by Cherry Adair
She would not cry in front of him. She gritted her teeth. “Satisfied?”
“Far from it.” His eyes took in the grubby cast showing beneath the edge of her white cotton sleeve, then scanned her face. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to touch any of the bruises she’d so carefully covered with foundation to make sure he couldn’t detect them.
A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Who did this to you?”
“I told you. I fell.” Often and hard. Oh, God. He was going to know she was lying through her teeth. She was lousy at it, and he seemed to be able to see directly into her brain with those pale, unamused X-ray eyes of his. Tory felt the heat in her cheeks get hotter and her gaze skittered back to the pattern on the carpet before she forced herself to meet his eyes.
“Let me put it this way, Miss Jones. I’ll ask the questions. All you have to do is supply truthful answers. If I don’t like what I hear, you’ll be out of here so damned fast your head will spin. Got it? What happened to your arm?”
Tory licked her dry lips. “I was mugged at the airport.”
“No abusive boyfriend or husband following you?”
Hateful man. “I’m not married.”
His lips twitched. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Tory tried to make her arm inconspicuous and bent to pick up her purse from the floor where it had fallen. Her mouth was dry and perspiration beaded on her skin. She was so tired of being scared. And he scared her to death. There was just…so much of him.
His hair, as dark as her own, was tied back in a short ponytail and the diamond stud flashed in one ear. His scuffed cowboy boots were set apart, his arms loose at his sides. He didn’t look like a spy or a mercenary. Not that she’d had any idea what one looked like, but surely not like a cross between a GQ model and a predatory animal.
Obviously not impressed by what he was seeing, he said, “What can I do for you, Miss Jones? It must be something compelling to get you to stand here when you’d rather be anywhere else.” His eyes shifted to the indented cushions on the sofa behind her and then narrowed on her face.
Victoria had never had a man look at her like that. It was disconcerting. She shrugged back into her jacket, despising herself for almost asking his permission to do so. But she didn’t ask, and he made no comment as she buttoned the serviceable navy serge up to her throat.
The wind sounded mournful as it whipped the bare tree branches and rattled the window. The perfect setting for the nightmare she found herself living. Jerking her gaze away from the night sky, she turned back to him.
It didn’t matter whether she liked him or not. Whether he scared her or not. She was here for one thing, and one thing only. “I need your help.”
“Why should I help you?” He asked over his shoulder as he strolled to the built-in bar across the room and poured himself a drink. “I don’t know you.”
“May I have a drink, too, please?”
His shoulders tightened before he said in an amused voice, “Sure. You’ve already slept on my couch. What’ll it be?”
She supposed that he had every right to his irritation. “Whatever you’re having, I don’t want to be a bother, really.” She walked over to the French doors and rested her hand on the icy pane.
It had started snowing. The snow looked pretty illuminated by the lights from inside the house, soft, white. But snow was another unknown. She shivered. Already unnerved by too many weeks of the scary and the unfamiliar, Tory gritted her teeth and turned back into the room.
It was warmed by the blazing fire in the hearth, which caused reflections of dancing amber light from the highly polished dark-wood floor and the smooth surfaces of the two black leather sofas that flanked it. Wall-to-wall mahogany bookcases rose to twelve-foot ceilings. Victoria moved from the door to trail one hand across the tempting bookbindings before casting an anxious glance at the man across the room.
Having counted all the books on the left-hand wall after she’d arrived hours ago, she was about to start on the right when he came up behind her. She almost jumped out of her skin as he handed her a glass. The touch of his warm fingers across hers made her breath catch.
Too close, was her panicked reaction to his nearness. Much too close. She sidestepped, almost falling over her own feet in her haste to put a decent amount of space between them. She could feel the heat of his large body coming off him in waves. The smell of him, male and far too sexy, made her suck in a breath of surprise.
He scowled. “You okay?”
Tory’s sheltered life hadn’t in any way prepared her for him. It hadn’t prepared her for anything else she’d experienced in the past few weeks, either. As Grammy used to say, What didn’t kill you would make you stronger. She hoped.
Nodding, she realized he was waiting for a verbal response and choked out, “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” Oh, Lord. She sounded just like her grandmother.
He gave her an undecipherable glance, and she stayed where she was even though every intelligent cell in her brain was telling her to run. Fast and far away from Marc Savin. The safest tactic was to find a fault, an Achilles’ heel to focus on that might make him less intimidating. Her gaze hunted for just such a flaw.
What man wore a stupid ponytail? If his hair had been loose, it would probably touch his broad shoulders. At least it was clean. And shiny. And silky looking. Her plan wasn’t working too well. Oh, good Lord. Get a grip.
His snug jeans outlined the bulge…Oh my God, Victoria Francis! Stop looking at his…at his—She took a long drink. The liquid was room temperature and wet and for an instant felt very soothing as it slid down her throat—until it burned her esophagus like fire.
His expression was impassive as she gasped for breath and the whiskey fumes made her eyes water and her throat close up. It took every ounce of her control not to cough.
She shot a poisonous glare at his back as he sauntered across the room.
“Next time,” he told her unsympathetically, “ask for water.” Jesus, she was a throwback. An anomaly. One small shy, question mark. The clothes. The hair. The skittish demeanor. None of which added up in this day and age; it made her almost intriguing. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Especially around the eyes, but he knew he’d never met her before. Her he would have remembered.
While there was less ranch work in winter, he’d still put in a long day. Tired and hungry, Marc dropped down on the leather sofa opposite her and stretched out his legs, the drink balanced on his belly. He settled one arm behind his head and watched her.
Christ, she was skittish. Her eyes slid away from his, then back. Her arrogant little nose tilted.
The mugging story was bogus. There were many ways to detect a liar, even a good one. Marc hadn’t needed to see the pupils of her enormous green eyes dilate, nor did he have to hear the way her speech raced when she was telling him she’d been mugged.
Victoria Jones was a lousy liar.
Besides the broken arm she had contusions on her slender neck, and more bruises beneath the light application of makeup on her otherwise unblemished face. He was almost intrigued enough to dig deeper.
Almost.
“You know my brother.” She moved cautiously to the other end of the sofa and sat on the very edge, pulling her skirt down lower over her calves. When she leaned forward to put her glass on the coffee table, she exposed the vulnerable ridge of her collarbone below the lacy edge of her collar. “Alex—Alexander Stone.”
Alexander Stone and Victoria Jones? He narrowed his eyes fractionally. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Sorry, honey. Try again.”
“Lynx,” she said tightly. “You know him as Lynx. He was sent on a mission to Marezzo seven months ago.” She straightened and stared at him. “I’m his sister.” Her jaw tightened and something flashed in her green eyes. “And don’t say you don’t know him. He told me all about you.”
Marc just stared at her.
“I know, for example—” Tory kept her eyes fixed
on a point behind his left ear “—that the organization you work for is an elite unit. A cloaked counterterrorist force beyond even the CIA. A highly secret group called T-FLAC. Terrorist Force Logistical Assault Command.” She licked her bottom lip. “I know there are members of your team who have infiltrated any number of foreign governments and military organizations all over the world.”
A small triumphant smile curved her mouth when she detected the slightest tensing of his broad, impressive shoulders. His eyes bored into hers like burning ice. “Who the hell are you, lady?”
She tried, God help her, she really tried, to say her name, but she was so terrified her lips barely moved. Her eyes darted about the room, looking for help; but of course they were alone. With a sinking heart she suddenly realized that other than Marc Savin’s people, no one knew she was here. He could do anything to her and probably would. He shook her and Tory’s teeth chattered. “My brother—”
“Would sure as hell not turn rogue and give away so much information dead or alive. Try again, green eyes. I’ll give you two seconds to tell me who sent you, and then—”
“Your code name is Phantom,” she said quickly, her skin going hot, then cold and clammy. Victoria smoothed her jacket down with a shaking hand. “My brother is alive and not well in Marezzo, Mr. Macho Spymaster. That’s fact. The only reason I know all this is because—”
The eyes. Alex’s eyes. But—“He didn’t have any relatives.”
“Try again, Mr. Savin.” She echoed his words. “I’m sitting right here. I’m his twin and I’m very much alive.” Tension radiated off her body. “And don’t talk about him in the past tense. Alex is alive.”
Damn, was it possible? Was it even conceivable that Lynx was alive? Of course the canny Lynx would have kept a sister under wraps, hence the name difference. He was normally a closemouthed bastard and would have known she’d be an easy target for anyone with a grudge. Then again, she could be anybody.
With familiar green eyes and access to him?
Despite the evidence, Marc was still skeptical. If his enemies wanted to get close to him, sending in someone like Victoria Jones was a clever maneuver. She sure as shit didn’t look like an enemy operative. In fact she looked the exact opposite of dangerous.
But then, as he well knew, there was danger, and then there was danger. “How do I know you’re his sister?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Why would I be here if I wasn’t?” she shot back, and her eyes, so much like her brother’s, flashed again. “He has a birthmark on his right leg shaped like a half-moon.” She obviously didn’t realize how much she exposed as she furiously yanked up her skirt to bare a slender thigh. A pink birthmark, shaped like a half-moon, marred the smooth skin under her panty hose.
“It’s a moot point, isn’t it?” Marc retorted, deceptively relaxed as she shoved her skirt back into place. “He died while he was on vacation, I believe.” And if the son of a bitch wasn’t dead, he would be when Marc found him. He thought of what he’d been through in the last six months. Only Lynx could have blown their cover like this. Marc’s mind was racing with the ramifications of Lynx’s betrayal. Had Lynx come to the ranch to lure Phantom into a trap?
“He was captured while he was on a mission,” she insisted. “You let him go there alone and you had better get him out.”
“I saw his body seven months ago.”
She flinched. “I beg your pardon, but I saw him alive two weeks ago.” Marc saw the muscles work in her throat. “He’s been imprisoned for almost seven months. They—they’ve tortured him.”
She lifted huge green eyes to his, and Marc found himself drawn into their anguished depths. He cursed under his breath. It wasn’t possible. He’d seen the body. It had been burned beyond recognition, but the dental records…Hell, it had been Alexander Stone. He was sure of it.
Damn, but he was sick of this business. Every time he got close to someone, he lost them. Lynx had been the last straw. He was getting too damn old for this shit. Thank God he wasn’t involved any more.
His head shot up as he suddenly realized what she’d said. His eyes narrowed.
“What the hell do you mean, you saw him?”
CHAPTER TWO
MY GOD, COULD IT BE TRUE? Had this mousy woman with her blushes and accusing big green eyes done what a team of experienced T-FLAC operatives should have done, but hadn’t? Had she actually gone to Marezzo, by herself for God’s sake—and made contact with Lynx? A man the entire T-FLAC organization swore was dead?
Improbable.
Impossible.
Bullshit.
Then what the hell was she doing in Nowhere, Montana in the middle of freaking winter?
He’d been out of the counterterrorist business for almost three years, but he still had enemies. “Who really sent you?”
“No one.”
Right. Who the hell would send her to him? Made no frigging sense. A stacked redhead in a skimpy outfit would have made more sense if someone wanted to send in a Trojan horse. But a mousy brunette sporting bruises, a broken arm and dressed like a repressed librarian? He’d never be that desperate.
The fact that he was trying to picture what she looked like underneath that yardage of navy serge was beside the point. A frisson of sexual heat curled in his belly, shocking the living hell out of him.
Whoa.
While he gave her motivation some thought Marc poured himself another drink. Something he’d been careful about not doing in the last year or so. Great. He’d known this woman for barely half an hour and she was already driving him to drink. The whiskey tasted fine going down. Better than fine. Smooth. He finished the two fingers and was tempted to go back for more. He’d done a helluva lot of drinking after…After. But anesthetizing himself with well-aged scotch wasn’t the answer.
Fuck. He barely knew what the question was anymore.
She flinched when his empty heavy-bottomed crystal glass hit the end table. It sounded like a pistol shot in the momentary quietness. He was fine with silence. In fact he liked it a hell of a lot better than listening to inane chatter. Unfortunately his guest didn’t hold the same sentiment.
Her throat worked, but her eyes, mossy green, and direct, met his. “I went there to find my brother.”
Yeah. So she’d just said. Not only was it illogical, but it sure as shit didn’t bear repeating. Goddamn it! He pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Marezzo isn’t exactly a vacation paradise, honey. You can’t just go waltzing over there as if you were taking a little holiday.” His blood ran cold at the thought of a civilian on that volatile little island in the Tyrrhenian Sea. It had been a hot spot for tangos for years.
“I wasn’t on holiday.” She glared at him as if he were the one who’d lost his freaking mind. “I didn’t have a choice as to location. Alex is there, so that’s where I went.”
Honest to God, Marc thought as he observed the thudding of her pulse at the base of her slender throat, she sounded rational. Scared out of her mind, but rational. She appeared to be the real—if ten years out of step—deal. Christ. He wanted Alexander Stone to be alive. A part of him almost believed it. Almost. Even if it was only for a few minutes.
But wishing was for fools.
He was going to have to let her down gently, she looked like a crier. He ran his hand around the back of his neck. He’d rather face twenty heavily armed tangos alone than deal with a crying woman. She was watching him as warily as a mongoose watched a snake. Did she ever relax? She was stiff as a board, and sitting on the very edge of the middle cushion of the sofa opposite him. Her feet were placed precisely together, her knees locked.
If Ragno had Lynx—Fuck. If Ragno had Lynx, then Lynx truly was dead. Nobody had ever managed to extricate themselves from Ragno’s sadistic handiwork. Which was why Alex’s body had been so damned hard to ID.
“Look,” he started. Fast and expedient? Or slow and sympathetic? He voted for fast. He’d get someone to escort her to the closest hotel a
nd be left the hell alone. “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but—”
“He’s being held by a terrorist or a group of terrorists called ‘Spider’.”
The hair on the back of his neck lifted. Spider. Ragno’s merry band of tangos was based in Italy. Last known address—Marezzo. Shit.
“It’s a group.” The terrorists had taken control of the island some time ago. Tourists were tolerated. Barely. “I know damn well that going over there with a broken arm like a little lame bird wouldn’t even get a sympathetic glance from the people you’re talking about. They’d kill you in a frigging heartbeat if you so much as looked as though you were going to—” Interfere. “Cause trouble.”
Had Spider…? No. They’d do more than break a bone or two. He dismissed the idea out of hand that she’d actually had a close encounter with her brother’s captors. She wouldn’t be sitting here if that were the case.
Besides, she didn’t look as though she were capable of saying “boo” let alone causing any trouble with a terrorist cell that was currently holding the number one spot on T-FLAC’s most-wanted list.
“Well, it wasn’t my first choice, I can assure you. But you people weren’t doing anything to help Alex, so I had to.” Her expressive eyes burned with hostility when he did no more than cross one ankle over his knee. “Are you going to sit there berating me all night, or are you going to go into action any time soon?”
Keeping his expression impassive, Marc bit back a reluctant chuckle, the first small ember of amusement he’d felt in years. “I’m out of the action business, honey. Sorry.”
Way the hell out of the action business. Two years, seven months, and counting. He was a fucking rancher now. The only weapon he needed to carry was a factory load, model .350 Magnum scoped hunting air rifle. Rancher. Not an operative. He was done saving the world. He’d sucked at it, and he had written beendet, fini, klaar to the whole counterterrorist business once and for all.
