Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 08 - Identity Unknown

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She seemed determined to get his clothes off him, and as far as brilliant ideas went, he was right there with her, one-hundred-percent. He found the zipper at the back of her dress and unfastened it, then pulled back to yank his unbuttoned shirt free from his arms.

  She gasped as her hands touched his Ace bandage. 'Oh, no, I forgot all about... I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  He had to laugh. "You're killing me," he told her, "but not the way you mean. I'm fine."

  "Honest?"

  This was one thing he could be honest about. "Yes."

  "And you'll tell me if it hurts?"

  He laughed again. "It hurts, but—"

  "Not the way you mean," she finished with him, laughing, too.

  Her smile grew slightly wicked, and he watched, spellbound, as she rose to her feet and pushed the thin straps from her shoulders. Her dress fell off her in a sheet, pooling at her feet, leaving her naked save for a pair of shimmering silk panties.

  She was beyond beautiful, and he reached for her, needing to touch the smoothness of her skin, the soft fullness of her perfect breasts, needing to hold her close, to feel her naked against him.

  She touched him, too, with her hands, with her mouth, slowly running her fingers up his arms, across his shoulders, down the muscles of his bare chest, gently across his bruised side, driving him half-mad from the sensation.

  How could something that felt so right be so wrong?

  And it was wrong. Despite all that she'd told him, he knew it was wrong to make love to her without telling her the truth, without admitting that he didn't know what

  '

  that truth was. Who was he? He honestly didn't know. Becca thought he was a good man. He strongly suspected otherwise.

  Mish had reason to believe he'd done terrible things in his past, and here he was, right on schedule—giving in to temptation again.

  Except when Becca kissed him, it didn't feel wrong. When Becca kissed him, when she touched him, it felt right in a way he'd never experienced right before.

  And dammit, he wanted more.

  He pulled her down with him onto the bed, kissing her, touching her as she cradled him between her legs. He could feel her heat as she pressed herself up against his arousal, and the sensation was dizzying and so perfect, he wanted to weep.

  He felt her reach between them, felt her unfasten his belt, his pants, and then she was touching him, her fingers against his skin. It felt impossibly, paralyzingly, mind-blowingly good.

  This woman wasn't looking for forever. She expected this fire they were fanning to life between them to burn hot and white, and then burn out. She had no misconceptions where this love affair was concerned, and she wouldn't be hurt when he left. She wasn't in love with him—at least not really. She didn't believe in true love.

  Becca tugged at his pants, and he rolled off her to help her push them down his legs. Together they pulled off his boots, took off her panties. And then, finally, they were both naked. Mish pulled her on top of him, kissing her, desperate to be inside her, surrounded by her slick heat. He could feel her against him. All he had to do was shift his hips and...

  But she moved when he moved, lifting herself away from him. "Whoa," she said, laughing. "Wait a sec—

  safe sex, birth control! I've got condoms in my bag. Don't move, okay?"

  Mish was staggered. He couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. A condom—he'd completely forgotten about using one. He'd been more than ready to make love to Becca, despite being totally without protection. If she hadn't stopped him...

  She pulled a foil-wrapped package from her purse, and came back to the bed, tearing it open.

  "I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse as he pushed himself up on his elbows. "It's been a while for me, and I wasn't thinking."

  "I hope you don't mind wearing this," she told him, kneeling beside him. "Because I'm afraid it's non-negotiable."

  "No." He pulled her toward him, unable to keep from touching all that smooth, soft skin. "I never mind being forced to do something intelligent. I seriously don't know how I could have—''

  She smiled at him, amusement dancing in her eyes— she was so beautiful. "Considering I was trying to drive you to distraction, I can't really complain when it worked."

  "Distraction, huh?" Her thighs were smooth against him, her breasts so soft in his hands. He bent to kiss her, to draw her into his mouth. She moaned, and just like that the pulsating fire was back, heat flickering white-hot through his veins. "I'm just glad you had a condom," he murmured.

  She handed it to him. "I always keep them on hand," she breathed, "in case Brad Pitt comes to town."

  Mish lifted his head, and Becca laughed. ' 'Just checking to see if you were still paying attention," she told him. "If you want to know the truth, I bought a box

  L

  '

  because despite all my promises to be good, despite all the times you told me no, I still had designs on you."

  She'd spoken the words lightly, but he touched her face gently, his eyes almost soft beneath the heat of his desire. "I didn't tell you no because I didn't want you. You do know that, Becca, don't you?"

  She knew it now and she was glad—so glad—that she hadn't given up.

  She kissed him, tasting his hunger for her, feeling his need in the way that he held her, the weight of his desire.

  Becca reached between them—he was taking too long—and helped him cover himself. She straddled him then, rolling him over onto his back as she kissed him, his arousal sinfully hard against her stomach.

  He explored her body with his hands and mouth as if he were a starving man at a banquet, as if he would never be able to get enough of her.

  It was an incredible turn-on—the way he looked at her as if she were the sexiest woman he'd ever seen, the way he touched her as if she were some kind of goddess or angel or...

  ; 'Becca," he breathed, and she loved the way her name sounded in the midnight velvet of his voice. He reached between them to touch her intimately, lightly first, then harder. "Please, may I—"

  She would have agreed to anything, promised him everything else. "Yes."

  He lifted her up then, turning them both over so that he was on top of her, his weight between her legs. She raised her hips to meet him and, oh, the look in his eyes was nearly as incredible as the sensation of him, thrust hard and deep, inside of her.

  He held her gaze as he began to move, and the connection between them was so profound, her heart was

  completely in her throat. How could this be? This was supposed to be.. .well, if not casual, then at least ordinary. She hadn't anticipated feeling as if her entire soul were exposed to the elements. She hadn't dreamt that this man's kisses might resurrect all of her long-buried hopes of happily-ever-after.

  That was crazy. This was sex. It was great sex, but it was only sex.

  But as Becca looked into the eyes of this man who was making such wonderful, exquisite love to her, she saw possibilities that made her breath catch in her throat. She saw her future stretching out before her, and for the first time since forever, her journey was not a solitary one.

  She laughed aloud. They were crazy, these thoughts that were invading her.

  But when Mish smiled, too—his eyes crinkling at the edges with his pleasure and joy—she knew she was in trouble.

  Big trouble.

  He somehow knew just how to move to please her most—long, slow strokes that stole the air from her lungs, that left her dying for more.

  And when her release ripped through her, it tore her open, scorching her very soul. She closed her eyes and clung to him, feeling him explode as well.

  And when he lowered his head and kissed her, she closed her eyes and let him claim her mouth as thoroughly as he'd just claimed her heart.

  L

  Chapter

  JVlish could smell the fear.

  It hung, sharp and unmistakable, in the small room. He'd been trapped there for hours with the others. There were twenty-four
of them—mostly women and young girls. Some had been weeping continuously. When one of them left off, another started in.

  He was numb.

  The man in the religious robes lay on the floor where he'd fallen, half of his head blown away, his hands outstretched, wide and reaching, surprised by his own death.

  He'd died trying to negotiate the release of the women and children. But the terrorists would not negotiate. They all knew that now.

  And so Mish waited. He sat with his back against the far wall, and he waited, trying not to shake. He looked at the walls, at the ceiling—anywhere but at that pool of darkening blood on the floor.

  But then the door opened, and everything moved too

  fast. A black man, an American, scrambled up from the hostages—launching himself at the men with guns. Shots were fired as Mish lunged to his feet. The American staggered back, but not before wrenching an assault weapon from one of the terrorist's arms.

  More gunshots. The American went down hard, the weapon skittering across the floor.

  Toward Mish.

  He didn't think. He reacted, picking it up, his finger squeezing the trigger before he'd even got it aimed. The force pushed the barrel up as he fired, and he fought to push it down, sweeping the entrance to the room, spraying the terrorists with bullets, splattering the back wall and doorway with their blood and brains.

  Someone was screaming, the voice raw and guttural with rage, but barely loud enough to be heard over the deafening machine-gun fire.

  But then it was over. The men on the floor before him were undeniably dead. He'd killed them. He stopped shooting and realized that the voice—and the rage—were his own.

  The American was bleeding badly, but he grabbed another assault weapon and kicked the door shut.

  'Good job," he told Mish through the blood that bubbled on his lips. "Way to send them straight to hell, Mish."

  Mish stared at the bodies, stared at what he'd done.

  He'd killed them. God help him, he'd pointed the weapon, and taken the lives of three human beings. He may have sent them straight to hell, but what had he done to his own soul?

  And he turned, because over on the other side of the room, the dead man in the robe was pushing himself up and off of the floor. The half of his face that was left was

  '

  frowning, and he raised his hand, pointing accusingly at Mish. "Thou shalt not kill," he intoned. "Thou shalt not kill."

  He took a step toward Mish, and then another step. And Mish realized with a jolt of shock that the man wore a liturgical collar, streaked bright red with blood.

  And what was left of the dead man's face might as well have been his own.

  Mish sat up in bed, his heart pounding, gasping for air.

  Someone stirred in the bed beside him. Becca. It was Becca. She sat up, too, hesitantly touching his back. "Mish, are you all right?"

  The hotel room came into focus, dimly lit by the first light of dawn that streaked in through the tops of the heavy window curtains.

  Mish fought to control his ragged breathing, fought to bring his pulse back down to normal. "Nightmare," he managed to say.

  "A bad one, huh? Want to talk about it?"

  He pushed his sweat-soaked hair back from his face with hands that were still shaking. "No," he said. "Thanks."

  She put her arms around him and lightly kissed his shoulder, and he turned toward her, grabbing her and holding her far more tightly than he had a right to, kissing her far more proprietarily than he should have. But he desperately needed grounding, desperately needed her.

  "Mmm." She smiled up at him in the slowly growing light as she ran her fingers through his hair. She didn't seem to mind the dampness. "I'm sorry you had a nightmare, but I'm not sorry you woke me up, especially when you kiss me like that."

  She was naked. They both were. And as Mish gazed

  into her eyes, detailed memories of the power and passion of last night came crashing back, full force.

  He had made love to this woman, and she to him, in a way that had been beyond description, beyond comparison.

  And she deserved to know the truth about who he was—or who he wasn't.

  He'd stared at the ceiling for a good portion of the night, struggling with wanting to tell her of his missing past, and this overpowering sense of knowing—this absolute conviction—that he would not be allowed to tell her anything about himself, even if he knew.

  She kissed him, pulling him back with her against the pillows, intertwining their legs. "I've got a few days off coming to me," she murmured. "What do you say we order a steady supply of room service, tell them to hold all my calls, and just stay here until Tuesday morning?"

  Mish wanted to do it. He wanted to hold the world at bay for two days straight. And why couldn't he? As far as he was aware, he was the only one searching for himself.

  And who could know? Maybe he'd find himself here in the safety and warmth of Becca's eyes.

  And if not, maybe he'd have figured out a way by then to tell her who he feared he was.

  "'Til Tuesday sounds great," he whispered between kisses. In truth, it sounded about a lifetime too short, but that wasn't something he'd ever dare admit, either to her or to himself.

  He kissed her longer, deeper, willing himself to stop thinking, to just be.

  With Becca's eager help, that wasn't hard to do.

  The call from Joe Cat came in just after dawn. Lucky had only been asleep for about twenty minutes,

  but he snapped instantly awake—especially after he heard the Captain's familiar New Yawk accent.

  "More of Shaw's funny money turned up," Joe Cat said without ceremony. "This time in a men's clothing store in Albuquerque. Two bills."

  Lucky turned on the light next to the motel-room bed. "We'll go check it out, but I'm not going to leave that bag in the bus station locker without a baby-sitter. I got a gut about this one, Cat. Mitch Shaw has had that bag for a long time. If he's alive, he's coming back for it. I've buddied up the surveillance—Bobby and Wes are watching the station right now." He started pulling on his pants. "But I could head north in about five minutes."

  "No, stay in Wyatt City," the captain commanded. "Crash and Blue are already on their way to Albuquerque." He gave a disparaging laugh. "I'd be with 'em, but the admiral's allegedly flying in today. I need to be on hand to give him a sit-rep. I just thought it'd be smart for you to know Shaw's still fairly local. In state, at least."

  Lucky kicked his pants back off and settled back on the bed, phone tucked under his chin. "Unless he's dead and someone else is spending his money."

  "Yeah, I think we've got to consider that possibility," the captain said seriously.

  "But what if he's not dead?" Lucky asked. "Is there a chance he's trying to send some kind of message to us by circulating those bills?" Surely Mitch knew which of the bills he carried were fake and which weren't.

  "That's what I keep coming back to," Joe Cat said. "What if Mitch Shaw located the...missing material?" Even though it was a secured line, he was careful not to use the word plutonium. "What if he's in deep with the people who have control over that material, and can't

  check in? Using the money might be his way of flagging us down, getting backup into the area."

  "Except we spoke to a guy named Jarell at the homeless shelter," Lucky reported. "He remembers seeing Mitch. He was brought in late at night, barely conscious, apparently falling-down drunk, with the fight kicked out of him. Jarell only saw him that one night, said he left before breakfast, said as far as he could tell, Mitch was alone. He also said Mitch left a jacket behind, but Jarell wouldn't give it to us—he wouldn't even let us look at it."

  "Get it," the captain said.

  "Yeah," Lucky told him. "I'm working on that. But that church has something going on /. There's always someone there, so we're going to have to get creative. But don't get your hopes up, Skipper. Even after we do get it, chances are that jacket's not going to tell us jack."

  Joe
Cat sighed. "I don't know this guy Shaw at all. Is he a heavy drinker? Is he into drugs at all? Is it possible he's gone on some kind of binge?"

  "I've never seen him have more than a single beer," Lucky said.

  "Which could fit into the pattern of a problem drinker," the captain pointed out. "He keeps it under control, until suddenly he can't anymore. And then it's not one beer, it's a dozen, and he's off and running."

  "Jarell said he was so skunked, he couldn't even remember his own name." Lucky shook his head. That was hard to imagine. Quiet Mitchell Shaw completely out of control.

  "There's a question I haven't been able to stop thinking, Luke. Do you think he might've turned—you know, embraced the dark side of the force?"

  Lucky closed his eyes. "I don't know, Obi-Wan," he

  said. 'The admiral's not going to like this, but I don't think we can rule out that possibility at this point."

  The phone rang.

  Becca opened her eyes and found that she'd fallen asleep draped half on top of Mish. It should have been uncomfortable to sleep like that, her leg thrown across his thighs, her head resting on his shoulder, but it wasn't. She fit against him perfectly.

  His eyes were open, and he gave her the sexiest, sleepiest good-morning smile as she reached across him for the telephone.

  She couldn't resist and she stopped to kiss him, hoping that whoever was calling would just give up and go away. But they were persistent and the phone kept ringing.

  "I knew I should have told the desk to hold my calls," she complained with an exaggerated sigh as she picked up the phone. '"Lo?" she said into the receiver, pulling the cord back with her, settling into the warmth of Mish's arms.

  She could feel his arousal, heavy against her thigh, feel his fingers trailing lightly, deliciously down her back from her shoulder to her rear end and back again.