His Y chromosome made him say things the woman’s two X’s didn’t equip her to get. And oh man, vice versa. Sam couldn’t count the times he’d listened, baffled, as the date du jour went on and on about things he barely understood and couldn’t care less about.
Nothing like that with Nicole. Even blasted by lust over dinner, Sam found what Nicole had to say interesting. She’d understood Lebanon, a country he loved. Her caring so intensely for her father made perfect sense to him.
In bed, it was as if she had been tailor-made for him, moving lithely to his rhythms. Not one awkward moment, just sex so intense he thought he’d pass out at times and yet fun at the same time and…his mind skittered away from any further definition of the feelings he had.
This was way too much introspection for him. Bottom line—he missed her, he wanted her, he wasn’t in any way ready to let her go.
If he’d done something, he would apologize.
If she was reticent, he’d convince her.
Giving her up wasn’t an option, not even close.
He picked up the phone and called her home number again.
“You’ve reached the Pearce household…”
Nicole sat in the tiny pantry off the kitchen that had been converted into a home office. She stared at the words on-screen, listening to the phone ring. Again. The housekeeper had strict instructions to let the answering machine pick up. From the suspicious look thrown Nicole’s way, Manuela clearly thought it was someone Nicole owed money to. Not that there weren’t plenty of those.
The answering machine clicked, went through its little spiel about them not being home then clicked again. Nicole, a deep voice said. Pick up—
She switched the whole thing off then pulled the plug from the wall. Sam had graduated from the tentative messages at the beginning of the morning, with lots of pleases, to a peremptory tone.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d go into the office, ring his bell and talk to him, adult to adult. Not today. Oh God, no, she couldn’t face him today. Not on no sleep and after the most intense sexual experience of her life, which had left her so shaken and off-balance.
Just listening to his deep voice leaving messages had made her stomach muscles clench, her thighs quiver. And worse.
Nicole had shared a dorm room once with a funny, smart girl from Seattle who had a crazy, wild sex life. She cut a swathe through the university, basically going to bed with everyone with the right plumbing. When a man particularly attracted her, she’d whisper to Nicole, “Whoa, that guy makes me cream.”
Nicole hadn’t really understood until now. Now she knew exactly what Sharon had been talking about.
Listening to Sam’s voice loosened a wave of moisture in her sex that was embarrassing. As if her body were preparing itself for him to walk through her door and fling her on the couch. Just from listening to the man leave a damned message on her answering machine!
She stared at her screen, incomprehensible words swimming in front of her. A report of the board of directors’ meeting of a Luxembourg bank. Something she could do with her eyes closed, though not, apparently, while blasted by leftover lust from the night before.
She blew out an impatient breath. The report was due tomorrow and she was only halfway through it. They were paying her very good money, more than the market rate. If she wanted the bank as a customer, she had to deliver that translation by tomorrow.
She forced herself to sit up straight, concentrate. She reread the paragraph for the millionth time and finally started typing, forcing herself to focus on the translation and not on Sam Reston.
“Darling?” The quavering voice cut through Nicole’s attention. She sighed and rose from her workstation.
“Coming, Pops,” she called. This was one of the reasons she couldn’t work from home. He called her a thousand times a day. Though there was a housekeeper on call and though a registered nurse stopped by twice a day, if Nicole was around, Nicholas Pearce wanted his daughter.
Nicole knew why. Manuela was an excellent cook, kept the house gleaming and wore a perpetual smile, but she didn’t know how to handle her father. Once, she’d insisted on helping him get up and he’d fallen to the floor.
The nurse who stopped by twice a day was super-efficient but had never cracked a smile in her life. Certainly never in Nicole’s presence.
Nicole had learned how to physically care for her father. She never let him fall, she knew exactly which muscles were sore and how to massage them, she could dress him smoothly and quickly. She also took care to smile, to be upbeat, no matter how hard it was.
The downside of that was that when she was home, Nicholas wanted her, and only her, by his side. Nicole understood completely. If she could have afforded to, she would have dedicated herself exclusively to her father in the last waning months of his life.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t afford to do that. The oncologist had mentioned a brand-new, incredibly expensive treatment that wouldn’t cure but could possibly halt the progression of the disease. Nicole had enrolled her father in the experimental protocol and was waiting for him to be called up.
The new drug cost almost $1,500 a month and the protocol called for a three-month cycle.
Wordsmith was doing well, even in the downturn. She was gaining new customers by the week. She was growing, earning more each month. But the expenses went up each month, too, in a horrible spiral.
Her father was in his wheelchair in the living room, a big book open on his lap. His head lifted when he saw her and he smiled. “Ah, darling, there you are. The light seems to have dimmed, could you open the curtains a little more?”
Her step and her smile faltered. There was plenty of light in the room.
The doctors had told her that Nicholas Pearce’s brain was “peppered” with tumors, bilaterally. Too many to count. And one was pressing down on an optic nerve. At times his eyesight dimmed, sometimes dramatically. It terrorized him.
Nicole opened the drapes wide and switched on a floor lamp, angling the light over his lap, hand on his shoulder so he’d feel her touch.
“That better, Dad?”
“Oh, yes, darling. Thank you.” He reached up and placed his hand on hers. “You’re so good to me.”
The one thing left to him was his voice—deep, strong, steady. Tears pricked her eyes. She squeezed his shoulder lightly and opened her mouth to ask how he was getting on in reading through the definitive history of medieval Japan, when the doorbell rang.
Frowning, Nicole went out into the hallway to the front door. Through the side windows she could see a police car parked in front of her house.
Oh God. What now?
The man who stood on her porch had been staring at the house across the street. He turned and took off aviator sunglasses to reveal piercing blue eyes. Fiercely intelligent eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue police uniform, with—oh my gosh—body armor. And about a ton of hardware on his belt, some of which looked suspiciously like weaponry. And a big side holster strapped to his thigh carrying a big black gun that definitely was weaponry.
She opened the door.
He wasn’t much taller than she was, but she’d never seen shoulders as broad as his. Everything about him was broad and strong and unyielding.
“Are you Nicole Pearce?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I am. Is there something wrong, Officer?”
“No, ma’am, not at all. My name is Mike Keillor, with the San Diego PD. I was asked by a mutual friend of ours, Sam Reston, to stop by. Make my presence felt.” He stopped, looking at her so intently it was as if he were walking around inside her head.
The mention of Sam’s name jolted her, threw her off her stride so much she barely heard the rest of his sentence. She hit rewind and heard what he’d said all over again, puzzling over it.
Sam had said—
“Oh!” Of course! Sam had sent over his policeman friend, the man who was like a brother to him, to intimidate the creeps across the street. Though the entire effect was wasted if they weren�
��t home. “Yes, thank you so much.” He wasn’t answering, just standing there, looking at her. Nicole resisted the urge to wring her hands. She’d been trained from childhood to deal with unexpected, even awkward encounters, but all her savoir-faire deserted her.
Just the mention of Sam Reston flustered her so much that manners went straight out the window.
She backed up, holding the door open. “Please come in, Officer. Or would that be Sergeant?” A lifetime in the diplomatic corps had taught her the importance of getting titles right.
“That would be Sergeant, yes ma’am. But please just call me Mike.”
“Okay, Mike. Would you like to come into the living room?”
He ducked his head. “Thank you, ma’am. But first, I’m going to walk back to the patrol car and get my long gun. I’m going to do it slowly, so whoever’s watching across the street will realize I mean business.”
“Sam—” God, it was hard just to say his name. “Sam said that these two men who are…who are bothering me will be deterred by you. I hope so. I also hope they’re watching right now, or else it’s an exercise in futility.”
“They’re watching, all right.” Mike’s voice was grim. “Second floor, third window from the right.”
Nicole’s eyes flew to the window in question. She blinked. There were closed grungy-looking Venetian blinds over the window. And—yes—a tiny peephole created by someone holding the slats slightly open. You had to look carefully to see it.
He turned and walked slowly back to the patrol car. Across that extra-wide bodybuilder’s blue back were stenciled big white letters. SWAT.
He reached into the car and brought out a rifle. A big, bad-looking weapon that looked like cool, deadly business. Once he’d closed the car door, he just stood with his back to her, staring across at the house of her nemeses. Holding that big gun with complete familiarity, like a mother holds a child.
Finally, he turned around and walked back up to the house, following her in. Once the door was closed, he stored the gun, upright, in a corner, said, “It’s not loaded, ma’am. But they won’t know that,” and stood at rest, impossibly wide shoulders back, hands folded neatly over his crotch.
She’d seen a thousand Marine guards in embassies all over the world assume that stance. Sam had mentioned that Mike had been a Marine, but even if he hadn’t, it was unmistakeable.
“Were you in the Marines, Sergeant Keillor? Mike?”
He looked startled. “Yes, ma’am. Six years.”
She smiled faintly. She’d loved the embassy Marines, always so polite and no-nonsense and utterly, completely competent. Unlike most of the political officers.
“Can you stay for a cup of coffee, Ser—Mike?”
He fixed her with a ferocious light blue gaze. “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am. I need to stay long enough to establish that we’re friends, that you’ve got a police officer looking after you.”
She called the housekeeper. Manuela appeared in the doorway, smiling, wiping her hands on her apron. “Manuela, could we have coffee served in the living room, please?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned to Mike. “Come into the living room, then, and we’ll have our coffee.”
Her father had dozed off in his wheelchair. The officer looked a question at her. Nicole smiled. “Don’t worry about my father. We won’t bother him. Household noises don’t wake him up.” Pain would eventually wake him up, as it did regularly. For now, if he was sleeping, the pain had subsided. He needed his rest.
She watched his sleeping face. The skin now hung off his beautiful bones like a too-large garment. His once magnificent head of black hair was bald, with only a few tufts clinging here and there, the effect of the last course of radiation therapy to the head.
During the day, her father put on a brave face, but what he felt was there, not hidden, in the sleeping man. He was exhausted and in pain and it showed.
Dying, she thought with a pang.
Nicole turned to her guest and indicated a chair. Mike Keillor sat stiffly, back upright, hands on knees. Nicole sat on the sofa, facing him.
It had to be faced. “So. Um. Sam sent you?”
“Yes, ma’am. He said you were having trouble with two fu—guys who were escalating.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Escalating. Becoming violent. It’s a process, and it’s always the same. I’ll bet they started bothering you by staring, then shouting insults or lewd invitations. Am I right?”
She sighed. “Yes, since the day they moved across the street. Every time I left the house, it seemed they were there.”
“Because they were watching out for you. But after a while it wasn’t just words, was it? There were probably gestures. And the gestures got cruder and cruder. Then they walked down the porch steps. Then they came to the edge of the property.”
Nicole stared. “Yes. Exactly that. How did you know?” She thought back to her conversation with Sam. “Sam told you.”
“No, ma’am, he didn’t have to. It’s behavior as predictable as the seasons. Sam said they touched your car. Is that correct?”
Nicole shivered at the memory. “Yes. I mean, one of them did. Just knocked on the window of the car, but it—it scared me.” She gave a half laugh. “I’ve lived in third-world countries, I’m not usually such a wuss.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re not a wuss, ma’am. Not at all. The next step is touching you, and once they do, they won’t stop. Sam recognized that. It’s why he sent me. Believe me, we’ve seen this behavior over and over. They’re bullies when they sense someone is weaker than them. But deep down, they’re cowards. They won’t want to mess with the police. I’ll keep coming around. Might actually have a little heart to heart, in full gear. Scare the shit out of them.” He bowed his head. “Pardon the language.”
Scaring the shit out of them sounded just fine. Fantastic, in fact.
He sat there, broad and square and tough as hell, actually frightening to look at. Dangerous. Not to her, but to anyone he might deem an enemy. Those heavy muscles moved with athletic grace. He was SWAT. He more than knew how to handle weapons. Creepy and Creepier might very well try to attack a woman, but not one with this level of protection. He’d put himself and all the resources of the police department at her disposal.
He’d just made her safe.
A deep-seated tension dissolved. She hadn’t even admitted to herself how much Creepy and Creepier frightened her. How she’d had to steel herself to walk out her front door every morning.
Nicole smiled. “Well, thank you very, very much, Mike. I must say I feel relieved. So far, they haven’t done anything I would report, and half the time I thought I was exaggerating their importance in my mind, but you’re right. I guess I felt that one day they might do something…violent.”
“They would have done something violent, and soon. Count on it. But I’ll make sure they get the message. Mess with you and they’re in deep sh—trouble.” His blue eyes fixed on hers. “And don’t thank me, ma’am. Thank Sam. He’s the one who sent me. He’s the one making you safe.”
Nicole’s heart thumped as a wave of heat washed over her. Oh my God. Did he know? Did she have something on her face that showed she’d spent the night making frantic love with Sam Reston? And that she’d been avoiding him all morning?
“Ah—” she began, her voice a croak.
“Señora. El café està listo.”
Nicole turned gratefully. Manuela stood in the doorway with a tray holding a pot of her world-class coffee and three cups, bless her. If her father woke up, he would enjoy a cup.
Manuela put the tray down on the coffee table and Nicole leaned forward, looking a question at Mike.
“Black, no sugar, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Manuela’s coffee is strong enough to wake the dead, Mike. Are you sure you don’t want sugar? And please call me Nicole.”
“No. The stronger the better. I like the taste of bitter coffee. Reminds me of the field.�
��
His shoulders relaxed just a little as he accepted the small cup. It looked tiny in his huge hands.
Well, she wasn’t a Marine. She added two heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar and stirred, watching as he downed the coffee in one gulp.
His eyes widened. She couldn’t say it would put hair on his chest, he already had that. There were thick tufts of dark hair showing in the V of his open collar, but no doubt that hair just got thicker.
“Yes, indeed,” she said, smiling. “Manuela’s Cuban, and her corto is famous in a couple of countries.”
Maybe it was the smell of Manuela’s coffee, maybe the sun that had shifted in the sky, shooting a hot beam of light into his lap. For whatever reason, her father snorted slightly and woke up. His head lifted, turned.
“Darling?”
Nicole’s heart sank. His voice had turned weak, shaky, a sign that the pain was coming. Not immediately, but soon.
She rose, coffee cup in hand. “Here, Dad.” She put the cup in his hand, her own hand cupped under his in case he spilled it, her other hand lightly on his shoulder, in reassurance. His grasping strength was erratic. At times, he couldn’t hold on to things. “Manuela’s finest. Drink up. If you ask nicely, I imagine she’s got some pasteles in the kitchen.”
Nicole plastered a smile on her face, pretending not to notice the bird-like bones of his shoulder under her hand. Or his trembling hand as he brought the cup to his mouth. Or the sound of his breathing, loud in the quiet room. The effort of holding a cup to his mouth was enormous.
Her father had been such a handsome man. People turned their heads when he walked by, even when they didn’t know who he was. He had had such a regal bearing, one of nature’s aristocrats.
Now he was crunched in a wheelchair, often in pain, barely able to feed himself.
Dying.
This was breaking her heart.
Mike had stood, doing that straight-shouldered hands-over-crotch thing again. Her father took one look and nailed him immediately.
“Marine, young man?”
Nicole rushed to make introductions. “Daddy, this is Mike Keillor, former Marine—good call, you still have a fantastic eye. He’s with the San Diego Police Department now. He’s the friend of a friend of mine. Mike, this is my father, Ambassador Nicholas Pearce.” She shot Mike a hard glance. Don’t you dare say the real reason you’re here. She would kill him with her bare hands, body armor or no body armor, if he said he was here to ward off troublemakers. The very last thing her father needed was to worry about her and her safety
Into the Crossfire Page 14
