by Cheryl Biggs
He watched her closely, saw the disbelief and surprise that pulled at her features, but knew he couldn’t believe everything he saw or heard. At least not yet, and especially not from her.
Suzanne sank onto a chair, her legs suddenly too weak to support her. The thought that the FBI would suspect him of being her accomplice had never crossed her mind. “Oh, Hart, I’m sorry. I never should have come to you. I never meant…”
To kill Rick? To get caught? To make me want you? The words screamed in Hart’s mind, but not from his lips. “I ordered my aide to do a background investigation on Rick. I should have it by morning.” He didn’t mention that he’d ordered one on her, too.
She looked up at him, puzzled. “Why? You know Rick was a good soldier, and you said you saw his chopper go down. You said it exploded. You said no one—”
“I know what I said,” Hart snapped, struggling to control his temper and hang on to at least a thread of patience. “But the feds don’t believe he’s dead, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to start.”
Suzanne nodded.
“I’ll go over the report in the morning, then decide what to do from there.”
“I’d like to see it, too.”
He frowned, instantly suspicious. “Why?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, really. I just know I have to be involved with whatever you’re going to do about this mess. It’s my fault you’ve been drawn into it. I shouldn’t have come here.”
He sat down in the chair across from her. Play their game. It was one of the first things he’d been taught in POW training. Play your enemy’s game and get inside their head. It was a soldier’s best chance of survival.
But he’d never lusted after any of his enemies.
He purposely softened his tone. “It wouldn’t have mattered whether you came here or not,” he said. “I was already being investigated.”
“You were?” She frowned. Could she believe him or was it a lie to throw her off guard? “But why? By whom?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He sat on the edge of his chair, arms resting on his thighs, and leaned slightly toward her. “Did Rick mention anything unusual to you the day before we left on that last mission?” He started to reach for her hand, then caught himself. “Think, Suzanne. It could be important. Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?”
He demanded a divorce. She shook her head again. “No. Why?”
She was lying. He’d sensed it in her hesitation before answering, saw it in her eyes.
“I think something was bothering him that last day,” Hart said.
She looked at him. How much did he really know?
Chapter 3
Hart paced the small sitting area of Suzanne’s hotel room, struggling against his frustrations, against the resentment and anger that were roiling inside him and that he was trying not to let her see. He wasn’t getting anywhere, and the longer they talked, the longer he looked into those fathomless brown eyes, the more he felt torn between ugly suspicion and the unfounded desire to believe her.
She set her glass of water on the coffee table, and he paused, turning at the sound of glass on glass. His dark gaze met hers, and for a split second he thought he saw the passion and mistrust he knew was most likely mirrored in his own eyes.
“I shouldn’t have come back,” she said again, though she wasn’t really talking to him.
Hart slid a hand through his hair as he contemplated his next move. He knew how to play the game as well as anyone. Better, actually. And it was definitely time to play. He closed the distance between them and knelt in front of her. “Suzanne.”
Innocence or treachery? Which was it that shone from those infinite depths, that coated her words, that hid behind that tantalizing smile?
He reached for her, and the moment his hand touched hers, and without warning, all the old feelings of desire welled up inside him, stronger than ever, a scorching inferno that instantly began to war with his suspicions of betrayal.
He’d meant the gesture merely as a way to get her confidence and trust. But it had been a mistake, one he had no doubt now would end up costing him dearly.
With an effort of concentration and training he pulled on the cold mantle he normally assumed when readying for a mission that would take him into battle—and possibly take his life—and shrugged the unwanted feelings of desire aside. He needed to stay focused. To remember that she was likely the most dangerous enemy he’d ever faced.
That caution might be all that stood between his life and his death.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know you’re scared, Suzanne, and I shouldn’t have accused you of lying. It was a stupid thing to do. But you can understand, can’t you? I mean, this whole thing sounds so unbelievable. I was taken back. I felt I had to test you.”
He saw the wariness in her eyes. The fear. But was she afraid of him? Or afraid she wouldn’t succeed in fooling him?
“Look, I’m sorry,” he repeated, making an effort to soften his voice further. “I know you have no reason to lie about something like this, Suzanne.”
She looked down at the hand enveloping hers. “I didn’t lie, Hart, but I shouldn’t have come to you,” she said. “Now they suspect you, too.”
“I told you, someone was already investigating me. They requested my personnel file before you got here. I’m not quite sure where it fits, but your coming has added a piece to the puzzle and given me at least an idea about what’s going on.” That was probably the biggest lie he’d told in years.
She looked at him in surprise.
“It’ll be all right,” he said, seeing the fear still in her eyes, but not trusting himself, or her, to believe it was real. “We’ll figure out what’s going on.”
Suzanne nodded. They’d been attracted to each other once, and the timing had been wrong. Terribly wrong. It was no better now, and she felt certain it never would be. Rick’s ghost would always be between them.
Hart started to stand.
“No,” she said quickly, surprising herself. She didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want him to leave for fear he might not come back. “Stay awhile longer, please. You were right, we need to talk. Maybe we can discuss this further over dinner.”
And you’ll tell me more lies? Hart wondered, still kneeling in front of her. Yet in spite of the ugly thought, he thought he saw innocence in her eyes. Or maybe it was merely the skill of a good actress. A well-trained spy, looking up at him guilelessly, letting him see what he wanted to see while she drew him into her deadly web.
And a good soldier knew when to confront his enemy and when to let them think he was coming around to their way of thinking, Hart reminded himself, and this was not the time for confrontation or assault. Congeniality was called for. Maybe even seduction. “I’d like that,” he said, smiling at her for the first time since she’d returned.
Suzanne stole a glance across the table at Hart. Her reactions to him were intense. But she had to believe they were merely physical. She’d been so lonely since Rick’s death. And in reality, long before that. But another whirlwind romance like the one she’d had with Rick before they got married was not what she was looking for. In fact, she wasn’t looking for anything. Or anyone. She liked her life just the way it was. She was independent, successful, and…
Alone, a little voice in the back of her mind said.
She ignored it. The only reason she was here with Hart was that someone was trying to destroy her. She needed his help—that was all.
She opened her mouth to say something to him, but a movement near the entrance to the hotel dining room caught her eye, and as she turned, she instantly forgot every thought in her mind. The man she’d seen near the pool earlier looking up at her room stood talking with the maître d’.
He was short and wiry with small eyes, dark, oiled-back hair, dark complexion and a thin black mustache that followed the curve of his upper lip and ended bluntly at each corner. She thought instantly of a weasel. A v
ery dapper, very slick and very polished weasel.
The maître d’ motioned with his hand, and both men began to cross the room toward Suzanne and Hart.
She stiffened.
The maître d’ breezed past.
The man from the pool caught her eye.
A slight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded.
Suzanne cringed and instinctively pushed against the back of her seat. Was that his way of telling her she was being watched?
Hart saw Suzanne’s reaction to the man passing their table. He glanced over her shoulder and watched as the man took a seat at another table. Was he Suzanne’s accomplice? Or had she recognized a federal agent? Was that a warning to the man he’d seen in her eyes or fear of him?
“Who was that?” he asked, deciding his waning patience wasn’t going to abide anything at the moment but a direct approach, even if all it garnered him was yet another of her lies.
“I don’t know, but I saw him earlier. He was watching me.”
“Watching you?” He nearly scoffed at what was most likely a lie, and his mind raced to figure out where to put this piece of the puzzle. Feigning concern, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Where was this, Suzanne? And when did you notice him watching you?”
“When I—”
“Excuse me, señorita.”
They both looked up to see that the man in question had returned and was standing beside their table. He nodded to Hart, then looked back at Suzanne and smiled widely, but there seemed a sadness in his dark eyes that didn’t disappear with the warm gesture of his lips.
Hart saw Suzanne’s fingers tighten around the delicate stem of her water glass, but the move didn’t completely obscure the fact that she was trembling. At least, it didn’t obscure it from him.
Fright or nervousness? he wondered.
“Yes?” she said.
“Excuse me,” the man repeated. “I am Salvatore DeBraggo.” He offered a curt bow, at the same time scooping up Suzanne’s free hand and raising it to his lips. “Are you not Señorita Cassidy from Casswell’s Gallery in Beverly Hills, California?”
His accent was extremely thick, but Suzanne understood every word. Mainly because they’d brought her a rush of relief. She’d almost expected him to pull out a knife or gun. She smiled, feeling foolish. “Yes, I am, but I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr….”
“Oh, no, señorita, we have not met. You see, I have been dealing with your associate, Señor Weller. I have a very extensive collection of antique jewelry, my late wife’s, actually. But—” he waved a hand, as if in dismissal “—we had no children, so there is no one to give the jewels to and I could use the funds.”
“I see,” Suzanne said.
“Yes. I would like to place them up for auction, and when I spoke with Señor Weller today on the telephone and he realized you and I were both here in the same city, he assured me you could—”
Hart felt his temper rising. He was trying to handle the possibility of losing his career, deal with espionage, treason and betrayal, and keep his burning libido under control, and this overly polished dandy was trying to arrange an auction? The rein on his patience snapped.
“Look, Braggo,” Hart interjected.
“Señor DeBraggo,” the man politely corrected, still smiling but not taking his gaze off Suzanne.
“Señor DeBraggo,” Hart repeated with more than a touch of sarcasm purposely instilled in his tone, “Ms. Cassidy is here on vacation, at least for the next few days, so if you wouldn’t mind…”
The man handed Suzanne a card. “Of course. Again, please excuse me, señorita. I apologize humbly for the interruption. It was only that Señor Weller insisted I contact you here right away. He made no mention of a vacation. I am sorry to have bothered you.”
“It’s all right, really, Señor DeBraggo,” Suzanne said, shooting a glare of reproof at Hart. “I often mix business with pleasure. It’s no problem at all.”
DeBraggo smiled. “Then I will await your call, Señorita Cassidy. I am also staying here in the hotel and have written my room number on the back of my card, in case you have the time to look at my jewelry. Until we talk again, at your convenience, of course.” He snapped his heels together, then turned and walked away without even so much as a “drop dead and goodbye” to Hart.
He watched the man walk back to his own table. There was something about him that made Hart uneasy. Instinct warned him that the man was not what he seemed, that he was someone who could be very dangerous. Maybe even deadly. The glint in his eyes was too cold and hard.
Hart looked back at Suzanne. “Do you get that sort of thing a lot when you’re out?” he asked sharply, unable to rationalize just why his temper was still smoldering. What in hell did he care if the man had insultingly ignored him? Or that Suzanne didn’t mind mixing business with pleasure? If indeed that was what had happened. And if it was and his instincts were on the wrong course, it was certainly none of his concern if her partner sicced inconsiderate clients on her.
“No, not often,” Suzanne said, staring at DeBraggo’s card.
Hart took a long swallow of ice water, hoping the coldness of it would somehow miraculously put a chill on both his overactive libido and his temper. Could he mix business with pleasure? he wondered, watching her. Could he draw her into his arms, kiss her, taste her passion as he’d wanted to for so long and still seriously consider that she could be out to destroy him? That she could be guilty of treason, possibly even murder?
A frown dug deeply into Suzanne’s brow as Hart studied her. He suddenly found himself wondering if she could read his thoughts.
“Hart,” she said softly, cutting into his musings.
He saw new fear in her eyes.
“I didn’t tell Clyde what hotel I was going to be staying in.”
Hart instantly shoved out of his seat and darted across the restaurant in the direction Salvatore DeBraggo had gone. His gaze swept over the other patrons, but there was no sign of the Spaniard anywhere.
Hart lay on his bed and stared into the darkness, running everything that had happened that evening through his mind again. Right after leaving Suzanne he’d called Private Roubechard about the background checks he’d requested, but there was some problem with getting the files downloaded and transferred from the Armed Security Agency, so they weren’t going to be available until morning.
He mulled over the incident at dinner again. Had the whole thing with DeBraggo been a setup? Something the man and Suzanne had staged just for him? Maybe so she could gain a little more of Hart’s trust? Look a bit more innocent, a bit more vulnerable, so that he’d believe and help her?
He threw back the sheet and swung his feet to the floor, annoyed by his inability to turn off his thoughts and go to sleep. That wasn’t usually a problem. He’d slept in everything from a sagging feather bed to a foxhole to a leaf-filled muddy crevice in the Peruvian jungle. He’d slept through artillery fire, bombing raids and silence so deep it was deafening.
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Almost 3:00 a.m. If he wasn’t going to sleep, the least he could do was think. Rationally.
Why had she really come back?
Frustrated and annoyed by the traitorous bent of his thoughts, Hart settled down at the desk in his bedroom and flipped on the computer. If his libido and sudden bent for nostalgia kept getting in the way, he was most certainly going to end up either behind bars or dead. Especially if the woman heating his libido and stirring that nostalgia had come to him with a lie and treachery in mind.
He typed a series of codes into his laptop and tried accessing ASA, but whatever was wrong on their end was still wrong.
Maybe he could do a search for DeBraggo and Suzanne on the Web. He zipped through several search engines before deciding which one to use.
Within five minutes he had pulled up several sites that had something to do with the name DeBraggo. One advertised financial assistance, another was a travel agency in Texas, another a tax
attorney in New Mexico and yet another an import/export-business Web site.
None seemed suspicious, but he knew that guilt sometimes had a way of hiding behind a facade of angelic innocence.
He opened the first one, and his brows rose in interest. Their headquarters were based in Los Angeles, California.
A little much for coincidence.
The sound of screeching tires, followed by a crash, suddenly shattered the stillness of the night and Hart’s concentration. He ran to the window of his apartment. Two cars were at the corner, the front end of a sporty red foreign job embedded in the passenger door of a sleek black Lincoln twice its size. A cloud of steam rose from the sports car’s crushed hood as the two drivers started throwing their arms and hands about, obviously arguing.
Hart stared down at the wreck glistening in the glow of the moon. The steaming sports car reminded him of dancing waves of fire.
Rick’s chopper had burst into flames.
Memories assaulted Hart and before he could stop it, time spun backward…
The team had split into pairs, partnering off to circle their enemy, surround them and move in stealthily for the attack. Rick and Hart had been approaching from the rear, flying low over the Raumsean Woods, several miles inside of Iran’s border.
The experimental weapons-detection systems installed in their Cobras warned them of an antiaircraft missile installation hidden within the dense growth of trees below. With that warning they both should have been able to easily avoid any attack and take out their would-be assailant before he even knew they were there.
“Tracker, we got one below,” Hart radioed. “You see it?”
“Got it in my sights, Ice,” Rick answered, using the name the close-knit group of men in the corps had given Hart not only because of his coolness under pressure, but because each of them, in one way or another, had discovered that he kept his innermost emotions on ice; out of reach or touch.
Hart watched him descend toward his target.
Suddenly a missile shot from the trees.
“Tracker, evade!” Hart ordered. “Evade!”
