by Cherry Adair
He was no fucking hero. And he was fine with that.
“Then I suggest you take a drink, or swallow a vitamin, or do whatever it is you spy types do to get motivated,” she told him crossly. “Because I’m not leaving here until you agree to—”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“I talk when I’m nervous.”
“You must be nervous a lot.”
She swallowed. “I am.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t believe what she was saying. He did. He believed it all right. He just couldn’t wrap his brain around it. Was it possible that Alex really was alive? After all this time?
After he’d seen his body? What there was left of it…. Bile rose in the back of Marc’s throat as he vividly recalled the day they’d brought what was left of Lynx to T-FLAC HQ in a heavy black body bag for ID.
What they’d done to him on the island hadn’t been pretty. His friend hadn’t died easy.
“The Spiders are serious people, green eyes, and Marezzo is no place for little Miss Muffet.”
Up went the chin, baring the long pale line of her throat. “Well, after my visit, I can certainly see why tourism has gone down. I had my wallet stolen. Twice.”
Was she fricking joking? At first he thought she might be, but when he looked at her, he saw that she was quite serious. She was ticked off because her wallet had been lifted. In Marezzo? She was damned fortunate she was still in one piece.
Or was she?
She’d yet to mention the cast she was trying valiantly to hide beneath the sleeve of her ugly suit jacket. Or the bruises she’d done a piss-poor job of covering with makeup. On the other hand he couldn’t imagine the tangos would’ve let her walk away with a few broken bones and a handful of bruises. That wasn’t the way they made their point.
Alex’s skin had been black and crisp, charred almost beyond recognition. His friend had also been brutally tortured. Marc rubbed the flat of his hand across the heavy pressure of guilt in his chest. Alex’s fingers, toes and dick had been amputated. Antemortem.
Spiders were the baddest of the bad guys.
“You’re damn lucky those bastards only took your wallet,” he told her, wanting another drink. He ignored the half-filled bottle across the room winking at him in the firelight.
The dying fire bathed her face in a rosy glow that made her look a whole lot more appealing. That or the two glasses of whiskey were kicking in. That or three years of abstinence. Take your pick, asshole, he told himself sourly. Any or all of the above.
Appealing. But not to him, of course. Her type of woman drove him nuts. Her naiveté irritated. He wished to God she’d cover her thighs. Her skin was ivory pale and he’d bet his prize bull it was silky and just too damned touchable.
He ran his gaze from her scraped-back dark hair, across her smooth cheeks, shied away from the surprising sensuality of her mouth, skimmed down her throat and traveled all the way to her sensible shoes. She jumped as if he’d used a cattle prod, jerking the skirt down as far as she could. Her face turned scarlet.
He scowled. “You’re twenty-six years old, for God’s sake. You should’ve known better than to go to an infamous world hot spot and stick your nose into something you couldn’t even begin to understand. What’s next? A hike through the Afghan desert or a scenic cruise to the Caspian Sea with a day trip to Chechnya? Christ, lady, maybe you should read a newspaper or watch a little CNN before you go flitting around the world.”
“I wasn’t flitting, I was investigat—How do you know how old I am?”
“I took a wild guess that you and your twin were close to the same age,” he said drily, pushing off the sofa. He was a good six feet away from her, but she blinked several times as he crossed in front of her heading for the bar.
Nervous? Good. She had just cause. He turned his back on her and strode across the room. It wasn’t so much the booze he needed, it was movement. Action. There wasn’t enough damn room in the den. Not for the two of them anyway.
He could smell her. Female. Flowers. Innocence.
Fuck it.
He needed to be outside, under the open sky. He glanced at the window. Still snowing. Great. Just great. It suited his mood perfectly. Cold. Dark. Depressing. He felt trapped here in his house, his castle, with her. Marc wasn’t sure why, but he felt…besieged. As if the enemy had breached the walls of his sanctuary.
Carrying the half-empty bottle and ignoring his moronic analogy—hell, she was all of five feet, five inches tall, and probably weighed in at under a hundred and twenty pounds—he moved back to the fireplace. Putting the bottle down on the table he crouched to toss in another log. He flicked her a glance as the new log burst into an explosion of sparks.
“You want me to go and get him, is that it?” he asked mildly as he straightened.
Not him. No way in hell. But someone.
T-FLAC HQ was a hop, skip and jump away from the ranch. One call, and he’d—they’d—have a team wheels up, and en route to Italy, and the island of Marezzo.
“Of course. Would I be here if I wanted him to linger in that horrible country? You’re the only one who can bring him back.”
“Lady, your brother was—” My best friend. A damn fine T-FLAC operative. One more fucking rock in this suitcase of guilt I’ve been lugging around.
“Is.”
That deceptively soft exterior held a will of steel. “If,” he continued without pause, “he was alive, I assure you, I’d know it.” I’ll know one way or the other before you wake up in the morning, he thought grimly. And it would probably be a good idea not to picture this woman sleepy-eyed and naked amidst crumpled sheets at this time.
“Well he is, and you didn’t,” she countered reasonably. She rose, the coffee table between them. He’d never known a female over the age of thirteen who blushed as much as this one did. And the suit—the suit was too damn big. Too old-fashioned. Too—hell—everything was wrong with it. He’d never met a woman who was so clueless about how to dress flatteringly. It wasn’t a suit so much as a sack and for some inexplicable reason, it made him wonder what she was hiding under it.
Her legs were long, and from what he could see of them, well shaped, with incredibly delicate ankles. Luckily he’d always been a breast man so her legs didn’t have much effect on him. Not much. Had any man seen her naked? Probably not.
The lush mouth said come here, and the green eyes shouted go to hell. Please, he added with an inward smile. He stood his ground as she circumvented the coffee table between them.
She tilted her head back to look up at him. Marc felt the shock of her small hand on his arm right through his thick sweater. He wanted to shake her off. But her touch was as light as a butterfly, and seductively gentle. She smelled like heaven.
He needed to get a grip. Shake her off and make that call. The sooner the better.
“They have him in Pescarna,” she said quietly, a tremor in her husky voice. “It’s a little fishing village on the southwest side of the island. He’s in really bad…” Her short nails dug into his arm through the wool, and she swallowed hard, her eyes suddenly swimming with tears. “They’ve hurt him. Badly. He—he didn’t even recognize me.”
Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Please. Help me.”
“No.” He was going to get help for Alex.
For a moment there was silence as Tory stared up at him. “No? You’re saying no? Despite the fact that he’s your best friend and partner, you won’t go in and rescue him?” Her jaw ached with fury and frustration.
Marc stepped away from her and leaned an elbow against the oak mantel, looking as relaxed as a cat. The silly diamond winked in his ear. She’d like to twist that lobe, as Grammy had done to her when she’d been naughty, until he stopped being so macho and actually listened to what she was telling him.
“It’s nice to know you have such a good command of the English language, Miss Jones. You got it in one. Your brother was/is a good operative, and like all good operatives, he went in knowing
the odds and the consequences.”
Her heart was beating much too fast. He couldn’t refuse, he just could not refuse. “But you thought he was dead. Now that you know that he isn’t—”
“Makes absolutely no difference. I told you. I don’t work for T-FLAC any longer. I don’t have access to any intel. And even if I did—”
“What kind of man are you? They’re torturing him. How can you just stand there so complacently and not care? Even if you don’t work for them anymore, you still have the experience, the skills, the contacts, don’t you?”
One moment he was completely relaxed, the next he was right in her face. “‘No’ is a complete sentence. Want me to spell it out for you?”
A tidal wave of panic threatened to drown her. Her knees locked and her insides did somersaults at his nearness. Lord he was big. Big and mean looking, long hair and earring notwithstanding. The muscles in her stomach constricted as if she could at least draw that small part of herself away from the overwhelming menace of him. His whisky-scented breath was hot on her face, animosity radiated off him like a force field. She’d give everything she owned to have that much confidence. That much power.
Not particularly brave or adventurous in the first place, she’d been running on sheer nerves and bravado for days.
“This ranch is the only thing that keeps me marginally sane and reminds me I’m still part of the human race,” he told her grimly. “Just because your brother gave you my name does not give you the right to barge into my home and demand anything. Got that?”
He was so close, Tory could see the pale squint lines beside his eyes and smell the faint scent of soap on his skin. The fiery heat of his body, so close to hers, made her dizzy. She flinched, her trembling fingers touching her throat as he looked down at her, his eyes narrowed and hard.
When she remained mute he said softly, “I spent almost half my life in hell so that people like you can sleep safe and sound in their beds at night. I’m just not interested anymore in saving a damsel in distress, whatever her problem.”
His words stunned her. Alex had called this man the best friend he’d ever had. “You heartless son of a—I can’t believe that anyone could be so—so unfeeling. Alex thinks of you as a close friend.”
“In this business I don’t have any friends.”
“I can certainly see why. With a friend like you, who needs enemies?” Okay. That was probably not the way to get this cold-eyed man motivated.
Tory felt the wild thundering of her pulse and swallowed hard. Her eyes focused on the subtle plaid of the wallpaper and for several seconds she counted the horizontal lines. She wasn’t up to his sparring weight. Not tonight at any rate. She knew she wouldn’t be up to his weight even if she were in tip-top physical condition. Which she wasn’t at the moment. She was beyond exhausted, out of her mind with worry. And flat-out terrified.
None of that mattered. She couldn’t fail Alex. No matter how tough, how mean, how unmotivated this man was, she had to get through to him. Tonight.
This was the only shot she had.
“That leaves me with only two choices.”
“I can assure you, I don’t want to know what they are. Time for you to leave. I’ll give you directions to the local Motel 6 if you like.”
“One,” she said firmly, ignoring him as best she could. “I can go back again, and try to find him by myself…”
His laugh sounded rusty and not terribly amused. “How’d that work for you the first time around? If you could have gotten him out, you wouldn’t be here now.”
“Two,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I can go into town and talk to the nice people at the local newspaper.” She looked at him with guileless eyes. “There is a newspaper in Brandon, isn’t there? I’m sure they’d love to have the scoop. Do the townspeople have any idea you’re a mercenary?”
Tory had heard the threat coming out of her mouth—she just couldn’t believe she’d actually had the guts to make it. Her heart pounded and her palms became damp when he stepped closer.
She refused to be bullied, even though he was well over six feet, and he towered over her. His unshaven jaw was taut with fury in a face that was too masculine, too hard to ever be handsome. His nose was an aristocratic slash between dark brows that were drawn inward. He glared at her, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he stopped a hairbreadth in front of her.
She swallowed sickly, refusing to back up. Don’t show fear, she told herself grimly. Do not show this man one inch of fear.
The diamond earring glittered as he shifted to lift her chin with his finger. “You,” he said with lethal softness, “are either very brave or very stupid.”
Tory gulped. Her eyes felt bone-dry as she forced herself to hold his gaze. The sound of her racing heart was loud in her ears.
Still tilting her face up he said flatly, “No one knows that you’re here, do they, Miss Jones?” Before she could even formulate a reply he continued. “Did it ever occur to that agile little brain of yours that you might know just too damn much?” His fingers tightened around her jaw. “That if I am who you think I am, I can’t let you leave here?”
His grip stretched Tory’s skin painfully across her cheekbones. Her body was paralyzed as he held her gaze. “No one would know if you disappeared from the face of the earth, now would they? So if the ‘local newspaper’ needed a story, and someone just happened to find a mutilated body down by the river—Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t faint—”
He caught her as her eyes rolled and she slumped forward. The cast on her arm banged into the coal scuttle and he winced as he swung her up in his arms and strode over to the sofa, where he gently laid her down.
He was a bastard. An asshole, dickhead son of a bitch. He’d never mistreated a woman in his life. And doing so now, to her, proved just how damned low he’d sunk. When she didn’t open her eyes, he moved the arm in the cast out of the way, and started undoing the little pearl buttons of her blouse. Her skin was silky smooth and warm.
He jerked his hand back when the back of his fingers accidentally—swear to God accidentally—brushed the plump curve of her breast.
Not boxy at all.
Miss Jones was all lush curves and hidden valleys. Marc dragged his hand away, and kept his attention on her face.
His words had only partially been a bluff.
She knew more than was good for her.
He stopped unbuttoning at the third button. Her breathing was just fine. He was surprised, however, at how pleasurable it was to touch her skin, and be sitting close enough to inhale the flowery fragrance of her. She wasn’t plain at all, he thought watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the lace-collared white blouse. She had regained consciousness, but kept very still, eyes closed. Playing possum. Again.
He’d never scared anyone into a swoon before. He found himself not liking that she was his first. She was pale and limp. He didn’t like that he felt sympathetic, either. That wasn’t who he was. Who he used to be, hell…
“Unless you want me to administer CPR, open your eyes and take a swig of this.” He wanted her awake and aware when he booted her out the door. Then he was going to make that call.
He wasn’t going to tell her and get her hopes up, or listen to her opinion on how the retrieval—please God, there was one—was to go down. She could suffer, preferably in silence, for a few more hours. When he got news, she’d be the first to know.
If there was even the smallest, most remote chance that Alex was alive, Marc was going to call in the cavalry to go bring him home.
Her lids fluttered before she fixed her big green eyes on his face. “You are a hateful man.”
“So I’ve been told.” Marc picked up the barely tasted glass of whiskey she’d set on the table earlier. He ran his hand under the back of her head to lift her so she could drink. Bad mistake. Bad, bad, bad fucking mistake touching her.
Her hair was thick, and felt like cool silk tangled between his callused fingers. “Drink.”<
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She parted her lips and took dainty sips of whiskey. Long dark strands of her hair escaped in thick skeins from the bun-thing at her nape to tumble down her back as she sat up, taking the glass from him.
He had an image—a fleeting, foolish image—of burying his face in the waist-length strands. Of feeling the cool silk draped across his naked thighs…
“You’re very literal, aren’t you?” He absently wiped a drop of amber liquid off her bottom lip with his thumb. She stared up at him, unblinking, as he rose and set the empty glass back on the table.
Victoria Jones was a dangerous woman.
“Actually,” she said in a small voice, frowning as she rubbed her fingers across her forehead, “I’m pretty much a coward.”
“You could have fooled me.” Marc’s tone was dry.
“Really?” She looked ridiculously pleased as she swung her legs to the floor, feeling around for her shoes, which she must have lost when she’d keeled into his arms. When she couldn’t find them she settled one foot on top of the other. “Well, I might be a chicken but I don’t usually faint like that. Sorry.”
She tried to wrangle a yard of silken hair back into a tight little bun. Wasn’t working. Not one-handed, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to offer to help. Her hair had a life of its own as it unfurled like ribbons of black satin around her shoulders. Her touching it turned him on.
“Leave it.”
Her hand dropped to her lap.
Refilling his glass—hell, what was one more drink at this point?—he quietly watched her. The silence built and built and he could tell by the stiffness of her shoulders that she was ready to break, which was fine with him. He would give her directions to the motel in the next town and be ecstatic to see the back of her.
Her chin wobbled.
Marc ground his teeth. Tell her you’re going to have a team sent…. No. A few more hours of worry wouldn’t kill her.
