The Bane Affair

by Alison Kent

  Christian blew out a heavy breath. "I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to sleep with anyone again once I got home. I wasn't sure I'd be able to sleep at all."

  "Home from Thailand, you mean?" she asked in a soft whisper.

  He barely nodded. "I came here, actually. I didn't know Hank from Adam, but he knew I was going to need some seri­ous time. You think Eli looks bad? You should've seen me."

  "A mess, huh?" She didn't want to pry for fear of turning him off from sharing more, now that he'd finally started.

  "Like you wouldn't believe. About forty pounds lighter. Hair longer than Julian's."

  "Julian?"

  "Sorry. A partner of mine. Thinks he's Sampson."

  "Ah. It would've been interesting to see you with long hair."

  He snorted. "Maybe if I'd been a head banger. But the hair I came home with was more like one big nasty dreadlock. I couldn't wait to shave that bitch off."

  She stifled a giggle. "That bad?"

  "You can't imagine."

  "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

  She felt him shrug against her back. "I survived. It sucked, but I survived. Even if I've pretty much given up on ever sleep­ing through a night again."

  "I'm sorry I woke you. I should've just stayed where I was."

  He shook his head, cuddled closer. "You woke me before that. You must've been dreaming."

  God, please don't let him mention her having her hand in her pants. "I was. Strange stuff about Wick and the parties he used to throw. But it was all mixed up with what's going on now."

  "Pretty normal, it sounds like. Your subconscious pulling the past into the present."

  "Did that happen to you? Did you dream a lot during the time you were . . . ?"

  "The time I was in hell?"

  She nodded, wincing at the raw expletive that followed.

  "I'm not even sure I slept, never mind dreamed. There were stretches when it felt like I hadn't closed my eyes for days. Other times I wasn't sure whether I was asleep or awake even with my eyes wide open."

  He swallowed audibly and Natasha cringed, fighting the nerves churning in her middle. She couldn't stand it any longer.

  She needed to be nearer, to hold him, to comfort him, to let him know it was safe to close his eyes. That he wasn't alone, that she'd be with him as long as he wanted to have her around.

  She squirreled around in the tangled covers and turned.

  Nineteen

  A thin strip of moonlight came in through the room's tiny square window, the sheer curtains over which Christian had never drawn.

  "If you want to tell me, I'll listen," Natasha said softly, keeping her hands to herself when she wanted more than any­thing to touch him. His cheek. His forehead. The curved shell of his ear.

  The fact that he didn't immediately say no, that his body seemed to relax as he settled beside her more comfortably, gave her hope.

  And so she gently pressed. "I'm a good listener, Christian. I don't pass judgment or butt in with my opinions. Well, unless it's with one of my girlfriends but they usually deserve it."

  He chuckled at that, one of his feet seeking out one of hers. "Tough on the girls, are you?"

  She snuggled up, placed a palm in the center of his T-shirted chest. His heart beat hard; his heat warmed her. She spoke softly as an overwhelming and unfamiliar emotion began to weave a web around her, catching her unsuspecting and barely able to breathe.

  "I won't be tough on you, Christian," she promised. "I'm pretty sure you've already been too tough on yourself."

  He huffed. "I wondered if you picked up on that."

  And how could she not? "It's not hard to miss."

  He flopped over onto his back then, tossed a forearm over his eyes, his wrist up, his fingers tightly clenched. She stayed close, close enough to notice the grim line of his mouth in the moonlight.

  A grimness that she feared meant he was through talking for the night. But then she caught the shift in his breathing, and her own pulse started to race.

  "It was a tiny cell," he said. "A cage, really. Not even wor­thy of an animal. A lot of bamboo and rope and the bugs that came with both. Especially considering the whole thing was open to the elements."

  "Oh my God." She wasn't sure whose heart was now beat­ing the hardest. "Are you serious?"

  "Oh yeah. And not the walk in the park sort of elements, either. For one thing, there wasn't any room to walk."

  "What?" She breathed out more than voiced the question. He'd been caged like a rat for a year? And he was still able to function?

  "Maybe six feet square?" He cleared his throat, once, twice. "By the time I was out, I would've sworn it was six inches."

  She doubted her limbs would ever work right again. She wanted to hold him, to stroke him, to take away the memories of his suffering, to end the pain that still lingered. But she couldn't move, frozen by the horror of his story.

  "God, Christian. I'm so sorry." She rubbed circles there in the center of his chest. "I'm so sorry."

  "Yeah. Me, too." He placed his hand on top of hers to still her movements. "Just don't feel sorry for me. I don't need that. I don't want that."

  "Oh no." She spread her fingers; he laced them with his. "Trust me. You're hardly an object to be pitied."

  He grunted, seemed to consider what she'd said, and re­sponded with, "As long as I'm an object to be worshipped, we're good to go."

  She pinched him. It wasn't easy. He was nothing but muscle there. He yelped anyway, and turned a playful glare her way. His eyes sparkled brightly with such boyish, amazed humor, she had the feeling no one ever teased him. It was all she could do not to raise up and kiss him senseless.

  But then he sobered almost instantly, staring into her eyes until her heart thumped so hard she feared her ribs would break. He squeezed her fingers, rubbed the tips over his closed lips before lacing his with hers and resting their joined hands on his chest.

  "I've never known another woman like you, Natasha Gaudet. You make me smile when I'm pretty damn sure I'm not in the mood."

  "You should always be in the mood to smile, Christian." She did then, though she felt like crying because of the tender­ness with which he spoke, with which he held her hand. "It's a lethal weapon. No well-prepared spy should leave home with­out it."

  He turned to face her, drew her arm around his neck, moved his to her waist, and opened his palm in the small of her back. "Nothing could have prepared me for you. For the way you make me forget things I thought I would never shake off."

  "That's a good thing, yes?" she whispered, massaging the base of his skull.

  "Truthfully? I don't know." He kneaded the muscles on ei­ther side of her spine, making his way up her back. "Drawing on the past helps me remember what I'm doing here in the pre­sent. And why. I don't want to lose my edge."

  "And you think you will if you let the bad stuff go?"

  He snuggled further down into the bed so that their noses almost touched. "I'm afraid it could happen, yeah. That I'll let my guard down and be blindsided."

  What were they talking about here? More than just physi­cal danger, she was certain. Was he afraid of her?

  Afraid of them?

  "I'm afraid, too," she admitted, surprising herself as much as him. "And you know what? I don't like being afraid. Maybe we should both start trusting ourselves a little more than we do."

  "Maybe I should just kiss you."

  Her hand stilled. Her eyes widened. His lashes drifted down as he focused on her mouth. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

  He mumbled something in return, continued to stroke his way up her back, pressing a hand between her shoulder blades and pulling her close. "The best one I've had in awhile."

  "Does this mean you're letting down your guard?" she asked breathlessly as his mouth drew close.

  He touched his lips to hers lightly, never pressuring her to kiss him back, once, twice, this time running the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips. She did her best to k
eep her breathing even, to keep from tugging him bodily forward, sensing that this kiss—so simple, so gentle, barely a kiss at all—meant more than the others they'd shared.

  And then he nodded, and whispered, "Yeah. I think I am," and covered her mouth completely.

  She shuddered with what he made her feel, the beauty of being cherished, of partaking in a moment so special, this new beginning for them both. When she kissed him back, she did so tentatively for fear of destroying this feeling of joy.

  He chuckled. "It's okay. It's just a kiss."

  "I know," she said. A big fat whopping lie. It wasn't just a kiss at all, but she wasn't sure how to explain what was going on with her, this unbelievable sense that what they shared could never be more right.

  Despite her bold talk of trust, she'd never been so fright­ened. Considering what they still faced, right could go wrong in a heartbeat.

  They finally arrived at Dr. Bow's estate around noon the next day. Christian pulled the Ferrari through the circular drive in front of the house and parked it there. His arrival last week had been about rescuing Jinks and taking down Spectra, Natasha, and Bow in the process.

  Today he arrived with only one thing on his mind. Finish up with Bow and set Natasha free.

  He cut the engine, glanced across the cockpit to where she sat staring straight ahead, her hands laced tightly in her lap, her eyes wide, her face pale. This wasn't good. Bow would sus­pect things weren't right if she walked inside looking like death warmed over.

  Christian curled his hands around the steering wheel until his palms began to sweat. "Are you ready for this?"

  "No, but I'm going to do it anyway."

  He was in no frame of mind to smile but found himself un­able to fight what she made him feel. He'd never known a woman to take on the world the way this one did, no matter how much she'd rather party the night away with her friends.

  He liked that about her, her gustiness, her grit. "All I have to do is figure out what it is Bow has brought Jinks here to do. What it is they're selling to Spectra. If I can found out the way, all the better. If not, I'm still taking them out."

  "Right. Get into the lab and snoop around without Woody or Wick catching you in the act. How simple could it be?"

  "This is what I do, Natasha. I'm trained for covert ops. I don't make up this stuff as I go along."

  She snorted her frustration. "Then I guess it's a good thing one of us has a clue because I can't guarantee I won't hunt down Wick and demand answers the minute I walk through the door."

  "You know as well as I do that can't happen." He turned his full attention her way, shifting his hips in his seat to better face her, to better gauge her response.

  Her response was a sigh, a heavy exhalation of the breath she'd drawn in as if she were blowing out all doubts and fears of what lay ahead. He knew what she was facing, knew he couldn't protect her from the emotional devastation, won­dered if he'd even be able to keep her from any physical harm since his safeguarding record wasn't exactly squeaky clean.

  What he could do was let her know he'd be there, that she wasn't going to have to do this alone.

  And so he did, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She glanced his way briefly, her eyes bright and liquid coffee brown, before her lashes came down. A shud­der coursed through her; she rested her cheek on his chest, tucked her head up beneath his chin.

  "I know," she finally said, the two words so simple and so soft as they blew over his skin that he held her tighter, held her longer than was probably wise considering that what he was feeling wasn't simple at all.

  He tried to tell himself that he was doing no more than of­fering her the support she needed to get through the next few days. That he wasn't remembering holding her long into the night, just holding her while the bricks protecting his emotions began to fall.

  But then he looked up to see her godfather sitting in his wheelchair in the house's open doorway, waiting for them, his expression smug at seeing them in the intimate embrace.

  Christian couldn't lie to himself any longer. This return mission was more about keeping Natasha out of the bastard's clutches as it was about the parts they were both playing.

  In fact, now that Bow looked so pleased, his hands folded in his lap, his mouth set in a grin that had Christian making a fist, it seemed the perfect time to get Natasha in on the deception.

  He took hold of her laced hands, rubbed his thumb over the backs of her fingers. "Don't look now, but we have an audience."

  "Wick?"

  Christian nodded. "He's at the front door. He must have been waiting for us."

  Natasha tilted her head back, lifted her chin, looked into his eyes. "Then why don't you kiss me like you mean it, and let's give him a show."

  He didn't need a second invitation. He lowered his head, crushed his lips to hers. She opened without hesitation, bring­ing up one hand to hold the back of his head as she slipped her tongue into his mouth. She turned her body into his, poured all that she was into the kiss.

  She blew him away. That was the only thought that came to his mind as he kissed her back, slanting his head first one angle then another in an attempt to get as close to her as he could. The car didn't offer a quarter of the room he needed. But it was enough for this kiss.

  This kiss was for show, scene one, act one of the play they were here to perform. He told himself that again, tried to con­vince himself the rush of sweet relief he was feeling was fallout from having her soft lips searching, her bold tongue tangling with his, her hand sliding from his shoulder up his neck to cup the back of his head.

  He convinced himself of nothing but how close he was to falling for her hard.

  She held him as if she never wanted to let him go. As if she needed the same assurance from him. It was all a lie, all part of the deceptive display of affection, but still he gave her what she wanted, whispering promises and sex words and the truth of his desire into her mouth while he kissed her. She whim­pered, took the hand he'd clenched against the console be­tween them and opened his palm over her breast.

  He fondled her for only a moment, and then he pulled away, setting her back into her seat and looking into her eyes, which broadcast sadness and fear mixed with arousal, and he smiled in an effort to set her at ease.

  "That ought to convince him that our being late is no rea­son to worry."

  "I wish it convinced me," she said softly, and the only thing Christian could think to say was, "Trust me."

  "You called so late, I couldn't help but worry."

  Wick sat just inside Natasha's bedroom doorway, watching as she put away the clothing she'd brought with her, and stored the travel bag of toiletries in her private bathroom's closet. She scur­ried back and forth, looking for both her courage and her voice.

  This was it, her first starring role, her chance to convince her godfather that she had returned from the long weekend away no wiser to his nefarious dealings than before she had left.

  She didn't know how Christian made a living doing this. "Why would you worry?" she asked with a frown. "I come and go all the time."

  "Yes, but usually you're on your own."

  She raised a brow, cast him a look. "I would think the fact that I wasn't alone would have set you at ease."

  "Come now, Natasha," Wick said with more than a hint of condescension. "Mr. Deacon is an unknown element."

  Hmm. This was interesting. And the perfect segue into a subject about which she'd been curious before ever knowing the truth. "You obviously know him well enough to invite him to stay in your home."

  "You know I no longer travel well, my dear. And the tech­nology Mr. Deacon is interested in is being developed here. Having him commute or stay in the carriage house, or even in one of the motels in Lake Placid when I have room here, hardly makes sense, don't you agree?"

  She supposed so—the latter part, anyway, because she ig­nored the first, which was a bid for sympathy over his declining health. Funny how she had little feel
ing today to spare. "I still don't understand why you're using the lab here for something so obviously important. I would think Mr. Deacon would be more interested in the full scope of what the university of- fers."

  "If this were a university project, then I would agree. But this is a private venture, one I've brought Dr. Jinks in to con­sult on." Wick frowned. "I'm not sure I understand the basis of your complaint. Unless you're finding entertaining Mr. Deacon too taxing."

  She knew that, of course. The project was Wick's and not Polytechnic's. Even before hearing the details of what Wick was doing from Hank Smithson, Christian—as Peter—had told her that very thing. But she still wanted desperately to catch Wick in a lie, to trip him up and expose him even though Christian had insisted she not rock the boat.

  So she tackled the second part of his comments instead. "Oh, I'm not complaining at all. Only curious as to the reason for my good fortune. Spending time with Peter has been any­thing but a chore."

  She moved to put her underthings away in a bureau drawer, watching from the corner of her eye as Wick removed his glasses to clean them. Without turning and being more obvi­ous, she couldn't tell if he was pleased by or uncomfortable with the implications.

  And so it caught her off guard when he next said, "I've been thinking a lot about Michael recently."

  "Michael? My father?" And had he really? Or was this just another diversion, another tug on her heartstrings so she wouldn't think badly of him once his treachery made itself known?

  She closed the bureau drawer, turned slowly to face this man who had always meant so much to her but was now no more than a stranger. "Why would you be thinking about my father?"

  She hadn't meant for her voice to quiver or her words to come out so softly, but Wick noticed and offered her a smile that spoke of a shared sadness, a suffering that only the two of them knew.

  It took willpower she hadn't known she possessed not to scratch out his eyes. "Wick?"

  "Oh yes, my dear. I'm sorry." He settled his glasses back in place, repositioned his chair to better face her. "It seems that with Michael gone, I've not found any challenging conversa­tion. Your father was the best at making me think."