by Alison Kent
Christian's pulse began to race. "Gathering? Literally?"
"Yes, Saturday." She rubbed at her forehead. "God, I haven't even mentioned it to you, have I?"
"Mentioned what, Natasha?" he asked, his heart thumping even harder now.
"A party. A ball, or so he calls it."
"Here. This weekend."
"Invitations went out a month or so ago. Most have accepted. I think they realize this is the last time he'll be well enough to entertain . . ." Natasha left the thought unfinished and paused to gather her composure, pulling in a deep breath and blinking away the moisture that had welled in her eyes.
It was all Christian could do not to go to her. Not to pull her into his arms and soothe her pain. Soothing her would dilute the impact of what she was feeling when her suffering was the very source of the strength she needed. And so he let her work out the emotion alone, his muscles cramping like hell as he held his arms at his sides.
Her voice was steadier when she went on. "Mrs. Courtney has a cleaning service coming in today to air out the ballroom and start in on the windows and fixtures, the floors, the carpets, everything. The landscaping crew was to have started yesterday. The terrace still needs a few repairs.
"The exterior of the house could have used painting, but there just wasn't time." She shrugged then and turned toward him. "Other than that, the estate will look much the way it did years ago when a weekend without a party was the anomaly."
"So he is saying good-bye," Christian said after letting that sink in. When she nodded, he asked, "Where do you think he's going?"
His question caused her to frown. "I don't think he's going anywhere. I assume by good-bye—"
He cut her off with a shake of his head. "Think again. Bringing together years worth of friends. Restoring this place to its original state. The money Spectra is paying him. He's got plans to leave."
"I never even thought. . ." She rubbed at her forehead again. "What good is leaving going to do him? Unless he's going away to die alone. And if that was the case, if he was planning his suicide, he wouldn't need the kind of money he's making from this deal."
"I don't think it's about killing himself. He could do that here," he assured her. "Jinks talked yesterday of moving to Bora Bora and assuming a new identity. I've got to think your godfather is doing the same."
"Bora Bora? You've got to be kidding me."
"Nope. Quoting him word for word."
"This doesn't make any sense, not with the little time he has left. Another few months and Wick will no longer be mobile." She met Christian's gaze; her breath hitched as she pulled it in. "So what do we do? How do we find out? I mean, this is where you'll stop him, right? His leaving will help get the evidence against him you need?"
"I don't know. Obviously he wouldn't have had you make travel plans." Christian began to pace. He wasn't ready to share what he'd learned from Jinks. Not until he knew more, until he heard back from K.J. "I need to contact the ops center. See what they can find out. If he's chartered a plane or made other arrangements."
Natasha dropped down to her haunches, buried her face in her hands. "This is totally insane. This is so not like Wick, all this subterfuge. I don't know how I'm supposed to continue as if nothing's going on."
Christian stopped in front of her and held out a hand. When she took it, he pulled her back to her feet, settled his wrists on her shoulders, laced his hands at her nape. He waited for her to meet his gaze, needed to make her understand that he was here for her, that he believed in her.
That he needed her.
"You'll do it because you have to," he said when she finally looked up. Looked up and made him wonder what it would be like to know her away from this place, what it would be like to love her. . . .
He swallowed hard, fought back the emotion balling up in his throat. "You'll do it because you're strong and fearless and capable."
"Yeah," she answered, rolling her eyes. "Capable of arranging satellite conference calls and carting paperwork back and forth."
"You're capable of a lot more than that." He tugged playfully on her ponytail.
"But I'm not very fearless at all," she admitted softly. "And I don't think I have the strength to see this through to the end."
She did, and they both knew it. Knew, as well, that he wasn't going to let her give into her doubts. "Then you'd better run another mile or two. Work on those muscles. Build up that stamina."
"Slave driver," she said with a grin.
He couldn't help it. He grinned right back. "You betcha."
Twenty-one
The return run was silent but for the sounds of thudding feet and labored breaths, yet nothing about it was the least bit peaceful. Christian felt assaulted on all sides, felt the division of his loyalties in ways that caught him off guard. He was first and foremost bound to Hank Smithson, bound to righting the very bad wrong that was named Spectra IT.
For seven years nothing else had existed on the scope of his personal radar. Spectra had hands in more criminal activities than SG-5 could ever hope to bring down. That didn't stop the group, Christian specifically, from pulling plugs, making dents, and generally hammering one nail at a time into the syndicate's coffin.
But now he found himself considering Natasha, as well. Considering her to an equal extent, which meant less focus on the bad guys. And this was where he feared screwing up. One wrong move, one mistake made, and he missed the opportunity he'd spent all these years chasing. A weeklong fling was hardly worth that high a price.
A fling. Right. This hadn't been a fling since the night she'd first crawled on top of him and taken him boldly into her mouth. Since she'd trusted him completely, seeing beyond the Peter Deacon act to Christian Bane beneath.
He slowed enough to give her a short lead and watched her ponytail bounce. He thought of her hair's softness tickling his skin, of the moonlight shining on the strands, of the wind whipping it like a horse's main into her face as they drove with the Ferrari's top down. She'd never complained. Ever.
She'd pushed back the tangled mess, laughed about her stylist's reaction, clipped it up on her head, and slept like a baby while he drove. She was absolutely gorgeous in the way that she didn't care about coming undone. She'd been just as beautiful with mascara-stained cheeks as she'd been clean-faced and wrapped in nothing but a bedspread and gruelingly honest curiosity.
That night at the farm when she'd shared his bed had been nearly impossible to get through without tearing her out of her clothes. He'd felt the same unrelieved tension simmering in her body when he'd held her close, yet had also sensed her shared realization that sex as a panacea would've lessened the intimacy of the night.
She cut in front of him as they left the wooded trail for the estate's private road, casting him a smile and a wink. He returned both, amazed again by her resilience in the face of what she'd been through this last week, especially knowing all that lay ahead.
His mind switched gears then, shifting forward to the weekend's party. Natasha had to be right. Bow had to be saying good-bye. But Christian didn't believe for a minute the other man had planned anything as maudlin as suicide. Especially after Jinks's talk of a tropical paradise.
No. What Bow was planning was his own disappearance. A big fat getaway financed with Spectra's hefty contribution to the cause. The one thing Christian didn't get, however, was how the other man planned to accomplish anything in his physical condition.
The money had to figure into this whole scenario in a way that Christian had yet to work out. A man who couldn't get around on his own, who was destined to get worse, never better, who was living beneath a death sentence . . . What the hell was Bow doing with all that cash? Buying a miracle cure?
The party would be the key. Bow would be involved with old friends and no doubt have Natasha at his side. And even though Jinks would have to stay out of sight, Christian doubted the kid would pass up the chance to indulge in the free-flowing booze, leaving the lab wide open.
"I can't believe it," Natasha said under her breath.
"What?" Christian glanced her way before following the direction of her gaze. Her godfather sat at the edge of the terrace while a half dozen laborers toiled under Mr. Courtney's orders to clean and landscape the flower gardens, to replace the broken terrace stones.
"He hasn't been out here in months. Even knowing what I know, I still swear something even more bizarre is going on with him." Natasha veered off the private drive and crossed the yard.
Equally curious, Christian followed. Bow looked up at their approach.
"Natasha. Mr. Deacon." He nodded at them, then up toward the clearing sky. "Enjoying this beautiful weather, I see."
Stretching out the kinks from the run, Natasha lunged forward on one leg then the other. "I'd ask if you were doing the same but I can't imagine you venturing outside for anything as mundane as blue skies."
Christian walked to the edge of the terrace, feigning interest in the cleanup, his attention on the two people at his side. Natasha had told him more than once that her godfather rarely left the house.
The fact that Dr. Bow had done just that was one more behavioral anomaly Christian couldn't afford to overlook.
"I was just recalling the parties we once had here," Bow was saying. "The feasts, the music, the conversations, Natasha? Do you remember?"
"Of course I do. I'm the one who still spends time out here, you know."
"Reconnecting with your past?"
Bowing out of the tête-à-tête, Christian walked several feet down the side of the terrace, appearing to give the pair privacy yet focusing on their conversation and wishing more than anything that Natasha was wired.
Getting this on tape, getting analytical feedback from Julian or Tripp—but he was on his own and sharpened his listening skills accordingly.
"I do. At times. I think about my father. About all the ways the two of you could argue and call it a friendly debate. There were nights I swore one of you would literally snap off the other's head."
"Ah, but those are the best sorts of discussions. Even if there is no more than ego at stake."
Natasha hesitated. Christian heard it in the way she breathed, and held his own breath as well. "Is that why you're out here, Wick? To reconnect with your past?"
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I would like to have the terrace restored to its original condition. Or as close as is feasible in time for the party."
When Natasha didn't immediately respond, Christian scrambled to cover, to continue the conversation, taking two steps in her direction. At this point in the game, every opportunity to gain information counted, and he didn't want to lose what this one might give.
He needn't have worried. Whether she was acting or honestly feeling the sadness he heard, her sharply inhaled sob seemed to do the trick. Bow turned his wheelchair toward her; Christian stayed where he was.
"What is it, my dear?" Bow asked.
"This whole party, bringing your friends together, thinking of my father"—she sobbed again—"I can't bear the idea of losing you, too."
"Ah, Natasha. You of all people should know that death is not to be feared."
"What frightens me is the idea of being alone. Of you not being here." Her voice grew muffled. "You've been everything to me for so very long."
"You'll go on just fine without me. As we both did after Michael left," he replied in a voice that hit Christian as rather cold considering the circumstances. "You do have your mother, my dear. And my demise is hardly imminent."
"I know," she said with a sigh. "I just don't like that I do know. And that we can't do anything but wait."
Christian turned from feigning interest in the gardeners' work and caught Natasha's eye. She stood at her godfather's side, her hand on his shoulder, her expression giving nothing away.
She could have been acting. She could have been genuinely grieved. The fact that he couldn't tell which left him simply amazed. Left him wondering how quickly he could get her the hell out of here.
Left him wanting her and straight-up scared to death at the Achilles heel she'd become.
Laughing chatter drifted up into the vaulted, chandelier-festooned ceiling along with music from a harp and accompanying violins. A small chamber orchestra played in one corner of the ballroom. The caterer's tables sat in another, covered in white linen and set with crystal, silver braziers, and one gorgeous champagne fountain.
Natasha wove her way in and out of the crowd of university alumni, foreign diplomats, a herd of lab rats and their interesting—and unexpected—significant others. A similar crowd of old friends mingled on the terrace outside. Others strolled through the water gardens, and she'd directed an adventurous few to the stables.
Overall, the party seemed to be a hit. And strangely enough, Wick seemed to be in his element. Wick, who avoided any soiree that wasn't a command performance, who had never cared a whit what others thought of his reclusive curmudgeonly habits. Wickham Bow, who had little in his life to celebrate, was doing just that, as if nothing in the world mattered but this night filled with fun.
Natasha didn't think she'd ever seen him act so out of character—much as she and Christian had predicted would happen. This get-together was significant in ways her godfather hadn't seen fit to share. He had, however, made sure "Peter Deacon" was introduced to everyone as the business partner giving Wick a new lease on life.
That more than anything gave Natasha pause. Wick was facing a death sentence. An agonizingly slow and painful loss of his ability to move, to swallow, eventually to breathe. The claim of a new lease was bullshit, plain and simple. Her research would've uncovered any new treatment available and nothing had surfaced.
The longer she mingled with her pasted-on smile, the more desperately angry and hurt she became, the more tangled her emotions and loyalties. She needed a break before she slipped and said something she shouldn't, before her mood set off an alarm.
Ducking out of the ballroom, she made her way behind the foyer staircase and into the kitchen through the staff's entrance. The caterers were busy in the center of the room where Mrs. Courtney hovered.
Natasha didn't want to get drawn into the melee of dirty crystal and china being replaced by clean, of coffee being brewed and champagne replenished, of desserts being sliced and cubed into individual servings, and so she crept out the back door to the water garden.
At the first turn along the winding path, she ran unexpectedly into Christian and gasped. "I thought you were down on the terrace."
"Just walked back up." He took hold of her upper arm, led her further into the gardens. "Jinks is down there off in the corner and pretty much wasted out of his gourd. Where's your godfather?"
"Holding court in the ballroom. Or he was when I left. He had quite the audience for his exposition on encryption." She sat on the bench Christian indicated, smoothing her skirt as she did. "God, he's such a hypocrite."
"Why a hypocrite? He is an expert."
"I mean acting as if nothing is wrong." She leaned forward, buried her face in her hands, shivering when Christian placed his palm between her shoulder blades, her skin bared in the low-hanging cowl neckline. "Thanks, but I don't think anything is going to help. If you hadn't noticed, I'm an unraveling basket case here."
"You're holding up beautifully." He massaged circles in the center of her back. "I wasn't sure you'd handle things this well, but you've gone beyond proving me wrong."
She lifted her head enough to turn it and give him a one-eyed glare. "What did you think I was going to do? Hyperventilate or blubber like a baby?"
This time he reached over to push loose strands of hair from her face. And then he smiled, breaking her heart as he did. "I don't think I've seen you cry once thro
ugh all of this."
"Sure you did," she said, frowning. Did he actually not remember? "At Hank's place. When you came out to the track. I was crying then."
"You'd pretty much dried up when I got there."
She shook her head, closed her eyes. "I was a wreck. A raccoon-eyed mess."
"You make for a beautiful raccoon, Natasha," he said softly. "You're gorgeous, makeup or not."
She sat all the way up then, loving him for teasing her, seriously considering smacking him for doing the same. Loving him, loving him . . .
She swallowed hard, afraid she wouldn't be able to draw another breath. Her chest ached as if turned inside out. A breeze flirted with the leaves overhead, rippled across the surface of the pond. The moon wasn't quite as bright as the first night they'd met, but it was bright enough that she feared he would see the emotion that surely shone in her eyes.
"Yeah, well, if you're flattering me hoping to get somewhere . . . I think you know it's hardly necessary." It was so much easier to relegate their relationship, and this conversation, to sex when she really wanted to ask him where they went from here, if she would see him again once he'd finished this assignment.
If that's all she was to him—an assignment.
But she didn't because she wouldn't survive any crushing blow he delivered. Not right now. Not in this moment. Later she'd be stronger, better able to separate this time out of time from reality. But now here. Not now.
Christian shifted on the bench, leaning toward her and reaching out one hand to lift her chin. "That day in the helicopter." He stopped, glanced away, his nose crinkling as he took a breath. "I told you then that I hadn't been with a woman in awhile. That wasn't a lie," he said, looking back. "I don't sleep with the women I deal with when in the field. I never have. Not since Thailand."
There had been a woman in Thailand. Oh God. Had she been the cause of what he'd suffered?
