
“And I had no right to ask that question. I’m sorry. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“You’re going…we’re going too fast. I’m not the kind of woman—”
“Who makes love on the first date.” He finished the sentence for her. “I know that. It’s okay. Now, how about that massage?”
MELINDA KNEW SHE would never fall asleep while sharing the same bed with Clay. She remained on her stomach and didn’t feel at all uncomfortable when he straddled her hips. His large fingers lifted her hair off her neck and cool air on bare flesh shot a soft tingle down her spine.
She’d given thousands of massages and there had been nothing sexual about them. As a professional, she loosened tight muscles, flushed fluid from swollen joints, working deeply or lightly depending on client preferences.
Melinda never massaged the men she dated, preferring to keep her work professional, her dates personal. She didn’t believe in mixing her work life with her social life. Her dates either accepted her take on things or moved on. None of them, however, had ever suggested giving her a massage.
None of them had ever kissed her the way Clay had kissed her, either. She still felt all warm and prickly from the shock he’d given her nervous system. One kiss shouldn’t have that much power. One kiss shouldn’t have that kind of megawatt voltage. One kiss shouldn’t have made her wonder where Clay Rogan had been all her life.
Dazed and turned on by his kiss, she’d almost been ready to make love to him. What the hell had he done to her? She wasn’t inexperienced. She didn’t believe in chemistry so strong it produced spontaneous combustion, yet when he’d kissed her, she’d almost gone up in flames. Shocked by her own behavior, she’d barely said no in time.
She’d thought a massage would relax her. Although Clay was not a professional therapist, his strong hands seemed to find every tense spot. Slowly and methodically, he worked her shoulders and neck, kneading the soft tissue, finding pressure points and releasing tight knots.
He was good. Unconventional. Expert enough to make a living with his hands.
“Where did you learn?” she asked, her tone muffled a bit by the mattress.
“China. Thailand. India.”
“During your stint in the military?”
“I could answer that question, but then I’d have to kill you,” he teased. “The information’s still classified.”
Just when he’d had her convinced he sat safely behind a desk for a living, he threw new tidbits at her. She recalled riding with him on that motorcycle clutching black leather, climbing over balconies, and now with his references to his adventurous past, she realized there was more to him than sitting behind a computer and breaking codes.
That was why she’d picked up danger signals from the start. She might not have had all her memories but there had been nothing wrong with her instincts. Clay Rogan was very likely one of those men about whom women had romantic fantasies. A dangerous rogue. A spy. He’d swooped into her life like a night shadow and then would leave for his next assignment on the wind.
She refused to fall for that kind of man. Yet, as his fingers worked out a spasm near her spine, she let out a soft moan of pure pleasure. “You feel wonderful.”
“Glad to be of service.”
His words evoked images of what other kinds of services he might provide. She couldn’t help wondering whether, if she removed his shirt, she’d find toned muscles and tanned skin. Would he have chest hair? Or be smooth-skinned?
With his powerful shoulders, which tapered to a flat stomach and slender hips, she suspected he would move like a dream. But none of his physical attributes could possibly explain how he affected her libido. His hands on her back made her more aware of a man than she’d ever been. Her pulse beat at time and a half. Her veins sang with their own rhythm. And her heart felt full.
Damn him. She didn’t want to like him. Didn’t want to respond to him like some lovesick teenager who couldn’t control her raging hormones. Yet, she had to grit her teeth to muffle another groan of pleasure as he caressed and stroked the knots in her lower back.
It would be so easy to turn over and draw her hands through his marvelous hair and taste his mouth once more. She could tug him down on top of her, and they could both lose themselves in the passion flashing like heat lightning between them.
But what about afterward? Way after he finished this mission and moved on to the next?
If she gave in to desire now, how would she feel later, after he left her? And even if they tried to make a go of a long-distance relationship, the odds would be against them. Better not to know how he would feel inside her. Better not to reach for the stars when she couldn’t always look up and have them within easy sight.
Coward.
She didn’t turn over, and if protecting herself made her a coward, then so be it. She may have lost part of her memory. She may have lost a good day’s work and
a few clients. She might have lost the papers her brother, Jake, had sent her, but she refused to lose her heart to an adventurer.
Melinda believed absolutely that she could chose whether or not to fall in love. Love was a rational decision made upon the basis of concrete things. Things like working in the same town, living in the same part of the country.
She didn’t want a fling. Or a short affair. She wanted forever, and if she saw no possibility of forever with a man—then there was no way she would let herself fall in love—even if her veins hummed and her heart overflowed.
The fact that Clay was a good guy, a hunk with a delicious kiss and a mind she could admire, wouldn’t sway her. She was not going to make love to him no matter how much her hormones protested. She could control herself. She always had. She always would.
Nevertheless, she told herself to stay away from his potent kisses. Now that she knew how powerful the attraction between them was, she would avoid personal contact. In fact, she shouldn’t even be allowing him to rub her back, but he felt so good…
Without warning, Clay suddenly shifted his weight and shoved her off the bed.
“Hey!”
She landed with a thump on the hard floor. Then he was on top of her before she could protest, knocking air from her lungs, covering her mouth with his hand, protecting her with his large and rock-hard body.
Stunned from the hard landing and the way he’d erupted into violence without warning, she barely comprehended his words. Leaning close, he whispered into her ear, “Someone’s in the house.”
CLAY HAD REACTED on instinct, rolling to protect Melinda and simultaneously grabbing his gun off the nightstand. Now his thoughts raced at roller-coaster speed. All along he’d believed stealing back the tape had been too easy, and now he knew why. The agents had used the tape from her answering machine as bait, no doubt attaching a microscopic tracking device beneath the stick-on label, hoping Clay and Melinda would lead them to the material Jake had sent. Which meant that the agents had already tracked down every lead on the tape and found nothing useful, or they wouldn’t have given it up.
The agents must believe Melinda still had the information they needed. Yet, why would they think Melinda and he would try for the tape if they possessed Jake’s envelope? And if the agents believed that Melinda didn’t have the package her brother had sent, why wouldn’t they wait and track them, hoping he and Melinda would lead them to it?
Something just didn’t make sense. There could have been a breakdown in communications among the enemy. Someone could be disobeying orders. Or the enemy factions could be fighting among themselves. He suspected a payoff, a double cross or a triple agent’s handiwork.
Either way, Clay needed to make some fast decisions. If they were flushed out, he had no idea how many men waited outside to shoot them down or take them hostage, a distinctly unpleasant notion. These men had already shown their ruthless tendencies. Just because he and Melinda couldn’t give them the location of the package they wanted wouldn’t stop the men from trying to extract that information in extremely unpleasant ways.
Listening intently, he picked up two distinct sets of footsteps, one in the kitchen, the other approaching the bedroom.
Rising soundlessly to his feet, he moved to the open side of the door. By not hiding behind the door, he chose to go for the element of surprise, although he was leaving himself exposed. The problem would be that not only must he take out his opponent on the first strike, he needed to do so in complete silence or his foe would warn his coconspirator.
Clay prayed Melinda wouldn’t move or make a sound behind the bed where she remained hidden. As the footsteps closed in, he tensed, knowing he would probably get only one chance. He had to be accurate, deadly if necessary.
Sensing his opponent more than seeing him, Clay kept his gun ready, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it since the noise would alert half the neighborhood.
The intruder, a black mass in the dark room, glided into the bedroom with the stealth of a dark warrior.
Wait.
Wait.
Not yet.
Now.
Using his gun like a club, Clay slammed the weapon onto the back of the man’s skull. Ready to strike another blow or catch the slumping body, Clay felt relief as the man collapsed into his arms.
Melinda rolled out from behind the bed and grabbed the man’s feet. Together they dumped him on the bed.
“Is he de—”
Clay placed his hand over her mouth. Apparently she hadn’t heard the second man’s approach. There was no time to talk, no time to tell her to hide. The second intruder must have suspected trouble because he was suddenly inside the room.
Clay wasn’t positioned properly, his back was still to the door. He spun around and pointed his weapon.
Too late.
“Drop the weapon, or the girl dies,” ordered an unaccented voice.
It was too dark to see Melinda. His second opponent had to be wearing infrared goggles.
Clay tossed his gun to the floor and waited for a better opportunity to strike.
“Kick the weapon to me.”
“Where?” Clay asked, stalling for time as he backed away from the door toward the nightstand and the lamp sitting on it.
He reached out and found the cord, snapped on the light. Bright lights would temporarily blind anyone wearing night goggles.
The man cursed and fired his gun wildly, spraying the room with a burst of bullets. Clay dived for the man’s feet, taking him down in a tackle any NFL linebacker would be proud of. What he didn’t count on was a counterstrike.
His opponent wasn’t carrying a revolver but a semiautomatic weapon. Already out of ammunition, the man used the gun like a fist. Clay took the brunt of the blow on one shoulder, and his entire left side went numb.
With his right hand, he jabbed the man’s jaw, but with both men struggling across the floor, his blow lacked power. Another strike to Clay’s head from the gun made his ears ring and he realized he’d made a critical mistake.
He should have immediately tried to control the club, not struck a blow with his fist. Grunting, he lunged, narrowly avoiding another nasty blow.
On the floor, trapped between the bed and the wall, he didn’t have much maneuvering room.
Melinda’s voice suddenly rang out. “Hold it right there or I’ll shoot this thing.”
His foe struggled harder, then a shot sizzled by them and struck close enough to spray splinters.
“I don’t have a clear shot of his head or chest, Clay. Should I shoot him in the balls?” Melinda asked, her voice tight, controlled and trembling.
At her question, the man stopped fighting. “Don’t shoot me, lady. We only came here to talk.”
Clay jerked the man to his feet. In his late fifties, he stood at least six foot four and looked to be in great shape. His snake-cold eyes ignored Clay and focused on Melinda. “This could all be over if you’d just give us the documents.”
“Who is us?” Clay asked.
The snake-eyed agent shrugged. “People who will let you live if you give us what we want.”
Clay backed away from the agent and took the gun from Melinda’s shaking hand. “You did good.”
She looked sick, pale.
“Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
Snake-eyes shook his head. “No, you won’t be. Do you think the people I work for are going to give up? You’ve come across material that isn’t meant for your eyes. Give it up and you can walk away.”
Clay had to give Melinda credit. She didn’t say a word, letting him handle the conversation.
Short of torture and maybe not even then, this hard case wasn’t going to talk. He was a pro. He wouldn’t carry identification, and as much as Clay wanted to give him over to the authorities, they couldn’t afford to hang around and answer questions—because more of his friends might show up. Friends with official badges that might make the police turn Melinda and Clay over to the enemy.
/> “Pack your stuff,” he told Melinda.
“What about them?”
“We’ll tie them up.”
“We’re just going to—”
“Walk away.”
Snake-eyes smirked. “Walking won’t be good enough. Neither will running. There’s no place you can hide from the CIA. Look, why don’t we make a deal?”
Chapter Eight
Clay tied the men’s wrists and ankles behind them with plastic garbage bag ties Melinda brought him from the kitchen. He worked quickly, with little excess motion, as if he’d done this type of work before.
The agents didn’t look comfortable on their stomachs with their arms and legs twisted back, but Melinda didn’t have much sympathy for their predicament. She refused to think what would have happened if Clay hadn’t heard the men’s stealthy approach. She knew if their positions had been reversed, the agents would not have been content to simply tie them up and drive away.
Still, something about seeing the men bound and helpless left her with a numb and hollow feeling. This violent world of cloak-and-dagger secrets was not one she wanted to live in. Unfortunately, she liked the alternative, dying, even less.
She packed hurriedly and in silence, not wanting to give away anything, while Clay checked the premises. He returned, startling her just as she placed their packed bags by the front door. He moved with a stealth that kept surprising her. Light on his feet, graceful, he advanced like a jungle cat on the prowl.
“There’s only the two of them,” he reported as casually as if he’d just told her he expected rain tomorrow. “No one’s outside.”
Melinda let out the breath she’d been holding the entire time they’d been apart. If anything happened to Clay, she wouldn’t last five minutes in his rough and nasty world. But she hadn’t been worried over herself as much as over his safety, and that bothered her, too. When had she grown so attached to him? Was it simply because they’d been thrust into danger together?
Or was it something that might last if they managed to stay alive?
When they left the house, Clay handed her a set of keys. “Why don’t you drive the intruders’ car and follow me. I cut the bungalow’s phone line. No point in leaving them communication or transportation nearby. The more we slow them down, the less likely they’ll be to pick up our trail.”
Lovers in Hiding Page 10
