Code Name: Fiancée

by Susan Vaughan

  Besides, any hint that he’d lied might arouse suspicions and endanger Danielle. Might endanger the entire operation. Better to ice down his libido. His relationship with Vanessa would be professional only.

  But damn, somehow, holding her had eased his grief and anger. Her sweetness both soothed and aroused him. He wanted the fresh-faced, passionate agent in his bed, naked and—

  Hell. Angry at his continued heated thoughts, he stomped down the stairs.

  He stopped in the doorway of the formal living room. A single brass lamp burned on an end table. Vanessa sat curled up on a red brocade-upholstered wing chair. She still wore the black jumpsuit, but now he could see—but not feel—the thin fabric hugging her body. Her hair was tied back in a braid, with small curls at her temples where his lips had touched.

  His heart kicked from exasperation to pleasure that she hadn’t run to her room after all.

  “Ah, good, you’re here. A man shouldn’t drink alone at this time of night.” He rubbed his hands together and strode to the Chinese puzzle chest that served as a liquor cabinet.

  “I decided brandy would help me sleep after my little adventure.”

  He turned to her with raised brows and a sly grin he couldn’t prevent.

  “Outside.” Cheeks turning pink, she hurried to correct herself. “My little foray with Snow. To check the perimeter.”

  All right. He’d flustered her.

  Grinning, he pushed the correct sequence of inlaid ivory leaves on the cabinet front, and the doors opened, revealing decanters and bottles on a shelf. “I had to talk Alexei into giving me the code to this thing.”

  She chuckled. “I’m surprised he told you.”

  “So am I. A secretive and possessive son of a bitch.” He selected a bottle of Benedictine and two glasses. “My half brother had his faults, but he knew good liquor. I think you’ll like this better than brandy.”

  “Thank you.” She accepted the snifter with its serving of dark amber liquid.

  He sprawled on the curve-backed sofa, the only comfortable piece in the room as far as he was concerned, and tossed the decorative pillows. He sighed as the liqueur slid smoky warmth down his throat. He watched her as she took tentative sips.

  A careful woman. Both restraint and pleasure at the alcohol’s effect. She’d like to be spontaneous, but her professional training—and something else—prevented her from letting go. Intriguing, but he should let it pass.

  Professional only, remember?

  “I have to tell you about the perimeter check.” She started to set her glass on the end table, but instead clutched it in her lap. Her features stayed calm, but excitement glittered in her eyes.

  Taken aback, he sat more erectly. Hell. She’d returned from facing danger, and he’d jumped her bones. “Something happened. Are you all right?”

  She waved away his concern with a flutter of one hand. “We found a breach in the fence.”

  “Where?”

  “Southwest corner—back corner—behind the overgrown shrubbery. The fence backs onto a park with more shrubbery. Someone sawed partway through the boards. That’s it so far.”

  “A point of insertion not likely to be discovered under normal circumstances. What will you do?”

  “The techs have set up another camera and some motion sensors. All we can do now is wait. Snow and the others will snatch whoever comes in.”

  “Not you,” he said, mentally heaving a sigh of relief. He swallowed a long gulp of Benedictine. Not the best way to enjoy the fine liqueur, but he wanted its punch.

  She smiled. “Not me. I’m the target. Remember?”

  “Sometimes it’s harder to sit in the background unable to take part in the action.” He knew firsthand what torment that inflicted. Unwanted memories knotted his shoulder muscles.

  “Yes, you feel anxious and helpless though you’re not responsible for that aspect of the operation.”

  “Or you are responsible and still you can do nothing because it’s too damned late!”

  His hand clenched, shattering the glass. With a ringing pop the bulbous bowl flew apart in a fireworks starburst that sprinkled tiny crystal shards and amber droplets onto the sofa and Oriental carpet.

  “Damn!”

  “Ye gods, are you hurt?” Vanessa flew to him and grabbed his hand.

  Blinking away the painful memory, Nick looked down at his hand. He felt no pain, but blood welled from the pad of his thumb where a needlelike shard protruded. He dropped the rest of the glass’s stem and plucked out the offending sliver. “Looks like I am. I’ll go take care of this.”

  Vanessa clucked and tsked at him, herding him to the other end of the sofa. “Here, scoot down this way, away from the broken pieces. You’ll cut your bare feet.”

  Once he was vertical, she cradled his wounded thumb in her small hands. Her warmth and gentleness seeped into him. “Let’s get this cleaned out and disinfected.”

  He wanted to yield, to let her pamper him, but he dug in his heels. She was not going to bandage him like a little boy who’d fallen off his bike. He’d already allowed her to glimpse too much of his private pain. Coddling him would mean more intimacy. Intimacy meant questions.

  He firmed his mouth. “A minor cut. Nothing. I’ll manage.”

  He watched her expression flash from concern to hurt, then recognition. Recognition of what, he couldn’t fathom. What did her perceptive green eyes see? He almost caved and let her nurse him.

  She released him, her expression neutral. “Yes, you go ahead and bandage that. I’ll clean up this mess.” She turned and strode down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Uncertain, Nick stood in the same spot for a moment. What the hell had just happened? One minute, she’d been Nurse Vanessa, all mother-hen worry and kiss-it-make-it-better tenderness. The next she couldn’t wait to get away from him. Did she see his determination? Or did she remember that they ought to steer clear of togetherness?

  Shaking his head, he padded toward the stairs.

  Vanessa emerged from the back of the house with a hand vacuum, broom and dustpan. “Nick.”

  He halted on the second step.

  “Before you come down, put something on your feet. In case I don’t find all the bits of glass.” With that she breezed into the living room.

  She cared after all. Unaccountably pleased, he took the stairs two at a time.

  After clearing away the broken glass, Vanessa stowed the cleaning tools in their places in the utility closet. She returned to the living room. What had just gone on? What torment had built to critical mass inside Nick?

  It wasn’t about his half brother. Not this time. All that anguish about responsibility and helplessness had sprung from another source. Add his sardonic comment about not being a hero, and it had to stem from his military service. Some hidden trauma.

  Well hidden.

  Nothing in his file was suspicious. Whatever had happened churned inside him. His emotional reactions might affect this mission, so she needed to know. Pulling it out of him would mean delicate moves on her part. He’d already raised new barriers against her seeing his physical pain.

  Many times she’d seen the same tight jaw and closed expression on her brothers when they’d come home from basketball or soccer games with cut eyebrows or banged-up shins. The male code: show no pain; show no weakness. Her mom had ignored their protestations and cuddled them anyway. Stoic Troy’d endured the pampering, but Jason, ever the sybarite, had milked it for all it was worth.

  Vanessa figured Nick to be more the stoic type. Except for that inner volcano that had erupted just now.

  Besides, treating his cut in the closeness of the master bathroom might have been dangerous in another, more personal way. No, she’d wait here for another window into what made Nicolas Markos tick.

  “Danielle,” Nick yelled from upstairs.

  She hesitated a second at the unfamiliar name, then smiled at his attempt to put her in her undercover identity. She scurried into the hallway. “Problem?”r />
  He appeared at the railing, a washcloth pressed to the injured thumb. “Yes, dammit. The cut’s deeper than I thought, and I’m too right-handed to do much with my left. I need your assistance after all.”

  With a nod, she started toward the stairs.

  “Would you bring me another drink on your way up?”

  To his suite. His bathroom.

  His bedroom.

  Her face heated at the possibilities.

  “On second thought,” he called, “bring the bottle.”

  She was a professional. She could handle this situation. Besides, he wanted the drink for medicinal purposes. And a little more liqueur might ease the tension humming along her nerves. But no, if she hoped to elicit more from her complicated companion, she needed all her wits and defenses about her.

  She collected the bottle and one snifter before climbing the stairs.

  The master suite was every bit as decadent as Vanessa remembered from her quick tour with Grant Snow. A bedside lamp illuminated a mirrored ceiling, silken covers and drapes and an ankle-deep white carpet.

  Averting her gaze from the rumpled jade-green sheets on the two-acre bed, she looked beyond to the sitting area, which she knew led to closets and a dressing room as big as her studio apartment. A few days’ worth of newspapers littered a sea-green upholstered settee. A tray laden with dirty dishes sat on a small table.

  So that was where he retreated to to escape sharing meals with her.

  “I’m in the bathroom. Turn right,” he called.

  Nick sat on a stool to the right of the sink, the washcloth pressed to his wounded thumb. Impassive demeanor in place, he extended his left hand for the liqueur glass.

  “Sure I can trust you with this one?” Irritated, she couldn’t help the biting tone.

  A wry expression canted his mouth, and humor glinted in his eyes. “Unless you want to hand-feed me.”

  She pictured herself holding the goblet and pressing the rim to his lips. The lips that had kissed her so thoroughly only moments earlier. Then tipping the liquid into his mouth and watching the strong column of his throat work as he swallowed. Don’t go there.

  Dry-mouthed, Vanessa poured him a generous amount.

  He drank down the Benedictine in one gulp. “That’s better. Damn thing stings like the devil. Bandages and antiseptic are there on the sink.”

  The bedroom’s color scheme extended into the bath with white tiles and forest-green cabinet and towels. The spacious room boasted a shower stall separate from the Jacuzzi-equipped bathtub. No antiques except in the design of the brass towel racks. Heated, of course. Alexei’d enjoyed his luxuries.

  “Let’s see that cut.” Determined to be businesslike, she cradled his hand in both of hers. “You washed it out?”

  His strong, lean fingers dwarfed hers. His heat seeped into her, softening her insides and threatening her composure. Hard calluses on his palms surprised her. Running an international import company didn’t entail physical labor.

  He nodded. “Washed it, rinsed with peroxide. You probably heard me howl.”

  Pleased at his rare show of humor, she replied, “I thought a tomcat was serenading on the back fence.”

  She lifted the blood-soaked washcloth and peered at the cut. “Deep, but small enough that you don’t need stitches. You’ll have to keep pressure on it for a while.”

  “Wrap it good and tight, doc. I don’t want to get blood all over those fancy silk sheets.”

  Intrigued at the disapproval in his voice, she cocked her head at him. “You don’t like Alexei’s bedroom decor?”

  He snorted. “Most of his choices tick me off. The extravagance in this house reminds me every day of the greed that led to more than one death. Including his own.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his shoulders jerked.

  “Hold still.”

  “Sorry.” He clamped his mouth into a tight line and lowered his gaze as she worked to treat his thumb.

  Vanessa eyed him as she squeezed out antiseptic cream on the cut. “The anger that crushed the glass wasn’t about your brother, was it?”

  “No.” The finality of his tone didn’t invite questions.

  She had to think how to draw him out.

  But his nearness made it hard to think at all. The liqueur’s rich scent mingled with Nick’s soap to lure her closer. She applied a sterile bandage while fighting the urge to run her fingers through his tousled sable hair.

  When she bumped up against his knees, she blinked and stepped back. “There, all wrapped up like Tutankhamen.”

  She busied herself with stowing the first-aid materials in the medicine cabinet.

  “If King Tut’d had some of this fine liqueur, he might still be alive.” One eyebrow quirked up as he held out his glass for more.

  Vanessa restrained herself from pointing out that Nick liked that particular extravagance of his brother’s.

  She picked up the Benedictine bottle and poured. “Your wound will need the bandage for a day or two, but after that, opening it up will allow oxygen to promote healing.”

  He mumbled a growl as he swigged from the snifter. “Now you even sound like a medic. Medical training or ATSA?”

  “You’d be surprised at the variety of undercover roles I’ve played. Yes, doctor was one. I’ve also been a barmaid, a banker and a secretary.”

  “Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. Is that the kids’ rhyme?”

  Was he a little drunk? “Lawyer yes. Indian chief no.” She handed him two ibuprofen tablets and a glass of water.

  He ignored the water and downed the tablets with liqueur.

  He probably wasn’t in the mood to be warned about mixing pills and alcohol. Watching him, she chose her tactic.

  “A wound can fester and turn to poison if it’s kept covered for too long. Fresh air can heal all kinds of hurts, even old, buried ones.”

  Chapter 5

  Nick looked up to see her watching him, a gentle smile on her face. Her quiet, calm and clear honest gaze implied she cared, but probing his mind was probably part of her damn job. She was making sure he didn’t flip out and scuttle the mission.

  ATSA must have a file on the Somalia strike. Though she didn’t act like it, she probably knew the worst. Knew why ATSA wouldn’t want him involved except as the fiancé.

  Why the hell did she want him to spell out his shame?

  He rose from the stool, nearly kicking it over. “Old wounds never heal if you keep opening them up.” He stalked into the bedroom and to the window beyond the bed.

  He didn’t hear her follow. Just as well if she left him alone. The nearer she was the more irresistible he found her. She was strong and savvy, warm and comforting.

  With a body he ached to possess.

  On the stool, he’d had an eyeful. He’d inhaled her sweet scent and barely resisted nuzzling her full breasts. The erect nipples poking the thin jumpsuit had begged to be tasted.

  “Something happened to you in Special Forces,” she said, coming up beside him. The direct look in her brilliant green eyes offered encouragement, inspired confidence.

  “Something. Yes.” He set his glass on the windowsill. No more mind-fuzzing. His edges were blurred enough that he could face it. “What does my file say about Somalia?”

  She tilted her head as if considering her answer. Small furrows appeared between her eyebrows. The freckles on her nose invited kissing.

  “You were a sergeant with the third Special Forces group sent as security for the humanitarian relief.”

  He worked up an encouraging expression, but his attempt at a smile was probably more of a sneer. “Right so far. Go on. What else?”

  She gazed upward as if trying to remember. “There’s mention of an op to secure a weapons cache in a remote village. Something went wrong and men were lost.”

  “Then you know everything. My screwup killed four men. End of story.”

  “But surely—”

  “You have enough without me rattling the skeletons.” He’d tortured
himself enough for one night.

  His gaze snagged on her sweet mouth, a much better alternative to think about. He slid a hand behind her neck and tugged gently until he closed the space between them to barely an inch. Her silken skin and fresh scent lured him to forget everything else.

  The bed was only a foot behind her. He began edging her backward. “Instead, let’s talk about how hot you look in that slinky commando gear.”

  Her feathery lashes fluttered in uncertainty and she swayed toward him.

  She wanted him. Knowing that stoked the coals inside him to a blaze.

  Only inches to the bed now.

  He danced one hand down her back, closer to that pert round bottom he ached to hold. They could be on the bed, wrapped around each other. He went from aroused to hard in a nanosecond.

  But before his lips could touch hers, she sidestepped, the furrows again between her brows.

  She scooted around the bed, out of reach. “Clever job of derailing, but a dangerous detour. For both of us. You want the real Danielle. I’m just a convenient warm body. And I don’t trespass.” Her voice shook.

  He’d rattled her. Good, Somalia had flown from her head.

  “And such a sexy, warm body. You’re off base about who I want. I know exactly who I was about to kiss.” He trailed after her on her escape route.

  She stopped at the bedroom door and faced him. “Sexy? Me? Now I know you’re merely trying to change topics. You have to pretend in public, but in private allow me my pride.” Temper infused high color in her cheeks and flared her nostrils.

  “No pretense. You’re damn cute when you’re angry.”

  “Cute. Exactly. Not sexy. Not seductive. Wholesome. The cute sister. The good buddy, the best friend. That’s me.”

  Puzzled, he scratched his nape with his good hand. She had some strange ideas about herself. “I apologize for stepping over the line. Honey, you make me forget I’m supposed to be engaged.”

  “Give it up, Nick. Good night.”