by Cherry Adair
A tear welled and ran down the side of her nose; another followed. Marc scowled. The fact that she didn’t utter a sound made the tears more poignant. He jammed his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans and glared into the leaping flames. In his mind’s eye he saw her shoulders heaving, but when he turned to look, she was as still as a statue. Her lips were moving in a silent litany, which Marc realized was counting. He’d noticed her doing the same thing earlier. It must help her calm down.
It sure as hell wasn’t helping him, and he was up to two thousand eighty-six.
He was either going to kiss her or kill her and since neither was an option, it looked as though he was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow. He drew in a deep breath. Two thousand eighty-seven, two thousand…
CHAPTER THREE
“HE’S—” THERE WAS A CATCH in her voice as she turned to face him. Her soft, pale mouth trembled as she whispered helplessly, “He’s all I have. Please. Please, help me.”
Marc felt the ice around his heart melt a little. He looked down at her glossy hair. When he didn’t answer she wiped the tears off her face and turned her head to look out the window, obviously trying to compose herself. Her back was ramrod straight.
Damn it, didn’t she realize that her blouse was undone? His eyes were drawn to the slender wedge of pale skin he could see reflected in the window—skin that looked so soft and smooth and…defenseless. Marc squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“Put that blanket around you or do up your blouse,” he said, more gruffly than he’d have liked as he forced himself to concentrate on her face. He hated the life he’d left behind. Hated the thought of Alex’s fate. Mostly, he hated himself for caving in. “Tell me everything.”
Flushing, Tory buttoned her blouse and pulled the blanket around her shoulders, as well.
She sank back with a wince and blew a breath upward to clear a tendril of hair from her eyes. Covered to her knees by the mohair blanket, she looked like an orphan rescued from a storm. With every movement she made, more and more hair slithered loose from the coil at the back of her head.
“Where do you want me to start?”
Marc came and sat on the coffee table, facing her, their knees almost touching. “Start at the beginning and don’t stop until I tell you.”
“I have—had,” she corrected, “a condo in San Diego. I always kept a room for Alex. He’d come once in a while and stay for a few days in between…assignments. Not as often as I liked, but he did stay a few times a year.” She shrugged out of the blanket and he saw the pink mark where it had scratched her throat. The blanket settled around her hips as she fiddled with her hair. She used the waist-length strands like worry beads and Marc absently filed that information away. Better than wondering what those glossy strands would feel like trailing across his body.
“He used to send me a letter—mailed to a post office box in Mission Valley before each assignment. I was to keep it until he came and got it. I’d pick up the letter, take it home and wait for him. He’d come back and burn the letter. I never read any of them—not until the last one.”
“What made this time different?” He leaned over and tugged at the blanket until it covered her knees to his satisfaction. Surprised, she looked at him, then continued softly: “He always gave me a time frame. Ninety days. I was supposed to wait for ninety days after he was due back, before I opened it. A week after he was due back I had this awful feeling—I just knew that something had gone drastically wrong….”
“What made you think he wouldn’t be back?” Marc asked. “He came back late from assignments before. We all do. Can’t be helped. It isn’t like these things ever run on a fixed timetable.”
“We have a…connection.” She looked him straight in the eye. “A telepathic connection, if you will.”
Marc couldn’t negate what she’d said. T-FLAC had a special psi branch in fact, and he’d witnessed some amazing things while he’d been in the field. But he’d known Alexander Stone for six or seven years—and never seen any sign of him having any psychic ability. “So you packed your bags and went off on a little vacation to look for him? Is that what he told you to do in the letter?
“He told me where his last assignment was and told me to contact you if he wasn’t back by the end of the month. And I didn’t go on a ‘little vacation.’ I called you. You were gone. Indefinitely, they said. I couldn’t wait. Alex was being hurt, and he was calling me. I went.”
“Calling you? So the bad guys could trace the call and find you? I don’t think so.”
“Telepathically. I don’t expect you to understand.” Looking grim, she said urgently, “I knew he was in trouble. I had absolutely no idea when or if you would be back. For all I knew, you were with him.”
Marc winced. Direct hit. He should have been with Lynx, then maybe things wouldn’t have gone so wrong.
“I sold my condo and cashed in some other investments. I had no way of knowing how long it would take to get him out. I wanted all my resources liquid. Then I flew to Rome and from there I rented a boat and went to Marezzo.”
Marc got up and started pacing again. “And you waltzed in and asked someone where your brother was?”
“Nobody asked me anything. I looked like a tourist. The pickpockets treated me like a tourist. I carried a camera and I did some sightseeing. And I did find my brother. Which,” she said hotly, “is more than I can say for you.”
Marc’s temper flared. She was annoying as hell. But she was right. His people had shipped Alex Stone’s body home. He’d done a cursory inspection and believed Lynx was in that body bag. He grabbed the phone, punched a series of numbers and waited. After rapping out a string of numbers, he held the line again. Tory sat stiffly, her face devoid of expression as she listened to his short commands.
“We have a code five on Marezzo,” he said into the phone. “Who’ve we got? Yeah, lousy timing. I’ll be coming myself. I’ll take care at this end. I’ll leave the transportation and ordnance to you.” He looked at her assessingly and frowned. “I’m bringing someone with me. A woman. Expect us tomorrow at 0900.”
“Surely you didn’t mean…” Tory went white. “Oh, no! I can’t go with you.”
“I don’t have a choice.” Marc slammed down the phone and resumed his pacing. “You’re the one who can communicate with him. If you’re not with me, I might not be able to find him.” If Lynx was alive—and that was a big fucking if—they might have moved him from his last known location. If what she said was true, and if she had some sort of psychic connection then he’d use it to expedite the search.
There were a shitload of ifs.
“Of course you will.” She sounded panicked. “You’re a spy. You do this kind of thing all the time. It’s your job. You don’t need me to slow you down.” She held up her arm. “I have a broken arm. I can’t go running around chasing the bad guys.”
“Lady, that’s your brother over there. If I say I need you, I need you. If I say go, you go. If I say jump, you ask how high. Got that?”
Her pupils dilated and she swallowed convulsively. “I don’t do well under pressure. I’m a bookkeeper. Not Mata Hari. I work for an auto-parts store because I don’t even like the pressure of tax time.”
“You know what Will Rogers said. ‘We can’t all be heroes—someone has to sit on the curb and clap as we go by.’”
“I can clap for you from here.”
“You’re going.”
“I could wait for you in Rome,” she begged desperately.
“You’re coming with me to Marezzo.”
“I’ll fall apart.” Tory caught his wrist and stared up at him with pleading eyes. “Oh, please. Believe me. Taking me with you will be the worst mistake. I’ll draw you a map of where they’re holding Alex. You’ll have no problem finding it. Really. Give me a pen and I’ll show you—”
“Listen to me,” Marc said slowly. “The last thing I want to do is haul your butt over there. But I don’t seem to have a choice. Without yo
ur telepathic ability, I’m not sure I’ll be able to find your brother.” Not in time, anyway. “For all we know, they’ve moved him. You’re going to Marezzo.”
He didn’t say that she was his insurance. If she was anything like Krista, he would give her no opportunity to set him up. Ninety percent of him believed her story. But he was listening to the all-important ten percent that told him to watch his back. Keep your enemies close. Victoria Jones was going to be right by his side whether she wanted to be or not. He gave her a cold look. “Unless you were bullshitting me about this telepathy bit?”
“No, that’s the truth.” Her shoulders slumped. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though, when I cower instead of attack.”
“Nobody will be attacking anybody. We go in, find Alex and get the hell out.” He’d get the job done. In, out. Clean and simple.
“Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you,” she said weakly. “I just know you’ll be sorry.”
MARC WAS SORRY. Sorry he’d forced her to come, and sorrier still that they were on this stinking fishing boat from hell.
He was especially sorry she’d spent the first three hours puking her guts out over the side of the boat, mostly because he wanted to join her. The waves crashed into the side of the forty-foot hunk of wood until he was sure they’d have to swim the next hundred miles. She retched again, and his gut knotted in sympathy. Salt spray shot twenty feet in the air, soaking everything in sight, including her. He’d tried to keep her down in the relative warmth of the cabin, but the smell of fish had been so overpowering, even he hadn’t been able to stomach it.
Tory dry-heaved over the side. Her stomach hurt, her arm throbbed, and she hated Marc Savin more with each passing moment. The man was relentless. He couldn’t say she hadn’t warned him.
“This really gives you a thrill, doesn’t it, you bastard?” At the rough sound of Marc’s voice, Tory raised her head weakly from the railing to glare at him. In case he hadn’t noticed, she was not having a thrill a minute. But he wasn’t talking to her. He was smiling that hateful smile and talking to the fisherman who was steering this death trap out to the open sea. Her head flopped back as her stomach heaved again and she groaned.
She was never stepping foot on anything smaller than a cruise ship ever again, she thought just before her stomach muscles cramped.
“Certo!” Angelo exclaimed with gusto, the muscles in his massive arms bulging with the strain of controlling the wheel. “Look at those waves, my friend. It makes us remember who is boss, no?”
Tory glanced up at the dark sky instead of at the mountainous waves beating the hull of the boat. A bright moon shone down, illuminating the glistening deck. To the east a thick bank of clouds moved swiftly toward them.
“It makes me think you’ve used this damn cover too long,” Marc told the other man. For all he knew she’d fallen overboard hours ago, she thought crossly. “Time you got back in the field, my friend. You’re having just too damned much fun—I’d hate to see a trained T-FLAC operative lost to the sea. How soon till we get there?”
Angelo looked down at the waterproof watch on his massive wrist. “Give or take, 0500. The storm will cover you, but you’re going to have to swim the last couple of hundred feet to the beach. You sure she’ll make it?”
She wasn’t sure she’d make it, Tory thought, holding tightly to the railing as Marc walked toward her, his body and long legs adjusting to the rocking of the deck.
“She’ll make it if I make it,” he said grimly, checking the plastic bag he’d wrapped around her cast to be sure it was still watertight. He handed her the canteen and told her to rinse her mouth out.
Gulping the water, Victoria shot him a furious look when he took it away and handed her a stick of gum.
“I don’t chew gum,” she said primly. “It isn’t ladylike.”
“Neither is puking your guts out.” Marc unwrapped a piece and stuck it in her mouth. “Chew.”
She glared at him from bleary eyes. “Remind me never to agree to go anywhere with you.” Her jaw worked the gum. The flavor of mint bursting on her tongue was a blessing.
Marc suppressed a grin. “Another invitation isn’t likely to come up. Can you make it for about forty more minutes?”
“What’s the alternative?”
He pushed her dripping hair out of her eyes and laughed. “You could always swim.”
“How far is it?” She looked serious. He supposed that now wasn’t the time to let her know that she would be getting her wish. An enormous wave broke against the side and she let out a little shriek as hundreds of gallons of water crashed over them. Marc held on to the rail and pulled her against his chest as the wave foamed at their feet.
The wind whipped her hair into his face. It smelled of baby shampoo. “That was close.” Burying his nose in the wet, fragrant mass he tightened his arms around her narrow waist.
Her voice, muffled by his yellow slicker, vibrated against his chest. “I don’t even like this kind of adventure in a movie. I can’t remember what it’s like to be dry.” Her bright eyes peered up at him. “And I think I swallowed my gum.”
Marc chuckled and she pushed at his chest. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Another wave crashed on deck a few feet away and he used it as an excuse to pull her closer. She fit rather well against him, despite the bulky slicker encasing her. “We spies just live for adventure.” The corners of his mouth tilted in a reluctant grin.
Marc saw the pulse beat in her throat. Her dark lashes were spiky, her long hair slicked back, exposing a bruise and a bump on her forehead. She’d regained a little color and her lips were a pale petal pink.
My God, he thought in amazement. She’s gorgeous.
She was still staring up at him, her arms wrapped around his waist as he dropped his mouth to hers.
Tory pushed him away with both hands against his chest. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Apparently.”
“Were you trying to kiss me?” she asked with unflattering disgust.
“Hey, you two!”
Tory flushed, stepping away from Marc as Angelo shouted again. “Land ho!”
She looked over the side of the heaving boat. “Land ho—where?” All she could see in any direction were mountains of churning gray water beneath hills of black clouds.
She gripped the slick railing with one hand as Marc and Angelo gathered their things together. Angelo helped Marc shrug into the A.L.I.C.E. pack and then handed him several mysteriously wrapped packages, which Marc tucked into his belt.
He stripped off the slicker and bundled it into another pouch clipped to his belt. His jeans were black with water and the heavy cable-knit sweater sagged as he slipped off his shoes and used the laces to tie those to his belt, too.
Tory gave him a wary look as he made his way barefoot across the tilted deck toward her. Her lips still throbbed from anticipating that kiss. She could almost imagine her heated body sizzling as water drenched her from head to toe.
“Now you, princess. Off with that slicker.” He started unbuttoning it and Tory tried to bat his hands away. She spat her hair out of her mouth as the wind lashed it around her, but she unbuttoned her coat one-handed, and gave it to him. Marc stuffed her water-repellent coat in with his own.
“Now your shoes.” The wind and rain cut straight through Tory’s thick sweater and borrowed jeans and froze her to the marrow as she struggled with the laces, eventually handing her shoes over. When he didn’t respond with more than a grunt, Tory said with a giant shiver, “I don’t have to tell you why I prefer hanging out with accountants. They never make me do things like this.”
Marc checked over the supplies one last time. “I’ll keep that in mind. Let’s go.”
“Go where?” She looked around for a dinghy. There was nothing in the choppy waves. Realization came too late. “Oh, no! No, I can’t…”
“Hold your breath, sweet pea. Here we go.” Marc took her hand and pulled her over the railing.
<
br /> She’d no idea which end was up. The pressure of the black water came at her from all sides. Don’t panic, don’t panic. Water filled her nose and she panicked. Arms and legs flailing, she swallowed a mouthful of saltwater and somehow managed to bob to the surface.
She gagged, treading water as best she could. She didn’t want to think of what a tasty meal her bare pink toes would make for some creature of the deep. Her right arm was useless. The most she could do was try to float it in the plastic bag. Okay, so she could swim for it—wherever “it” was.
Everything looked the same metallic gray as she scanned the water for Marc. She only had the cast on her arm to worry about. Marc was loaded down with equipment. Where was he?
A giant wave knocked her to the side, and a few seconds later she was underwater again, one-handedly trying to get the hair out of her face. It clung like seaweed. Her heart was pounding double time as she bobbed once more to the surface and then she felt something grab her sweater from behind. Tory let out a gargled scream.
“Have…a…heart…honey. If I’d wanted them to…know…we were coming I’d have sent a…telegram.”
Tory was too exhausted and too relieved to see him to answer back. She relaxed marginally as he started towing her—hopefully, toward dry land. Kicking her legs and using her good arm, she tried to help. He used the swells to propel them through the surf.
Sand scored her stomach as the waves pushed them farther up the beach. For a moment she simply lay there with her face pressed to terra firma, the waves hungrily sucking at her quivering legs.
“Time to go.” Marc got to his feet, pushing his dripping hair out of his face and pulling her up beside him. For one horrible moment Tory didn’t think her legs would work as they reeled unsteadily. Marc’s arm came out to support her, bumping her hip with whatever it was heroes wore around the waist.
The moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds, illuminating the hard planes of his face only sporadically. It started to rain. Tory sighed. “I hope we’re checking into a Hilton. I’d kill for a hot bath and a cup of tea.”
