by Pamela Clare
“How did you end up down here wearing a habit?”
“That’s a long story.”
“We’ve got plenty of time.”
“I was thirteen when there was an attempted coup against the socialist government. My parents wouldn’t let me come to Venezuela that summer, afraid I’d be in danger. In the years after that, I watched life for my family here go from bad to worse. The president was re-elected. Everyone believed he would save us. Then thirty-percent inflation became triple-digit inflation.
“Crime exploded. My Tío Antonio was carjacked. My cousin Maritza saw robbers shoot and kill her neighbor on his front porch. My cousin Yasmira was abducted by a taxi driver who took all her money at gunpoint and then raped her.”
“God, I’m sorry. Did anyone catch these bastards?”
“No.” She wished. “It got worse after that. When the new president took over, all he cared about was protecting his power. He used the intelligence service to harass and kill anyone perceived to be a threat, turned districts over to organized crime and drug cartels to patrol, and got into the drug trade. The economy crumbled. Food became scarce. And then my Abuelita Isabel got sick with lymphoma.”
Dylan didn’t like where this was going. “She’s the one who made the pasticho?”
“Yes.” Gabriela sat up, grief on her face, tousled hair hanging just below her shoulders. “We tried to bring her to the US for treatment, but she didn’t want to leave Venezuela. We did what we could to help, sending food and money, but as often as not, it was stolen. There was nothing else we could do. There were no drugs for her, not even morphine for pain. Three months later, she was gone.”
Gabriela’s face crumpled, tears spilling onto her cheeks. “I felt helpless. I loved her so much, and I never got to say goodbye.”
Dylan sat up, too, took her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Tears spilled down Gabriela’s cheeks. “I hate to think of her suffering. She never did an unkind thing to anyone. She deserved better than that.”
“Everyone deserves better than that.”
Gabriela sniffed. “I tell myself that she is no longer suffering. She’s at peace and with God now. But I miss her.”
“Of course, you do.” Dylan wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with the experience of losing a loved one or watching his community struggle. Hurricane George. Hurricane Irma. Hurricane Maria. Floods. The Caribbean drought. Earthquakes. He and his cousins joked that Puerto Rico was the unwilling star of a reality TV series called Puerto Rico Se Levanta—Puerto Rico Picks Itself Up—and it was now Season Ten. But he’d never lost a relative like that.
“I wanted to do something, so when they came to me with this idea, I was all for it. When you asked why I became a nun, I told you the truth. This was a job that only I, a Latina who speaks fluent Spanish with a venezolano accent, could do.”
Dylan understood now. This wasn’t just a job for Gabriela. It was about family. “You’re incredibly brave.”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing like the work Agency officers did during the Cold War, sneaking behind the Iron Curtain, playing cat-and-mouse with the Stasi and the KGB, trying to get intel out of China and North Korea.”
Dylan didn’t know about that, but he did know a thing or two about cartels. “The Andes Cartel doesn’t fuck around. If they’d caught you, they wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you in any one of a number of terrible ways.”
That didn’t seem to scare her.
“Most of the time, I did observed and reported what I saw in coded letters that I mailed to my superiors via Peru. I had no hidden cameras, no radios, nothing that would give me away. I did put listening devices in Father Alberto’s office and his car, but once those were out of my hands, there was no way for anyone to know I wasn’t a Sister.”
“The Agency must have gotten a lot of actionable intel from that.”
Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t get what they wanted most—visual proof tying that malparido Luis Sánchez to Sergio Ruiz and the Andes Cartel.”
“That isn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it is. I was indoors when the abduction started. I ran outside and stepped in between Pitón—the man you killed—and the journalists. I should have taken cover and just let the abduction happen. I wasn’t able to stop it. Instead, Pitón took me, too.”
“You took care of the other hostages and made it easier for us to rescue them.”
She smiled. “A lot easier. I wrote a coded letter to my contact, disguised as a letter to my Reverend Mother, and gave him our location.”
Dylan stared at her, stunned. “That intel came from you?”
He remembered what Tower had said in the briefing about the ironclad intel regarding drug trafficking at the Mission—and the location of the hostages.
She laughed, the sound like music to Dylan’s ears. “It’s amazing the kind of respect you get when people believe you’re a religious sister. Even from you.”
It was the truth.
“Yesterday, I apologized for swearing in front of you, and now I’m fucking you.”
“Funny, isn’t it?” She slid her hands over his pecs. “Do you prefer it this way?”
“Oh, hell, yeah.” Still, he was curious. “What was it like—being a nun?”
Gabriela wasn’t sure Dylan would understand. “The experience taught me a lot. It made me a better officer.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. You spec ops guys with your high-tech gear have got nothing on nuns when it comes to discipline or attention to detail. I promise you that.”
He snorted. “Right.”
She’d known he would react that way. “Before they sent me to Peru, I spent six weeks in Chicago with Sister Monica for what I called nun boot camp.”
“Nun boot camp? What’s that—learning the Rosary, memorizing Bible verses, practicing your ‘you should feel guilty’ look, a lot of kneeling? I have to say I like you on your knees, by the way.”
She ignored his teasing. “Nun boot camp means going to bed at seven-thirty every evening, getting up every day at midnight for Matins, then rising for the day at three-thirty in the morning to pray in silence for three hours before attending Mass.”
“Three hours?” He gaped at her.
“It’s called the Great Silence.”
“How much could one person have to say to God, anyway?”
“When you pray for the needs of others—the mother with cancer in São Paolo, the teen in Buenos Aires who’s addicted to drugs, the man who lost his job in Bogotá—three hours goes by fast. The Sisters answered prayer requests from around the world.”
He seemed to consider this. “I guess that would be a big job.”
She found herself smiling at memories. “That first night, I fell asleep during the Great Silence only to wake up when Sister Monica gave me a nudge. She said, ‘The Mother Superior will be able to tell whether a Sister is praying or sleeping.’ I tried hard not to let it happen again.”
“Spec ops guys are up at all hours, too, and the jet lag is real.”
“But it’s not every single day until you die. Nuns don’t get vacation.”
Dylan frowned. “No, not every day.”
“Every day is pretty much the same—seven prayer times a day interspersed with Mass, two work periods, and a social hour where you’re allowed to talk.”
“A bunch of women not talking?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s hard for me to believe. Didn’t you cheat and just whisper?”
“No! That would have been terrible.” She tried to imagine how the Sisters would have reacted had she done that. “I had to know the hymns and all the prayers in Latin.”
“That’s just memorization. We memorize shit, too.”
“We ate in silence whatever they put on our plates—usually rice and beans or rice and boiled frozen veggies. I learned never to hope for anything better.”
“We get stuck eati
ng shitty rations, too, sometimes for weeks on end.”
“But, again, it’s not for the rest of your life. No, Mr. SEAL. The nuns have you beat there.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that one, too.”
“Being a Sister means surrendering your ego completely—and that’s something no SEAL or spec ops guy has ever done.”
“Hey, are you saying we’re egotistical?” His lips curved in a smile that made his face almost unbearably handsome.
She shrugged, fighting to stay serious. “If the combat boot fits…”
He wrestled her down into the pillows, overpowering her in the most delicious way, then silenced her squeals with a deep, slow kiss.
God, he knew how to kiss.
He stretched out beside her. “Okay, I’ll grant you that nuns seem pretty tough. But you forgot something.”
“What?”
“No sex—not even getting yourself off.”
Of course, he would think of that.
“Believe it or not, I was too tired even to think of it.” She had to laugh at his expression of disbelief. “I’m serious.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been that tired.”
“Not even during Hell Week?”
“Not even then. I kept thinking how, after I got through it, I could go home to my girl and get laid.”
“You have a girl?” She tried to keep her reaction neutral, grateful at least that he hadn’t said wife.
“I did then. I don’t now.” There was a hardness to his jaw that told her this was a sore subject for him.
She couldn’t help but feel relieved. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not into long-term relationships anyway.” He pushed whatever he was feeling aside. “How long did it take you to adapt?”
“At first, I thought the seclusion and silence were going to drive me crazy. But by the time I joined the cloister, I’d come to appreciate the stillness. I’d begun to feel the peace that Sister Monica mentioned. I think that’s where nuns and religious sisters get their strength. The hardest part by far was when Sister Monica cut my hair.”
“She cut your hair?”
Gabriela ran her fingers through her tangled strands. “See how uneven it is? She took a pair of scissors off her desk, had me kneel on the floor, and cut it short just like they would if I were truly joining the novitiate. It’s part of giving up your ego and vanity. I had to fight hard not to cry.”
He reached over, ran his fingers through it. “You have beautiful hair.”
She told Dylan about meeting dear Reverend Mother Beatrice, the Mother Superior at the cloister in Peru. “She treated me like a beloved Sister and gave me a real-world experience of living in a cloister before I left for the Mission of Our Lady of Coromoto. I adore her. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her or the other Sisters because of me.”
“She became part of your cover?”
“Yes, she did. I learned so much from her.”
“I saw the Sisters at the Mission. They weren’t silent.”
“Yes, and, after more than six months at the cloister, it was a change. Life seemed much busier and more hectic at the Mission. The Sisters there work hard every day to feed those in need. They fast on Fridays and save that food for the hungry, too. I know it will probably sound strange to you, but I felt like I was a part of something there, that I was doing something that mattered.”
“You were. You were trying to help the US take down narco-terrorists.”
He didn’t understand.
“No, I was feeding people who had nothing to eat, giving shoes to children with bare feet, taking care of sick people who, like my Abuela Isabel, had no medicine. At times, that work made my real job seem unimportant. But then I would remember that Sánchez, the president, and their corrupt regime were the reason so many are hungry.”
All at once, it hit Gabriela in a way it hadn’t before.
Her time at the Mission was over.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I’m glad I was able to help Dianne and Tim, but now I can never go back.” Her throat went tight. “I will never get to work as Sister María Catalina again.”
He studied her, confusion on his face. “I would think you’d be glad it’s over.”
“Then you haven’t understood a word I’ve said.” She sat up, got out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower. It’s past my bedtime.”
She walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and leaned her forehead against it, fighting not to cry.
A sense of guilt gnawed at Dylan. What the hell had upset Gabriela? Most people would be glad to be done with such a restrictive assignment. Shitty food. Long, hard hours. No sex. No personal freedom.
You haven’t understood a word I’ve said.
He didn’t understand—not all of it. He got that she wanted to help the people of her parents’ homeland. He understood how hard her grandmother’s death must have been for her. But he could not fathom how anyone would find the life she’d described as rewarding. Then again…
He had old high school buddies who’d thought he was crazy to join the Navy and become a SEAL. They couldn’t understand why he’d been willing to sacrifice so much of his freedom, endure hardship, and put his life at risk. He’d tried to explain, but for them, life was about chasing tail, drinking, and hanging on the beach. They’d gotten on his nerves, and he’d eventually quit hanging with them.
Now he’d just done the same thing to Gabriela.
You fucked up, cabrón.
It didn’t matter what he thought. She’d found value in her work at the Mission, and it had been taken from her by Sánchez and his sicarios.
You know what it’s like to be forced out of a job you love.
Fuck.
Yeah, he did. He sure as hell did.
He had left DEVGRU because he’d been betrayed, not because he’d wanted to leave the Navy. Turning in his resignation and his gear and walking out of his commanding officer’s door was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, harder even than losing Valeria. But he’d at least had some agency.
Gabriela had been abducted trying to save others.
The weight of what he said came down on him.
God, he was a dick.
He got to his feet, started toward the bathroom still naked, searching for the words to apologize, but then stopped himself. He shouldn’t be getting caught up in her.
Yes, she was smart, drop-dead gorgeous, and amazing in bed. What she’d done while he’d been on the phone this afternoon, going down on him like that—she was a wet dream. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d had sex with a woman three times in a single day. Usually, it was one and done.
But he wasn’t looking for romance or a partner. He was no good at long-term relationships. Their paths had crossed only because of their assignments, and in a few days, their careers would pull them in different directions. She’d go back to Langley, and he’d head home to Colorado for some serious time off.
What the hell is wrong with you?
It didn’t matter whether he wanted a relationship with her or not. He’d hurt her, and he needed to apologize.
He’d almost reached the bathroom door when he heard the water turn on. She wouldn’t be able to hear him now. He’d have to wait until she finished with her shower.
Mierda.
He straightened up the bed—they had more or less fucked the covers off—put on his boxers, and picked up the condom wrappers. In a few minutes, the room was as organized as he could make it. He sat on the bed, turned on the TV, and surfed for news.
The water turned off, and the hairdryer came on. A short time later, she stepped out of the bathroom, her dark hair silky and shiny, her curves hidden beneath a towel, the sight of her hitting him in the solar plexus.
She glanced around. “You’ve been busy.”
“Hey, Gabriela, I’m sorry.” He searched for an excuse but came up with nothing. “You shared some real stuff with me, and I was an asshole.�
��
“Thanks.” She dropped the towel, and he saw to his disappointment that she was wearing her panties, which were apparently now dry. “I know it’s hard for most people to understand, so don’t worry about it.”
Ouch.
He didn’t like being lumped in with most people. “Actually, I do understand, at least in part. I didn’t leave the SEALs because I was ready to go. I left because I no longer trusted the guys on my Team.”
Her slender brows drew together in a frown. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Trust is everything to operators. You need to know that your guys have your back. If they don’t… Yeah. Hell. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Bare breasts swaying, she reached for her T-shirt and drew it over her head. “‘I’m sorry’ was good enough.”
She shut off the light on her side of the bed, set the Glock he’d given her on her nightstand, and knelt to pray.
All Dylan could do was stand there, watching, a strange ache in his chest.
14
Gabriela awoke to a kiss.
“That’s how it works in the movies, too.” Propped up on his elbow, Dylan smiled down at her. “Good morning, gorgeous.”
“Good morning.” She reached up, cupped his stubble-rough jaw. “Sleep well?”
He kissed her forehead. “I dreamed about you.”
“What was I doing?”
“This.” He kissed her again, soft and slow.
She could refuse him. He’d made a point last night of letting her know that he preferred being single—his way, perhaps, of making sure she knew this meant nothing. Not that she’d expected more from him. There was no way the two of them could be together. A few days from now, maybe even tomorrow, they’d go back to their lives.
She ought to refuse him, but she wanted him.
After almost two years of no sex, she deserved a little crazy pleasure.
She slid her arms around his neck, gave herself over to his kisses, his lips doing wicked things to hers. Then he rucked up her T-shirt, his mouth moving to her breasts.
