by Cherry Adair
The Vespa was unpredictable on rough roads and gravel. The last time Tory had attempted to ride one was on her first visit to Marezzo. That time she’d traveled at a sedate ten miles an hour, ignoring the impatient drivers that honked their horns at her. This time she pushed the little moped as fast as it would go.
She felt Marc’s body slump, and she was terrified he’d fall off. She almost cried with relief when his arms tightened around her, and she took the dirt road toward the cliffs in a spray of gravel and dust.
The moped stopped in a shower of sand just as she felt his body slipping to the side. She managed to swing her arm back, supporting him while she kicked down the stand.
Using her body to prop him up she managed to swing her legs off the Vespa and looked down at him, biting her lip.
“Marc! Marc, up and at ’em. We have to get into the grotto so you can call Alex. Marc?” His head lolled on her chest. She pushed at him. “Marc, please. You have to wake up.”
Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she saw the lights of a car coming down the main road toward them. Then she looked at the beach. The tide was out, the sand glistening in the moonlight was damp and the ocean was bright.
Tory scanned the horizon for the helicopter and Alex. The sky was empty. She bit her lip. Was she supposed to wait on the beach? Or had Marc and Alex devised some brilliant escape that they had forgotten to share with her?
“Marc, wake up!”
His eyes opened blearily as he stared up at her and then shook his head. “Lost too m-much blood. Go!”
“Oh, shut up!” Tory bit her lip. They moved slowly down the beach, her arms under his as she steered an erratic path down the hard-packed sand.
She had to take the risk of being spotted by staying close to the waterline where the sand was firmest. Nearer the cliff it was fine and dry and littered with rocks.
Her arms ached, as did her jaw from gritting her teeth, but they finally made it to the base of the grotto. Looking over her shoulder she saw the waves had washed out the tire tracks. Now all she had to do was get Marc up a mountain of rocks and rubble to the top. It was only thirty feet or so. She could do it. She had to.
IT WASN’T QUITE AS BAD as she’d expected. He was conscious enough to help, although sometimes it took a pinch or harsh words to get him moving. It was slow and torturous but they finally dragged themselves into the mouth of the cave.
Sprawled flat beside Marc, she struggled to draw breath into her heaving lungs. Sweat stung her eyes, but she didn’t have time for that now.
She sat up and shook him. “Crawl over to where the bathrooms are,” she instructed. He’d never make it back to camp and she didn’t want to be trapped there if they were found. “Do you hear me Marc? Crawl…”
“I hear you, General.” Marc struggled to sit up, a lopsided grin brightening his white face. “You are one hell of a woman, you know that?”
Like Krista? “How do we get hold of Alex?”
“Done. I called him back there before I found you. If…we’re not back at the chopper site, he’ll look for us here.” His voice faded and his eyes drooped.
Tory shoved him, hard.
“I’m awake.” He didn’t sound it, but his voice was strong enough for her to know he wasn’t going to pass out again for a while. “Got…to…get…bike….” He licked his dry lips as he rested his head against the rock wall. In the moonlight his face was a sickly gray.
“What?”
“They’ll…see it. Moon too…bright.”
She gave a silent groan. “I’ll be right back.”
The moped was on its side at the base of the rocks. Tory looked from it up the side of the cliff and down again, shaking her head. It had been all but impossible to push and prod Marc up that steep incline. How on earth was she going to pull the Vespa up there?
She looked around for a good hiding place, but there wasn’t one. The rocks and boulders were large, but they were too close together. So she dragged the moped up and over the boulders, panting and swearing when she had the breath for it and mentally using all the cusswords she’d heard Marc use when she didn’t.
She pulled it the last few feet and sank to the ground, her head on her knees. It would have been nice to take a rest, but unfortunately there wasn’t time. Marc was back there and she needed to check the wound in his leg. God only knew what the next round held for them.
As she pushed the Vespa down the rocky corridor toward the lake, she prayed Alex would arrive with help soon. Marc had been right about one thing: she was no hero. Her brother couldn’t arrive soon enough.
Pushing faster, she wheeled the scooter into the alcove that held the three Porta Potti cubicles, out of sight of the entrance.
Marc had propped himself against the far wall by the lake. “Lady, I have to say I’d have you on my side any day of the week.” His voice sounded stronger but she ignored the useless compliment. If being by his side required that she got shot at, she would pass, thank you very much.
“I’m going to get the first aid kit. Is there anything else you need from camp?” She didn’t like the gray color of his skin.
He closed his eyes at her militant tone and leaned his head back against the wall. “Bring the pack.”
The camp was exactly as they’d left it. Tory bundled both survival blankets into the pack and looked around to see if anything else could be useful. The matches lay beside the small propane stove, and she shoved them into her breast pocket, then picked up the heavy pack, slinging it over her shoulder.
Marc looked slightly better when she returned.
She wrinkled her nose as he chewed a couple of dry ibuprofen—the water bottle and cups were back at the camp. His leg was a mess; drying blood had stuck the pant leg to his skin. “It’s bleeding a lot, Marc.”
Marc’s lips were white. “Just put a pressure bandage on it to slow the bleeding…Shh!”
There was a scrape outside, as if a shoe had scuffed over stone. She and Marc froze, then Tory crawled silently to the opening into the main cavern. She glanced over her shoulder and raised four fingers.
Four men.
Marc swore, tightening his belt around his thigh, and motioned for her to stay where she was. She watched the men split up to circle the lake.
When she turned back, Marc was hobbling to his feet and doing something on the side of the moped. For one hysterical moment she thought he was going to ride the blasted thing down the side of the cliff.
He pulled the gas cylinder out of the A.L.I.C.E. pack.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“We’re going to pour this on the lake.” He hefted the spare can and indicated the moped. “Roll that over to the water.”
Tory moved the Vespa out of its hiding place, and crouched down as low as she could between the shrubs and ferns. She followed Marc to the edge of the lake.
Marc unscrewed the cap and carefully poured the gasoline into the water.
“Get out of those pants and shoes,” he whispered, his hand at his buttoned fly. “Leave on the T-shirt.” His jeans dropped to the sandy floor a moment before hers did.
Marc’s head disappeared around the edge of rock facing the lake. Seeing the back of his leg made bile rise in her throat. The bullet had passed all the way through. She avoided looking at the raw bloody mess. Crouching behind him, she settled her hand on his warm, bare shoulder.
One of the men had discovered their camp. He called to the others and they all disappeared behind the wall. Marc motioned her to move slowly behind him toward the lake.
His face glowed eerily in the diffused sapphire light of the water as he made room for her between the shrubs. The groundcover was cool and damp under her bare feet. Moisture from the ferns dripped on her cheek and she brushed it off impatiently. His leg was hot pressed up against hers. God that must hurt.
She tried to hold her breath for a moment to regulate it.
The four men came back around the rock wall, two on either side of the lake. She pr
essed closer to Marc. “Now what?”
Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Marc said softly, “Now we wait until they get to…oh, about to that little tree over there—
“Shit.” He patted his bare hip. “The matches are in the pack.”
Tory wordlessly dug into her breast pocket and slapped the matches onto Marc’s bare knee.
He looked startled for a moment and then cupped her face. “You are one sweetheart of a partner. Stick by me. I’ll have you out of here in a flash.” Dropping a quick kiss on her open mouth, he turned back to watch as the men got closer and closer.
“Why can’t we just make a run for it?” Tory whispered desperately. She was getting a very bad feeling about this. The gasoline had spread in a thin oily film over the water. She rested her hand on Marc’s arm. “We can slip by them, can’t we?”
“We left the guns back there, Tory, and they’ll see us as soon as we break cover. Besides, there are sure to be more of them waiting for us outside. We have to create a diversion. Improvise.” He paused. “Listen.”
The chop-chop of the helicopter was unmistakable. All four men paused for a fraction of a second, then moved faster, flanking the lake and moving swiftly toward them and the only exit.
He handed her a small cylinder and showed her how to clamp the mouthpiece so that she could breathe underwater. “Get ready.” Marc struck a match. Flinging his arm up and over, he tossed it several yards out across the water. At the same time, he cried, “Jump!”
As they hit the water the flaming match ignited the gasoline. The sheet of fire spread rapidly, covering at least a third of the lake. Tory’s head bobbed above the surface, eyes wide she watched the flames sweep toward them. Marc, grabbing her arm, pulled her inexorably toward the whirlpool.
Eyes burning from the thick smoke, she treaded water, feeling the pull of the whirlpool, then a steadying strength as Marc wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. She could hear the shouts of the men converging on the bank and then more running footsteps as they called for reinforcements. The cast was filled with water, the cotton padding swelled, getting as heavy as a stone and threatening to pull her under. It was like having a cinder block on her arm. Over the small mouth aerator she watched as the eye-level flames burned closer and closer. She put both arms around Marc’s waist. He kicked his feet until they were swept into the vortex of churning water. The fire was spreading, sweeping the gasoline toward them in a blazing sheet of dancing orange and purple.
The voices got closer and louder. A gunshot reverberated against the cave walls, another splashed into the water close enough to spray her shoulder.
“Use the oxygen!” Marc inhaled deeply, his grip tightening. The sucking motion of the water caught her legs and pulled her under, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she held on tight.
For a split second she wondered how Marc was going to hold that breath for however long it took to get through the forty-foot tunnel and out to the open sea. Then she could think of nothing at all.
Their descent was swift. The smooth stone walls of the tunnel were the only thing holding them right side up, as the force of the water pulled them downward in a violent spiral into the ocean. Marc’s arms were wrenched away from her body as they scraped against the sandy bottom. The oxygen mouthpiece was wrenched from between her teeth by the force of the water. She had no idea which way was up.
Tory began to panic—her lungs felt as if they would burst. Forcing her eyes open, she allowed a little precious air to escape her lips. The bubbles rose slowly past her left shoulder, and she used her last ounce of strength to follow their ascent.
As soon as her face broke the surface, she gulped air into her starving lungs. High above came the unmistakable whop-whop-whop of helicopter blades beating the air. Spray flew off the surface as the movement churned up water, and white spray frothed in her face as she looked around frantically for Marc.
The pale gray of the sky blended into the dark gray ocean, making it hard to see. Swells lifted her, then dropped her down in a jumble of arms and legs.
“Tory?” She heard Marc roar her name, and choking and gagging, she fought the tossing of the waves, her hair blinding her as it slapped across her face.
He materialized behind her. His legs brushed hers as he trod water, holding her face above the churning sea.
Overhead, the blades of the chopper stirred up a violent windstorm as it hovered closer to the water and lowered the rescue sling. The harness brushed the top of her head. Looking up, she saw the underside of the helicopter just thirty feet above them.
Marc snagged the harness before it sank beside her. Wedging his muscular thigh between her legs, he managed to secure the harness under her arms and keep her afloat at the same time.
The second he gave a thumbs-up she was lifted from the churning sea. As soon as Alex had hold of her, he sent the sling down for Marc. With Marc on board, her brother slammed the door shut and made his way to the controls up front. A few seconds later, Angelo knelt beside her, helping to support Marc as the chopper turned.
“Buon giorno, Signorina Victoria,” Angelo said cheerfully as his large capable hands checked Marc’s forehead. “Lots of blood from a head wound, not to worry. He will have—what you say? Il mal di testa… a little headache, that is all.”
Tory collapsed. Alex would get them out of here. Back home. Back to her safe, predictable life. Back to being a coward and proud of it.
So why wasn’t she happy?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS EXACTLY SEVEN WEEKS, three days and five hours since the rescue. And Tory still hadn’t got her life back the way it had been before Marezzo and Marc Savin. She knew she would never be the same again.
There wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think of Marc, long for him. According to Alex, Marc had recuperated and gone on to another assignment.
So he’d rejoined T-FLAC.
She was glad for him. He’d clearly missed his work.
She was terrified for him. She knew what that work entailed.
She became obsessed with watching the news. If there was a terrorist incident anywhere in the world she pictured Marc right there in the thick of things.
She was all right when she went to work every day at the auto-parts store. But in the quiet times at night, alone in her new apartment, she would think of him, dream of him, long for him.
Her breasts would ache and she would press her legs together. It took no effort at all to conjure up the memory of his callused hands. It took no effort at all to climax—alone and lonely. Before, she’d been alone, but never lonely.
She remembered every moment with Marc and steeled her heart against the poignant memories. Her rational mind knew that it would never have worked. Because even if he’d wanted her, really wanted her, there could be no future for them. She would never be okay with what he did for a living. Tory came home to her quiet apartment and hung her coat in the hall closet. The living room was frigid, but she tried to keep the heat down, striving to save as quickly as possible so that she could buy another condo. Maybe when she had a real home again she would feel more settled; at least that’s what she kept telling herself. But she knew that wasn’t true. She turned on some lights to dispel the gloom. Her grandmother’s heavy furniture, taken out of storage, crowded the small space and suddenly she hated it. Hated the bulk and weight of the past hanging around her, suffocating her.
She vowed that as soon as she could afford to buy a home, she would get rid of all the bulky antiques and knickknacks, all the uncomfortable old furniture. Even if it meant sleeping on the floor. She had about six months to make it happen.
Resting her hand tenderly on her still-flat stomach, she went back to the kitchen to start dinner. She wasn’t hungry, but the baby needed nourishment.
He was the best thing to come out of her adventure. Tory smiled sadly. The baby was the only thing that had prevented her from going into a dramatic Victorian decline.
Desultorily tossing a small salad an
d heating a can of soup, Tory took her meal back into the living room. She hadn’t heard from Alex in over a month. He was off on some mission, but she hadn’t felt any stirring of fear. Since they could communicate in their own unique way, she knew that he was all right. At least physically.
He hadn’t talked about the time he’d spent on Marezzo. Maybe he never would. He hadn’t left her a letter this time. She doubted he’d ever do that again, either.
She’d talked herself blue, trying to persuade him to do something else, anything else. Perhaps, she thought without much hope, when he knew about the baby he would reconsider his dangerous lifestyle.
Tory picked at the salad and shook her head. Alex loved what he did just as much as Marc did. Neither man would ever give up vanquishing the bad guys—not for her, and not for the baby.
So she would keep the little guy a secret as long as she could. Then she would swear Alex to secrecy. Marc must never know.
Tory was pouring the rest of the soup down the sink when she heard a knock at the door. She groaned. It was that blasted man from upstairs who was always coming over on one pretext or another. He probably wanted to borrow sugar again. He’d never gotten the clue that she wasn’t interested in going out with him.
She flung open the door, her expression militant. She was going to make sure that this time her neighbor took the hint.
It wasn’t her neighbor.
“I see the cast is off.” Marc’s pale eyes darkened as they moved across her face like a caress. “May I come in?”
“Of…of course.” Tory stepped back. He was all her wildest hopes and all her dreaded fears. “You’re looking…well. How are you?”
“Fine. What are you doing here?” She tugged at the hem of her lavender wool jacket. Marc saw the telltale pulse in her throat above the delicate lace collar of her cream blouse. Her hair was in a neat coil on her neck, her tiny pearl earrings rivaling the sheen of her skin.
He closed his mind to the memories that had haunted him all these weeks. He remembered painfully what her satin skin looked like under that prim little suit, how her magnificent hair looked loose, and how it felt like a living flame when it touched his body.
