by Cherry Adair
Her slender shoulders were rigid under his hands. “I don’t want you to touch me, thank you very much.”
“I don’t want to be kept up all damn night because you’re sniveling about your frigging hair. Give me the comb.”
She handed the largest piece of the broken comb to him over her shoulder.
“Relax.” He picked up the towel and rubbed at her hair.
Her voice sounded muffled and sheepish. “My mother used to do this.”
He rubbed out as much of the moisture as he could, then picked up the comb. Her hair pooled on the silver blanket between them, and he picked up the ends and started drawing the teeth through the wet tangles.
“Tell me about her,” he said softly. Her hair felt like silk in his fingers.
“I don’t have that many memories. I do remember that she and my father were inseparable.” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat before continuing. “My father was a stuntman, and my mother always went with him on shoots. Apparently he was in high demand, because they were gone a lot.”
“And where were you when they were ‘gone a lot’?”
“I lived with Grandmother most of the time.”
And were brainwashed by her, too, Marc thought, angry on her behalf. “And where did your brother live?”
“Boarding school…for a while. When we were eight they didn’t come back.”
Marc smoothed her hair across his knee. “What happened?”
“They were killed while Dad was filming in Spain. The small commuter plane crashed on the way to the shoot. My grandmother kept me. She sent Alex to foster care.” Her shoulders hitched. “We hated being separated like that.”
“What the hell?” What kind of person separated siblings, especially twins?
“He went from home to home. He couldn’t be adopted—Grandmother wouldn’t allow it. She adopted me. But she wouldn’t adopt Alex.”
“Why not?”
“Because of her age the State wouldn’t allow her to keep both of us. At least that’s what she claimed. That was probably partially the reason, but I think it was also because she felt a little guilty not taking him, and wanted to keep that tenuous connection.”
What a bitch. “And by doing so prevented him from having any home at all.”
“Yes,” Tory bowed her head as he continued combing. “She disliked men in general. She’d had an abusive childhood and hated her own father. She got married because in those days it was the only thing for a woman to do, but the marriage was short-lived. Her husband passed away before my mother was born.”
Grandmother sounded like a piece of work. No wonder Tory was so repressed. It also went a long way in explaining her old-fashioned clothing and attitude, and the strong attachment to her wandering brother. “Did she kill him?” Marc asked drily.
“I don’t think so, although I think she was certainly capable of doing so.”
Marc bet there were any number of skeletons in Granny’s closet. “So why do you have different last names?”
“She’d reverted back to her maiden name after her husband died. It was easier for us to have the same name.”
It also explained how Lynx had managed to keep a twin sister under wraps. Marc felt a swell of compassion for her, which annoyed the hell out of him. He frowned. He didn’t have time for that kind of emotion on a mission. His senses had to be razor sharp or they were all going to end up dead.
“We could communicate telepathically, but we didn’t see each other again for almost eight years. I hated it,” she said fiercely.
Marc felt the tension in her back. He kept combing.
“I did everything right so that she would bring Alex home. She wanted a nice, quiet, neat little girl. And that’s what I was. She was my only security, and I had to do everything perfectly so she wouldn’t s-send me away, too.” Marc heard the tears in her voice. He could imagine her as a small child. Neat, quiet and waiting for her brother to come home. No wonder she was so fanatically neat and tidy. No wonder she didn’t like her quiet little world turned upside down. She’d had enough of that as a child.
Her hair was tangle free and almost dry, but Marc kept running the broken comb through it. “When we were eighteen, Alex disappeared.”
Marc knew where he’d gone. He’d recruited Alex Stone right off the street when the boy had been well on his way to becoming an accomplished car thief.
“My grandmother got sick. I nursed her till she died. Then I took the money she left me and bought a condo—” her voice hardened “—with two bedrooms. And I made a home for us…Alex and me.” She twisted to look at him. “That was my revenge. I could make a home for us using her money.”
But it had been too late for Alex Stone, Marc thought grimly. By then he was “Lynx.” And that had left his sister out—again. He forced himself to section off three heavy ropes of her hair. She handed him the tie over her shoulder when he’d finished the braid. “Thank you.” She asked quietly, “You are going to find Alexander, aren’t you, Marc?” Her hair had soaked her T-shirt. The thin wet cotton lovingly accented the sweet full curves of her breasts.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find him. By this time tomorrow the two of you will be living it up in Rome.”
Her eyes glowed. “Really?”
He’d felt the first unwelcome stirring of desire for her on the boat. No big deal. He hadn’t acted on it. He’d seen her naked. Again, no big deal. He’d certainly seen more than his fair share of naked women. “Yeah.” At first he’d dismissed the attraction, thinking it was because of her hair. He’d never had a thing about a woman’s hair before. But images of being tangled in yards of Tory’s dark silky hair had him hot and bothered. He’d almost managed to convince himself, while soaking in the hot spring, that he was in full control of his body’s urges.
He’d been dead wrong.
“Thank you.” Her lips were pale, her teeth very white as she gave him a shy smile.
Using both thumbs, Marc brushed away the tears drying on her cheeks, then cupped her face. He shouldn’t do this, he knew. The op had barely begun. He kissed her damp eyelids, and she made a murmuring protest as his fingers tangled in her hair, pushing gently so that she fell backward, half on the blanket and half on the sand.
He just wanted a small taste of her, that was all. One small taste. He settled his mouth over hers. She tasted of toothpaste, minty and fresh. He slanted his mouth and her lips opened under his. Just a little. Just enough so he could slide his tongue between her teeth. God, it was sweet heaven.
It shouldn’t have been this good. As she tentatively, shyly, touched her tongue to his, Marc thought he would jump out of his skin. He forced his hands to stay in her hair. He wanted to strip her naked and drive into her with a force that rocked him. Tearing his mouth away from hers, he sat up, running his fingers around the back of his neck until he could control his ragged breathing. She lay there watching him with those big slumberous green eyes, her lips wet and swollen from his kiss, her breathing as unsteady as his own.
“This was one bad idea, princess. Roll over and get a little more shut-eye before we go.”
TORY WOKE TO DARKNESS and the single glow of the propane stove. Marc was a shadow in the shadows in his dark clothes, his expression closed. “You have time to eat before we go.”
Tory self-consciously ran her hand over her eyes. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat anyway.” He rose and dished up her meal, bringing it over to her. Tory pulled the thin blanket to her chest. She wished with all her heart that she was wearing a bra.
“Honey, I’ve already seen everything you’ve got. It’ll take us at least forty minutes to get to Pescarna and it’s after eleven now.” He pushed a fork into her hand, his eyes deliberately cold. “I hope to God you aren’t expecting a big declaration. It was only a kiss. I don’t plan on analyzing every damned body function between now and when we leave.”
She looked up at him. “Thanks for putting that into perspective.” She cocked her h
ead and her braid slithered over one shoulder. “If I’d known I’d be reduced to a ‘body function’ I wouldn’t have bothered kissing you back,” she snapped. Setting the full plate aside, she tossed off the blanket and rose. His jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth. She must have caught the feral gleam in his eyes for she said sweetly, “All you had to do was say no.”
“Hell, you didn’t even know what you were offering.”
Victoria tilted her chin at him. “I don’t remember my offering you anything.”
“How’s it feel to be the last American virgin, honey?” Marc asked sarcastically, wanting her to get angry and slug him, in which case he’d grab her and—You’ve lost your mind, Phantom. Get a grip on your damned hormones. This is like a jackal taunting a kitten.
Her nose turned pink. “It feels quite comfortable, thank you.”
Marc took the sucker punch like a man. He’d been joking! “I thought the definition of a virgin was an ugly thirteen-year-old.”
Victoria gave him a dirty look. “I was an ugly thirteen-year-old. I’m also a realistic twenty-six-year-old. I like my life just the way it is, thank you very much. I didn’t ask you to maul me, and I don’t appreciate being taunted just because I have principles. My virginity is my business, and I’ll thank you to keep your sweaty hands off me.”
“Princess, sex is a sweaty business. I bet if you loosened up a little it would grow on you. Close your eyes and imagine two sweaty bodies rubbing against each other….”
“Why do you insist on talking to me like this?” Tory’s eyes flashed. “I know you don’t like me. Fine, the feeling is absolutely mutual. You were the one who dragged me here, remember?”
“Wow. You’re really scaring me to death,” he said mockingly, stalking her across the sand.
Tory stood her ground as he came toward her. She pulled the Uzi out of his pack—right side up this time. It looked ridiculous in her small hands.
He stepped right up to her so that the cool metal poked him in the chest. “Don’t ever point a weapon at a person unless you mean it,” he rasped. His hand shot out and gripped her wrist like a vise.
She tried to jerk her arm away. “Oh, I mean it.”
Marc took the Uzi away from her and set it on top of the pack. Her face looked pale and vulnerable in the dim light as she moved away from him. “We’re going to have to cover that cast. People will be able to see it a mile away. Here.” He tossed her a long-sleeved black sweatshirt.
A virgin. At twenty-six? In this day and age? Christ, that was one for the Guinness book. Marc tossed her a pair of black running shoes.
“Make sure none of that white shows.” He pointed, and she pulled the sleeve down over her cast. He’d borrowed the clothes and shoes from the son of one of his ranch hands. They looked a hell of a lot different on Tory than they had on the kid. He handed her a stick of black camo paint. “Use this on the part that shows…Yeah, right there between your fingers. Sure you can handle this?”
She didn’t misinterpret the question. She handed back the paint stick. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get Alex back,” she said grimly, tucking her hair down the back of the sweatshirt. “Whatever it takes.”
A FULL MOON LIT THEIR WAY down the rocks to the beach. Because it was high tide they kept close to the base of the rocky cliffs. The full moon painted ribbons of silver on the dark water and reflected off the sand. The scene was like a dramatic black-and-white photograph.
The night was quiet except for the crashing of waves against the rocks and the hissing as water washed up in foamy patterns on the wet sand.
“When we get into Pescarna,” Marc said quietly, “locate your brother and I’ll bring you back to camp. I’ll do the rest.” He took her hand to help her over the slippery boulders.
Tory grunted. It was harder going than she’d imagined. Marc was like a cat as he jumped from one huge rock to another. She knew that she was slowing him down. But she was scared of slipping into the wildly foaming surf churning among the rocks. The clean, fresh scent of the sea was heady in the warm still air as she stumbled after him.
He’d told her that Pescarna was only four miles up the coast. It felt a lot farther. She almost ran into Marc’s back because she wasn’t concentrating. “What?”
He put his hand over her mouth. “Shh,” he whispered. “We’re here.” His eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Turn on your…brother radar so we know which way to go.”
Tory closed her eyes and forced her mind to clear.
Alex?
She could hear the pounding of the waves behind them and in the distance the faint sound of someone singing. Every now and then a fine mist of ocean spray reached them, beading on their clothes.
Alex? Alex. Alex. Alex.
“Hey.” She felt Marc’s arm come around her. “Hey!” He pulled her into the circle of his strong arms and pressed her face to his damp sweater. He smelled like the sea. “Relax, you’re hyperventilating.”
“Oh, God, Marc. I can’t sense his presence at all.”
The pressure of his hand rubbing up and down her back was strangely comforting. “Just relax, honey, and open your mind. If Lynx is around he’ll know we’re here. I thought you said you could tune him in at will? Just close your eyes and concentrate.”
Try as she might, Tory didn’t get any response to her desperate mental pleas. She shuddered, her arms tightening around Marc’s waist. “There’s nothing,” she said in a small voice. “Nothing.” She looked up into his face. “Maybe I need to be closer. If Alex is badly hurt he might not be able to communicate from this distance.”
“Damn. How close?”
Very. “I won’t know until I find him.”
Marc brushed the bangs out of her eyes. “Just don’t do anything st—rash.”
Tory smiled. “I’m a coward, remember?”
“Yeah. I remember.” Marc took her hand and drew her over the next series of rocks. “Closer it is. Do everything I tell you, and stick to me like glue for the duration. Got it?”
She wouldn’t want it any other way. “Got it.”
Sand gave way to scrub grass and the lights of Pescarna twinkled against the night sky. Then she felt the reassuring solidity of cobblestones under her feet. She followed Marc into the shadow of an overhanging wrought-iron balcony. The spicy smell of geraniums permeated the air. The street was narrow and the cobblestones bit into the soles of her shoes as Tory clutched Marc’s hand and continued on behind him, straining to hear him as he murmured, “We’re going to just keep moving until you get something.”
Soon whitewashed Moorish-style houses rose like cliffs on either side of them. There were no people in the streets this late at night, but they could hear loud voices coming through the open windows. A canary chirped, and dishes rattled.
Blood-red geraniums spilled over balconies, and the aroma of garlic and tomato filled the warm night. The sweatshirt was too hot, but it covered the white of her cast. She concentrated all her thoughts on Alex.
An hour passed and then another. They slipped up one narrow alleyway and down the next, pausing often for Tory to concentrate. Nothing. She wanted to cry, but one look at Marc’s stony expression froze the tears.
The fishing village was small, but by the time they had traversed every street and alley twice, Tory was beyond tears. They emerged on the far side of the village and stood hidden in the shadow of a small grove of olive trees.
Clouds whispered across the moon. Everything was still. A dog barked, then it, too, fell silent. Tory rested her head against the gnarled trunk of a tree. “I’m sorry.”
Marc longed to comfort her, but he, too, was frustrated. “We’ll go back to camp and I’ll have Angelo come and get you.” He put a heavy arm around her slumped shoulders. “Come on. I think you’ve had enough for one night.”
They circled the village, keeping to the shadows on the beach. The smell of fish was overpowering as they passed the dark silhouettes of the fishing boats.
Suddenly Tory grabbed h
is arm and pulled him into a doorway. The windows were dark in the narrow three-story house, Everything was quiet.
“Alex was here!” she whispered, heart pounding. “But…Oh, God, Marc. They’ve taken him somewhere else.”
She shivered, her hand clutching his tightly. “They took him away within the last six or eight hours. No more.”
“How do you know how long—Never mind. Time for you to go home, princess.” The words were merely a breath in the still, fragrant night air.
“No,” Tory whispered, just as quietly. “Not until we find him.”
A window down the street slid open and a man stuck out his head. “Zitto! Se ne vada!”
Heart in her throat, she froze. “Was that…?” One of the bad guys?
Marc shook his head. “Local. He wants us to get the hell out of Dodge. Let’s go.”
They kept deep in shadow until they reached the end of the street. Tory stopped and tugged on his hand. “There’s a back way, down this alley. Come on.”
She saw Marc’s eyes light up suspiciously. “How do you know there’s a back way?”
She stepped over a pile of refuse from the trattoria, still dragging him along. “You don’t want to know.”
They stopped under a small cement balcony. Marc grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “I sure as hell do want to know. Look at me.” He held her chin. “There’s something stinking in Denmark and I want to know what it is.”
“It’s that pile of—Ow!”
“Start talking, and make it quick.” A muscle twitched in his cheek as he pinned her in place.
“I—I had the dubious pleasure of being a guest here for a—for a while.”
Christ. He’d been away from the business for too goddamned long when the fact that a woman showing up on his doorstep, bruised, battered and broken, having been in Marezzo, didn’t warrant immediate explanation. Marc hadn’t realized just how fucking apathetic he’d become. “When?” he demanded, knowing he was a day late and a dollar short on the questioning.
