by Lara Lacombe
He moved to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, hanging back a bit so he could watch Claire from the shadows cast by the afternoon light as it filtered through the trees. She was standing by the window, arms wrapped around her middle, staring into space with an absorbed look on her face. Her bruises were looking better, he noted, the healing pink slice on her cheek no longer a garish streak on her pale skin. Even so, his gut tightened at the image she presented—lost, alone, injured. How could Novikoff have used her like that? How could someone who had claimed to care about her put her in such danger?
More importantly, did she even know? Did she suspect Ivan had used her, had willingly set the dogs on her in a failed bid to escape? He heard the faint rustle of pages and looked down, surprised to find his fist tightly clenched around them. He exhaled, willing himself to relax, and opened his fist, smoothing the hopelessly wrinkled pages against his leg with his open palm. When he looked up, he saw she was watching him, a faint smile curving her lips.
“Everything all right?” she asked quietly.
He nodded, stepping into the kitchen and crossing over to the table to set the pages next to her notes. “Harper is thrilled with your work. He’s sending James over now to pick up the pages so the team can get started tracking down the names. Hopefully, we’ll know who’s who and how they’re connected to Dr. Novikoff by the end of the day, or tomorrow morning at the latest.”
She nodded, pressing her lips together in a pale line. “Good.”
“Claire,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “I think we need to consider the possibility that Ivan didn’t mean for you to translate those pages.”
She glanced up at him, her eyebrows pulling together as she regarded him with a quizzical expression. “What makes you say that?”
“Consider the odds,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “What are the chances you would recall a remark he’d made in passing about an obscure children’s book, and know to use that to decipher his code?”
She shrugged. “Lucky guess?” she offered. “I don’t really have an explanation for it, other than to say I was cooped up inside with nothing else to focus on, so I had nothing better to do than relive every conversation I could remember.”
“But how could Ivan know you would remember that specific conversation?” he pressed, wanting her to connect the dots on her own so he didn’t have to spell it out for her. He did not want to be the guy who shattered her illusions about her erstwhile friend and mentor.
She tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Where are you going with this, Thomas?”
He looked down with a mental sigh. There was no hope for it—he was going to have to say it. “I think Dr. Novikoff knew he was in danger, and sent you those files for safekeeping until he could retrieve them later. I don’t think he ever meant for you to translate them.”
“But...” She swallowed hard, her gray eyes wide. “Why send them to me? Why not just hide them?”
He shook his head. “You were the safest bet. By sending the files to you, he got them out of the country, far away from himself and his family. Maybe he didn’t think they’d come after you, but he took a huge risk with your safety by getting you involved.” He gritted his teeth against the surge of anger tightening his gut at the thought of the dead scientist. Maybe he really hadn’t known the gravity of the threat against him, but that was no excuse for involving Claire.
He wished Novikoff were standing in front of him, so he could reach out and shake the man, make him understand the consequences of what he’d done. But with the Russian scientist half a world away, and dead to boot, his ineffective rage had no target. He settled for tightening his fingers around the back of a chair, the wood smooth and cool under his hands.
Claire cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her voice was wobbly. “Do you think Ivan knew they’d come after me?”
Yes. The word was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t say it. Novikoff was probably one of the bad guys, but maybe he really had cared for Claire in his own way. She’d certainly cared for him. It wasn’t his place to decide what parts of their relationship had been real and what parts had been Ivan using her.
“I can’t answer that,” he replied, not meeting her eyes.
“That means yes,” she whispered.
He looked up, but she had turned away from him, returning her gaze to the scene outside. “Claire,” he began, but she held up a hand to silence him.
He gave her space for a few endless moments, but when she made no move to turn around again, he walked the short distance to the window and stood behind her. If she noticed his presence, she didn’t react.
“It’s just,” she said, then paused for a breath. “I thought I knew him, you know? I never dreamed he would do something like this.”
He stayed silent, knowing he couldn’t say anything to make the situation better for her. Besides, his thoughts were a jumble of contradictions and half-formed impressions, nothing he could coherently express, and certainly nothing that would comfort her. He wanted to haul her into his arms, press her against his chest and wrap himself around her. He needed to feel her against him, to know she was truly safe. Novikoff had gambled with her life, something Thomas would never understand, but he could make sure she came out unscathed. Physically, at least.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“There’s nothing I can say.” She turned to face him then, and he clenched his hands into fists at his sides to keep from touching her. “There are no magic words I can use to make this easier on you, or to make things better. All I can do is tell you I’m sorry, but that’s not nearly enough.”
She gave him a sad smile. “It’s a start,” she whispered.
She leaned in, getting incrementally closer to him. Like a moth to a flame, he felt himself leaning forward as well, closing the distance between them until she rested her forehead against his shoulder. Her arms snaked around his waist while she pressed herself flush against his chest, and he gave in, wrapping his arms around her to anchor her in place.
The scent of lavender filled his nose when he dropped his head to her hair. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, savoring the warm smell of her. She felt so right pressed up against him, her round breasts firm against his chest, her hands clutching his back. The position was startlingly intimate, and he realized with a growing sense of alarm that another part of his anatomy had taken notice. Time to end this, before he embarrassed himself.
He reluctantly eased her away, putting a few inches of space between them. Her hands stayed on his back for a few heartbeats before she slid them off, running them down and over his hips before breaking contact. Her touch left a trail of heat on his skin, exacerbating his growing arousal.
Her eyes were liquid pools of silver, the lids half-drawn as she stared up at him. The warm afternoon light streamed in from the window, bathing her in a golden glow that made her appear lit from within. Her tongue flicked out, gliding across her lips in an echo of her earlier invitation, and heat pooled low in his belly.
Did he move? Did she? He wasn’t sure, but suddenly his mouth was on hers, the silk of her lips sliding across his as he slanted his head to taste her. She sighed and pressed closer, eagerly returning his kisses as she reached up to grip his shoulders. He dipped his tongue inside her mouth, traced it teasingly along hers before pulling back and turning his head to adjust the angle of the kiss.
She let out a little moan, the sound rumbling through her and into him. Needing to take charge, he spun her around and backed her against the wall, reaching down to grab her legs and lift her up. She locked her ankles around his waist and he leaned forward, holding her against the wall with his weight pressed against her center. She arched her back, rocking against his arousal in a helpless rhythm, silently asking for more. He groaned, pulling his mouth away from hers to pr
ess openmouthed kisses against her neck. He kept one hand on her leg as the other skipped up her side to cup her breast. The firm swell fit his hand perfectly, her nipple peaking against the flat of his palm.
“Thomas...” she murmured.
“Hmm?” He kissed his way to the swell of her breasts, hitching her up higher on the wall to bring them to the level of his mouth.
“Thomas,” she repeated again, this time more determinedly. She plunged her hands into his hair, tugging his head away from her skin.
He looked up, confused. “Yeah?”
“Your phone is ringing.”
He frowned, trying to concentrate over the pounding of blood in his head and the sound of his harsh breathing. She was right—the faint electronic noise was insistent and jarring.
No, not again! With a sigh, he released Claire’s legs to let her slide down, biting his lip to hold back a groan as she moved over sensitive areas. He stepped back, fished the phone out of his pocket and dropped his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch Claire tuck her shirt back into place and smooth her hair away from her face.
“Kincannon,” he said, failing to keep the frustration out of his voice.
A soft laugh greeted his ears.
“Who is this?” he said, his patience running thin. Was Reynolds calling to give him a hard time? He pulled the phone from his ear to glance quickly at the display, but the number was unregistered. That was odd.
“This is Special Agent Kincannon,” he said, tightening his grip on the phone. “I repeat, who is this?”
“Now, Thomas, is that any way to talk to me?” The voice was smooth and oily, even smug. Thomas remained silent as he tried to place it. He had heard it before, but where?
“Your neck is looking much better,” the man continued. In a sudden, horrifying instant, the wheels clicked into place. Victor.
Thomas glanced up to see Claire standing by the window, watching him. He snaked out a hand to grab her arm, then yanked her away from the window. She let out a small sound of protest but didn’t speak.
“Victor,” he said, ignoring Claire’s sharp intake of breath at the name. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you again.” He tugged Claire down the hall as he spoke, wanting to get her away from any windows or other points of entry. Did he have eyes on the house? How else would he know how the wound on his neck was healing?
There was a safe room off the main bedroom. It was small—no more than an alcove attached to the closet—but it was secure and he headed for it now, tugging an unresisting Claire behind him. Thankfully, she wasn’t fighting him on this. He’d worked cases before where the civilians involved had resisted doing what they were told. It never ended well.
“Calling to turn yourself in?” He released Claire’s arm to open the safe room door. She stepped inside, turning back to look at him with those gray eyes, now wide with alarm. He held a finger to his lips, and she nodded. Carefully, quietly, he shut the door.
“Not today, I don’t think,” Victor said airily, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I was hoping to find out how Dr. Fleming is feeling.”
Thomas slipped his gun free of its shoulder holster. “She’s just fine,” he replied, creeping from room to room, checking for an intrusion. He let Natalie sleep, knowing he couldn’t wake her without a noisy explanation that he didn’t have time for. “Never better, in fact.” The house was empty, but Victor might be outside, watching them. Thomas paused in the kitchen, his hand hovering over the button that would trigger the silent alarm and bring backup.
“Did you just call to chat?”
“Yes and no.” The man was infuriatingly calm, and Thomas had the distinct sense he was being played. But how?
“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how did you get my number?” He wanted to keep Victor talking, hoping he would give something away, let something slip that would reveal his location.
“Please,” Victor scoffed. “Even you have to appreciate how easy that was for me. But you know—” his voice changed, became even more smug and self-satisfied “—your number isn’t the only thing I have that’s yours.”
Thomas froze as the words registered, the hair on the back of his neck rising as the implications sank in. “What do you mean?” he asked, very quietly.
“Claire’s skin is so smooth, so flawless. Like porcelain,” Victor mused, sounding distracted. “I was sorry I had to mark her like that. I didn’t cut her too deeply though. She should heal. How is her cheek now?”
Thomas gripped the edge of the counter, keeping a firm hold on his temper. “It’s fine,” he said shortly. “What did you mean when you said you have something else of mine?”
“Tell her I’m sorry about it, will you?”
“What did you mean?” Thomas gritted out. A sense of clawing desperation was climbing up from his gut to wrap greasy tendrils around his throat, making it hard for him to speak.
“Never mind, I’ll apologize to her myself,” Victor went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ll be seeing her soon enough.”
“Like hell you will.”
He laughed again, a soft, mocking sound. “Oh, but I will. And you’re going to give her to me.”
“What makes you so sure about that?”
“Because we’re going to make a trade, Agent Kincannon. Tit for tat.”
Thomas swallowed, trying to push down the rising tide of bile that burned his throat. “I’m listening.”
“I figured as much.” The teasing was gone from his voice, his tone now deadly serious. “Listen carefully, Special Agent Kincannon,” he said, placing a mocking emphasis on the title. “I have someone very close to you, someone you care about. You know, you really should be more careful with your loved ones,” he chided, sounding disappointed.
“Who?” It came out as a strangled croak, the icy grip of fear tight around Thomas’s heart.
“Now where’s the fun in that?” Victor said. “I’ll give you an hour to figure this out, Kincannon, and then I’ll call you back with further instructions. Don’t go too far.”
Before Thomas could protest, Victor hung up, his mocking laugh a final punctuation to the call. Thomas dropped the phone to the counter, bracing his palms on the cold, smooth surface. Think, he had to think.
Did Victor really have a hostage, or was this just a ploy? He might be bluffing, trying to draw Claire out into the open again so he could take her. But what if Victor was telling the truth? Could he really take that chance?
Without thinking, his hand drifted back over to the button. First things first. Their position might be compromised, and he had to move Claire to another secure location. Then he could figure out if Victor was playing him. Either way, he couldn’t do this alone.
He smashed his palm down. Time to call in reinforcements.
* * *
Claire breathed quietly, straining to hear over the pounding thrum of blood in her head. It was quiet, but she couldn’t be sure if that was a good or bad thing. Where was Thomas? Was he all right? What if Victor had broken into the house and killed Thomas, and was even now sneaking from room to room, searching for her?
She wiped damp palms on her thighs, hating the thought of Thomas putting himself in danger, again, for her sake.
Her heart had skipped a beat when Thomas had said Victor’s name. She had managed to shove thoughts of the assassin to the back of her mind while she worked on figuring out the code, but his sudden reappearance in her life shattered the illusion of security she had enjoyed. I don’t know why I’m surprised. She shook her head. He was never going to just go away.
But why call Thomas now? What did it mean? Was he nearby, watching them? She shuddered at the thought of Victor’s cold eyes seeing her earlier embrace with Thomas. If Victor had been watching them the whole time...
Don’t think about it, she told herself firmly.
No matter where Victor was right now, she was probably still in danger. Thomas had spirited her away from the window quickly enough, wasting no time in getting her to the panic room. Was he just being extra cautious, or had Victor said something threatening?
She hated sitting in the dark, alone, with nothing but her swirling thoughts and nerves to keep her company. She couldn’t tell how long she’d been in the cramped alcove, but her legs were starting to go numb from staying in the same position. It was too dark to see her watch, and with no light or sound cues, she had no idea how much time had passed since Thomas had stuffed her inside and left.
Slowly, carefully, she shifted position, wincing as the movement sent pins and needles tingling through her legs. Surely if something bad had happened, she would have heard yelling or the sounds of fighting or, God forbid, gunshots. She pressed her ear to the door, straining to pick up something, anything—any bump or noise that would give her a clue as to what was going on in the house.
Silence was her only reward.
She had two options: stay crouched in this small space, twiddling her thumbs and waiting for Thomas to come back and save her like some princess in the tower, or poke her head out and try to discover what exactly was happening. Option two might be slightly dangerous, especially since she had no idea what she would encounter, but she was tired of waiting. I need to know what’s happening.
She raised her hand to the door, feeling along the panel for the knob. It twisted easily, and she gave a gentle push to open the door a crack, breathing out a soft sigh as it moved silently. The last thing she needed was a squeaky hinge giving her away.
It was dark in the closet, but she could see a rim of light under the door. She stood for a moment in the closet, waiting for her legs to regain normal feeling. It wouldn’t do to walk into a dangerous situation with rubbery legs, that much she knew.
Leaning forward, she pressed her ear to the closet door. She heard muffled footsteps, the sound growing louder, then fainter, then louder again. Pacing, she realized. Someone out there was pacing back and forth. Muted voices reached her then, deep, soothing tones punctuated by a harsher response.
