The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Karen Leabo

  A reception committee was waiting for them in the underground parking garage below the FBI building. Two anonymous-looking men ushered her and Jimmy onto an elevator. McCormick and Clint went in the opposite direction, with no good-bye, thanks, good luck on your trip up the river.

  Now Marissa wasn’t simply steamed, she was boiling. This was the last time she stuck out her neck for any man. And the next time one of that despicable sex told her she was free to walk away, she was damn sure going to do it!

  On the third floor, the two silent guards showed her and Jimmy to a room sparsely furnished with some plastic chairs, a table, and a tiny refrigerator. They were locked into the room without explanation.

  “I think this is illegal,” Marissa said.

  “I don’t care, sis,” Jimmy said, collapsing into one of the chairs. He looked like a man who’d been relieved of a tremendous burden. “It feels safe. You know, I haven’t felt safe in twenty years.”

  “I wish you’d talked to me about what was going on,” she said. She opened the fridge and found some cold soda. “Maybe I could have helped. We could have figured some way out.”

  He shook his head. “I guess I didn’t really want out bad enough. Getting money for nothing is kind of addictive after a while.”

  She popped the top on her soda can, handed it to him, and got herself another. “Do you think we’ll go to jail?”

  “I don’t know about you, but the minute I get to a phone, I’m calling a lawyer. I figure I can trade what I know, or what they think I know, for some kind of immunity. You, they’re not serious about putting you in jail. That’s just Clint, keeping you safe the only way he knows how.”

  “Keeping me out of the way, you mean.”

  “No, keeping you safe. I’ve seen how he looks at you, and don’t think I haven’t wanted to punch him out for that as much as anything.”

  Clint was royally pissed off. He’d spent the last four and a half hours with Neil and the rest of the task force—FBI, DEA, SWAT team, local law enforcement—going over every minute detail of what he’d learned. Neil had not so subtly hinted that he was in a lot of trouble, and nothing short of complete cooperation would keep him on the payroll.

  Not that it mattered so much to him anymore. Getting fired was the least of his worries. It was Marissa he agonized over. Neil wouldn’t tell him where she was, wouldn’t even assure him she was safe.

  The woman was incredible. She’d sat there on Neil’s couch while the man glowered at her, calmly lying through her teeth about how she’d gotten involved in this mess—all for him. There’d been no mention of hijacking or boat sinking or guns and knives, not even a breath about the unauthorized use of government property. She’d even taken total responsibility for assaulting Eddie.

  He found his mind straying in her direction even as the task force planned their crucial operation for that night. He couldn’t deny that he felt something for her, something powerful. He’d never met a woman anything like her—smart, strong, capable, funny … sexy. He would never forget a certain encounter in a laundry room, or the way she’d kissed him in that closet when they thought they were taking their last few breaths.

  He’d said something to her then. He couldn’t remember his exact words, but he’d felt a wave of emotion so overwhelming that he’d been forced to articulate it. He wondered now what he’d declared, and whether she’d understood or taken him seriously.

  He hoped she hadn’t heard him. It would save him the embarrassment of having to take back the words. He never should have allowed himself to fall apart the way he had.

  Not that he hadn’t been sincere. But, come on, who was he kidding? He and Marissa might share an incredible physical bond, fueled by adrenaline and desperation, but they had little else in common. She despised what he did for a living, and what he did for a living defined who he was. She was truth and light and everything that was good. And he’d been living in the shadows too long to come out into the daylight.

  “I hope I don’t have to say this, but I will anyway,” Neil was droning on. “I don’t want any heroics. If every man sticks to his job, there’s no way these guys can get away. Every avenue of escape will be closed off. We’ve waited a long time for this, and I don’t want anyone getting impatient. I firmly believe we can succeed with this operation without firing a shot.”

  Clint bit his tongue. Neil had been sitting behind a desk for too long. Eddie Constantine and whomever he did business with would never simply drop their weapons and come peacefully.

  “Are there any questions so far?” Neil asked. No one said anything. “Then, can I have volunteers for team one? I’m sure you all realize that the men on team one will be at the greatest risk—”

  Clint raised his hand.

  Neil looked at him. “I’ve got a special assignment in mind for you, Nichols. Something you’re uniquely qualified to do.”

  A second man volunteered, then a third. Neil busied himself with coordinating the various assignments, making sure each team was a compatible mix of personalities and abilities. Meanwhile, Clint cooled his heels. He didn’t like the sound of this “special assignment.”

  The task force was dismissed. They all got up, talking nervously, jumping with anticipation.

  Clint remained seated, arms folded. “All right, Neil,” he said when the room cleared and only the two men remained. “What is it you want from me?”

  “I need you to take care of the girl.”

  “The—Marissa?”

  “I can’t arrest her. She hasn’t done anything wrong that I can tell, and I’m already pushing the boundaries by keeping her detained without a good reason. Gabriole’s been booked on enough charges to keep him locked up for years. I’ve asked that he be put in an isolation cell for the time being. But I can’t do anything about the sister. You’re the only one—”

  Clint let loose a string of curses. “You gotta be kidding!”

  “Not at all. As I was saying, you’re the only one—”

  “I’ve been in on this operation since the beginning. I was the one who started it. You’re telling me I can’t be in on the bust?”

  Neil shook his head. “I’m sorry, Clint. But you’re a loose cannon. You’ve disobeyed orders, you’ve gone out on your own, a one-man mission. Do I have to tell you that operations like this depend on teamwork? Not only are you suffering from a hero complex, but you’re way too emotionally tangled up in this case, what with your ex-wife’s involvement.”

  Clint couldn’t believe this was happening to him. But it was, and no amount of arguing was going to change his implacable boss’s mind. “Fine,” he said hotly. “What am I supposed to do to Marissa?”

  “Watch her. She knows you, trusts you. Keep her from going home, and keep her off the phone.”

  “What, you think she’d betray us?”

  “She’s one of them,” Neil said. “Of course she’s cooperating while we’re looking. You came to her. What was she supposed to do? But left to her own devices, who knows what she’ll do? Her conscience might start bothering her. She could call Constantine, warn him.”

  Clint thought that was the most patently ridiculous worry he’d ever heard of. Neil was inventing something to keep Clint busy. Well, it wasn’t going to work. They weren’t going to cut him out of the final act, deny him the pleasure of seeing the look on Constantine’s face when it all fell down around his shoulders.

  “Sure, all right. I’ll watch Marissa.”

  “Tell her you’ve been assigned to protect her. Take her to a hotel. Buy her a nice dinner. The Bureau will pick up the tab.”

  Clint had to admit that if he was being shuffled off the scene, he could do worse than spending the night in a hotel with Marissa. Any other time, under any other circumstances …

  “Yeah, all right. Where is she?” He’d tuck her safely away in a hotel room and make up some excuse to leave. Then he’d be ready to kick butt.

  ELEVEN

  Marissa was on her fourth cola, and the caffein
e wasn’t helping a whole lot. But what else did she have to do in this beastly, empty room where the FBI goons had stashed her?

  They’d taken Jimmy away hours earlier. She suspected he was under arrest, but that was what he’d wanted, so she tried not to hurt for him. Her brother had surprised her over the past twenty-four hours. He was more deeply involved in Eddie’s criminal activities than she’d ever guessed, and that was a huge disappointment. But he’d also shown surprising flashes of strength. She was especially proud of the fact that he hadn’t contradicted the bold-faced lies she’d told, though he was probably itching to let someone know Clint had stolen his boat.

  He’d done it for her, because he’d known she wanted to keep Clint out of trouble. Perhaps he even suspected the depth of her feelings for the renegade FBI agent. Whatever his reasons, she appreciated it. She could only hope he would stick to his story when they interrogated him.

  The doorknob rattled, and Marissa prepared herself. No matter which anonymous, unsmiling goon they sent in this time, she was going to give him a piece of her mind. Perhaps a few threats about violating her constitutional rights—which clearly they were doing—would light a fire under someone.

  The door opened, and Marissa was on her feet. “It’s about—” The words stalled in her throat. Clint.

  “Hi, Marissa. Are you okay?”

  All the outrage she’d been feeling gurgled and swirled and coalesced into a blazing lightning bolt of anger. “Of course I’m not okay! I’ve been imprisoned in this stinking room for hours without benefit of a lawyer or a phone call—”

  Clint held up his hand to halt her tirade. “Easy, easy. This isn’t prison, it’s protective custody. You could be in a lot of danger.”

  “Yeah, well, it feels like prison. How long are they going to keep me here?”

  “You’re free to go.”

  A sense of relief washed over Marissa, followed by a keen disappointment. Was this it, then? Did she simply walk out and never see Clint again? She’d spent hours convincing herself that there was nothing between her and Clint, that the incredible sex they’d shared was nothing more than a natural, delayed reaction to the stress they’d been under and the close quarters they’d been keeping. She’d even told herself she might never lay eyes on him again—and that she didn’t care.

  Of course she did care; that’s what made this business so humiliating. Whether she wanted it or not, her idiot heart was way involved. She was crazy for Clint Nichols, not that he deserved one minute of her devotion for all the misery he’d brought her. Never mind those thirty minutes of bliss.

  “There’s a catch, though,” Clint said. His mouth was hooked in a half smile, making her wonder what he had up his sleeve. Would he ever play straight with her?

  “You can’t go home, and you can’t contact anyone.”

  “Some freedom! What am I supposed to do, live on the street? I don’t have my purse or my car or—”

  “You can come with me. I’m authorized to put you up in a hotel, feed you, and provide you with anything you need for the next twelve hours. By then, Eddie and his friends should be in custody.”

  For a moment, her interest in bringing Eddie down outweighed her indignation. “How’s it going to happen? Will you get the Big Boss too?”

  Clint was annoyingly silent.

  “Oh, I get it. Confidential information. Now that I’ve served my purpose, I’m out of the loop, I guess.”

  He shrugged.

  “What if I don’t want to cooperate?”

  He shrugged again. “It means the Bureau will waste a lot of time and manpower following you around, keeping you safe. And we’ll do whatever we have to do to keep you away from the phone. We can’t risk a leak right now.”

  “But I would never—”

  “I know you wouldn’t, but try convincing Neil of that.” Clint sounded exasperated, and Marissa wondered if he’d spent considerable energy trying to do just that.

  “All right. I’ll play the good little citizen and do what I’m asked to do. But it better be a nice hotel. I’m still shuddering over that fleabag flophouse where you cuffed me to the bed—and I want steak for dinner—no, steak and lobster.”

  That made her think of Sophia and her “lobsta.” “Has anyone talked to Sophia? Poor thing, she must be worried to death.”

  “Ah … Sophia’s fine. She was taken into custody the minute she hit the airport.”

  “What?” Marissa’s outrage returned full force. “Clint, you didn’t have her arrested!”

  “I had to. I have no way of knowing where her allegiance falls, where her connections are. I had to ensure that she was kept quiet. She’ll be released tomorrow morning and all charges will be dropped.”

  “I can’t believe this. After all the help we’ve given you—”

  “And I appreciate it. But I couldn’t leave anything to chance. Come on, are you ready to go? I’ve made reservations for us at the Doubletree.”

  “The one downtown? At the Allen Center?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Hmm. She supposed it could be worse. A whole night in a luxury hotel with Clint Nichols? Oh, stop it, she scolded herself. “Can I stop by my place and get a few things?”

  “It’s been taken care of.”

  Marissa was ominously silent during the short drive to the Doubletree. Clint couldn’t really blame her. After everything she’d been through—everything he’d done to her—and all the assistance she’d given him, it didn’t seem fair to treat her as if she were a suspect.

  But McCormick didn’t have an ounce of trust in her or her brother. His main objective wasn’t so much keeping her safe as keeping her from blowing their operation with a misplaced word in someone’s ear. She could even do it unintentionally. No telling which of her friends and relatives were connected.

  Actually, Clint wondered if McCormick wasn’t more interested in keeping him busy and distracted than in any possible breach of security. If there was one thing that might keep Clint away from the action tonight, it was a hotel with Marissa Gabriole in it.

  Not that she’d have anything to do with him. She stood beside him at the registration desk, sullen and pouty. He wanted to kiss that pout off her lips.

  The clerk handed him two plastic card keys. “Do you need help with your luggage?” she asked.

  “No, I believe our luggage was delivered earlier.”

  “Oh, right, I do see that notation. Have a nice evening.”

  Marissa raised her eyebrows at that. “What luggage?” she asked once they were alone in the elevator.

  “I’m not exactly sure, but the Bureau does have some amazing resources.”

  “Are we … sharing a room?”

  “It looks less suspicious that way—I mean, it stands out less. I don’t know how powerful Eddie’s operation is, but I’m not discounting the fact that someone could be hunting for us. You’re Mrs. Yarbrough, by the way. Cindy. I’m Max.”

  It gave him an unexpected twinge in his gut to think of Marissa as his wife. What a fantasy. As if he could look forward to anything so normal ever again. He would forever be a target. People like Eddie Constantine carried grudges that lasted a lifetime. He would either be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life … or he’d have to change jobs and move to Peoria, as Marissa had laughingly suggested the day before.

  Either way, his life couldn’t include Marissa. He was surprised at how depressed that thought made him. He’d known her such a short time. Yet now he couldn’t take a breath without thinking about her.

  He opened the door to their room, quickly noting the two double beds, as requested. As angry as Marissa was with him, he didn’t imagine she’d be wanting to share.

  “Oh, there really is luggage here for us,” she said, staring at the two matching brocade bags lying neatly at the foot of one of the beds. “I can’t wait to see what’s inside,” she added dryly.

  Clint stood back and watched as she unzipped the first bag with trepidation. “Oops, I thi
nk this one must be yours,” she said, holding up a pair of white men’s briefs. “Let’s try the other one.” She unzipped it and threw it open. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

  Clint came closer to inspect the contents. Sitting on top, folded in tissue paper, was a black satin cocktail dress.

  Marissa picked it up gingerly. “This is kinda flashy. Where did it come from?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She dug through the rest of the clothes, finding underthings, toiletries, even stockings. “Didn’t they bring me any normal clothes?” she asked. “Jeans or sweats or something?” But she found nothing practical in the case—not even any shoes.

  Clint’s bag held a tuxedo, of all things, along with all the appropriate accoutrements. Marissa probably didn’t really want to know where the stuff had come from. Last time that dress had seen daylight, it was probably on an undercover agent posing as a prostitute. No telling which gangster his tux had once belonged to, seized during some raid.

  He’d asked for clean clothes, and the Bureau had outfitted them for prom night.

  “At least the underwear is new,” she conceded as she tore the tags off. “I’m starving, by the way. You did say something about feeding me?”

  “I’ll take care of dinner. Why don’t you … take a bubble bath or something?”

  “That’s an excellent idea. Remember, steak and lobster. That was the deal.” With that she dragged the whole suitcase with her into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Marissa had worked up a good steam, and she intended to nurse it during her bubble bath. She would think up dozens of grounds on which to sue the FBI for their treatment of her. No, wait, she thought as she dumped some almond coconut bath salts, compliments of the mysterious suitcase, into the rushing water. Revenge against the whole Bureau wasn’t specific enough. It was Clint she wanted to punish.