By the time he’d finished everyone in the room was nodding, including Nick. “Excellent planning, Irish. You think well on your feet. Okay, we’ll hire three yachts, one for you two, and three of us will be in each of the others. I’ll check it out with Virginia, but I’d say this plan will get the green light. Enjoy your honeymoon, Songbird and Irish.” His grin was wry. Obviously he was still irritable, but even he knew when he couldn’t change the flow of the river.
“You bet, Boss.” Tal grinned right back. “Every second you don’t annoy the hell out of us.”
She felt a blush staining her cheeks, but to her surprise, Nick laughed. “I’ll be sure to knock from now on.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go.”
With smothered grins, the men filed out of the room.
As soon as they’d gone, Tal pulled her into his arms, kissing her ear. “You happy with the yacht idea?”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “What do you think?”
The kiss was long, hard, intensely passionate. “I meant what I said about rest, though,” he murmured mock sternly against her mouth. “Stop kissing me, woman, I’m serious. I’m going to make sure you sleep. You’ve pushed yourself too hard for too long. You’re on the edge of exhaustion, even if you won’t admit it.”
She twinkled up at him. “So keep me in bed, day and night. I promise, I won’t complain at all. Doctor’s orders and all that.”
“And don’t you forget it.” He nuzzled her lips. “There’s no way I’ll spend half of our time on the yacht cramped in the bath or shower, hiding out from the guys. I want to make love in the comfort of a bed…or maybe the ocean at night, finish what we started last night,” he whispered between slow, hot kisses.
Her body fired, but her heart constricted. Could she make love with him and still hold back her heart? She had to protect herself. When their time was up—dear God, could she face being alone again, playing the part of the Iceberg to the world, being Verity West because Mary-Anne didn’t have a life of her own?
Could she make him want to stay with her?
I couldn’t handle this life for long…
She faced it squarely. Well, damn, if she only had a week or a year with him, then she’d make it a week or a year to remember. “Perfect,” she whispered back.
A loud knock interrupted the kiss they were about to share. “Sir? Madam?”
Anson again. Tal sighed. Every single damn time he started to break down her barriers, made her start to think of herself rather than the mission, their ruthless Ghost returned to haunt them. Reminding them both that they’d never be here, would never be together again, but for the mission.
“Come in,” he called, but kept a tight hold of Mary-Anne. Would she object if he super-glued her to him for, say, a few weeks…or maybe months…oh, heck, make it a few years?
Anson strode in, either not noticing or not perturbed by the fact that two of his operatives were locked in each other’s arms, obviously in the middle of a steamy intramarital affair. “Virginia says go. I’ve rented the yachts, but we can’t get them until 1100 tomorrow. So we’ll follow your plan, Irish. I’ve booked us into Amalza’s most exclusive restaurant tonight, where the press is bound to find and annoy you. They’ll be camped outside the hotel 24/7 by morning. I’ve doubled the amount of operatives on this in line with that inevitability. They’ll be here by 0400, and after a morning exposing yourselves to more publicity overkill, we’ll do a fifty-one—”
Okay, now Tal was way out of his depth. “What’s a ‘fifty-one’? I’ve only ever done a job as high as a forty.”
“That’s as high as SAR op numbers go.” Mary-Anne rolled her eyes as she grinned. “Fifty-one is a glitz round ‘celebrity escape.’ Our surrounding bodyguards yell no comment while the press shoves their microphones and cameras at us, trying to take pictures, and we look stressed, angry, scared—whatever works. Our guards push us toward a limo, where we make our escape.”
He blinked. “Ah, right.”
“I hate it, too, if that helps,” she whispered, hugging him.
Anson was too deep in thought to notice. “Flipper’s qualified to sail a boat, so he’ll be your skipper. On the fifty-one—we can’t let the journalists get to Irish. Even leaving aside the fact that any one of them could be in Falcone’s pay as Brooks seemed to be, if even one of them sees the makeup, inadvertently touches his cheek or wrecks his shoe insert the mission’s shot.”
Tal nodded, feeling out of control with this part of the mission—a feeling as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome. “Right. I’ll call Falcone.” He released Mary-Anne, picked up the phone and dialed the RSVP number. “Hello? This is Verity West’s husband,” he told the feminine voice that answered. “I’m calling to decline the kind invitation by Mr. Falcone for the party tonight as we’re on our honeymoon. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Please hold,” the woman said softly.
A moment, a click, and another voice spoke. An English voice, smooth like clotted cream compared to his own flinty Outback twang. “This is Robert Falcone. How may I help you?”
“Hello, Mr. Falcone. This is Verity West’s husband—”
“My deepest congratulations,” the smooth voice interrupted him, rich with gentle male laughter and something more sinister beneath. “You have a real jewel. I presume that I’m speaking to Dr. Tallan O’Rierdan?”
Tal felt a small, icy chill creep up his spine. “You presume correctly. We can’t make it.”
“A handsome couple, indeed,” Falcone went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You will have many lovely children—six was the number your wife once said she wanted, if I’m correct. But on your honeymoon, I can empathize with your reluctance to share your exquisite wife with the world any more than you have to. May I ask if you will be socially unavailable the whole tenure of your time in Amalza?”
“My wife is getting over a throat infection.” How the hell did Falcone know about Mary-Anne’s most private wish for half a dozen kids, which he damn well knew she hadn’t spoken about publicly? Oh, this guy was good—too good, and the chill snaking back down his spine began spreading up and outward. “She’s worked too hard the past few months. I want her to have a complete rest.”
Mary-Anne’s eyes widened. “Tal, what are you doing?” she whispered urgently, but Anson nodded his approval.
Falcone asked gently, “So is there no chance that she—that you both, I mean—will be able to visit my home while you’re here? That’s terribly disappointing. I had hoped for a day or two’s visit, to get to know you both—”
“I don’t think that will be possible. It’s our honeymoon. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes. Of course.” The patent platitude rolled off Falcone’s tongue as polite as it was insincere. He still wasn’t resigned, and Tal drew a silent breath of relief. “Do you think, perhaps—just one dinner before you leave…?”
“Maybe we can manage that. I’ll ask her. Honey?” He spoke just loud enough for Falcone to hear. “Mr. Falcone wants to know if we can make it next week sometime.”
“I think that sounds all right,” she answered after a moment’s pause. “I wanted a week together, just you and me,” she said, making it loud enough for Falcone to hear.
“Me, too.” He leaned forward and kissed her, soft and gentle, yet loud enough for effect. “We’ll have it, I promise.” He said to Falcone, “Maybe we can make it one night. Can we call you?”
“Wonderful,” the insidious voice purred. “I will change the party to any evening of your choice. As guest of honor, dare I hope that your wife will honor us with her superlative voice?”
“If she’s well enough,” he answered, all but shivering with the effect of this man’s gentle, cultured tone on his nervous system. “I’ll call you.”
“Of course. And Dr. O’Rierdan, take care of your lovely wife. You’re a very blessed man. There are thousands of men around the world who would be more than eager to take your place.”
“I know,” he sai
d—and decided to push the envelope to see how Falcone would take it. “But I don’t feel threatened by them, Mr. Falcone, because I love my wife—and she loves me.”
Mary-Anne pulled back from him as if stung, her eyes dark and filled with shadows, an effective eclipse of her mind and emotions. She crossed to the window, where the sun’s morning light danced over the glowing turquoise waters of the Mediterranean and the town itself, seen through the glass, blazed in washed whites, colorful banners streaming in the breeze. She edged in until she stood half hidden in the curtains, lost inside and amid a glorious riot of color that for once outshone her.
Never had she looked so small, or so lonely.
Terrific going. I might’ve jerked Falcone’s chain with what I said, but I definitely alienated my wife.
“Again, congratulations.” Falcone’s words were quiet now, no less charming, yet infinitely more chilling. “To be the chosen lover of the beautiful and extraordinarily talented Verity West—pardon me for using her former husband’s name, Dr. O’Rierdan—would indeed be a rare and precious privilege for any man.”
Out of the serpent’s twisted mouth came truth—more truth than a piece of dirty laundry like Falcone, appreciating only Mary-Anne’s flame-haired beauty, iceberg reputation and incredible talent, could ever know. “Goodbye, Mr. Falcone.”
“I’ll look forward to meeting.”
He replied in polite kind, keeping his tone bland until he hung up. “Yeah, I’ll look forward to meeting you—and taking you down, you scum,” he muttered. “You and Burstall both.”
“Do you really think the lovely Miss West is your spy?”
Burstall frowned. “Yes, I do. Her job gives her the perfect cover, and she hangs out with the black market set, as you told me. This honeymoon’s a front.”
“Yet I had to persuade her husband to even consider a dinner party. So unless you believe O’Rierdan is a complete fool, you must believe him a spy for your fabled Mission Impossible group? And if Miss West is a spy, wouldn’t she have had something to say to O’Rierdan about his peremptory refusals?”
“She is a spy. And he’s an Australian doctor like the spy I injured in Tumah-ra,” Burstall said bluntly. “This is a setup.”
“Suspicious, perhaps—but he is surely one of many thousands of doctors in Australia, Mr. Burstall. We can’t suspect every doctor who turns up just because he’s Australian. Or is it only when they marry lovely, famous women that you suspect them?”
Burstall only just refrained from rolling his eyes. “It’s too convenient, their coming here now.”
Falcone shrugged. “Rather a whirlwind romance and marriage, perhaps, but surely in keeping with celebrity tradition.” He spoke with slow caution, yet Burstall knew how quick he could be. “Coming here at this exact time is…shall we say ‘coincidental.’ I’d double check to be sure it’s legal. And you do realize that perhaps it is our good doctor who is the spy. Check to see what he’s been doing the past few years.”
“I’m already on it.” He sighed. “These Nighthawks seem extraordinarily loyal to their cause.”
“As are you, Mr. Burstall—as is evidenced by your telephone call to Mrs. McCluskey this morning from the shiny new cell phone hidden in your room. You offered her young St. Bremer for her, I believe—something I did warn you against.”
Damn his rotting soul, how did Falcone know so much? Whatever moves he made, Falcone always seemed a step ahead of his game. “Mr. Falcone, it shouldn’t make a difference to your plans—”
Falcone tilted his head: smooth and smiling, thin and darkly handsome. “I’m afraid it does. You see, I don’t want my home invaded by your Mission Impossible friends, looking to, uh, ‘take you down,’ I believe is the expression. Your presence here is causing too much interest in me by reflection. Your obsession with the lovely Mrs. McCluskey is taking your mind from the tasks I hired you to complete. And you most inconsiderately drilled a hole in my home. Apart from the obvious fact that you were spying on me, you made a mess of my carpet and ceiling. And that I do find most hard to forgive.”
Seeing the gentle smile on Falcone’s face, Burstall broke out into a cold sweat. Then two men were at his side, grabbing him.
Falcone nodded. “I did warn you—you must admit that I took the trouble to warn you.”
I’m going to die…
He must have said it aloud, for Falcone smiled even more. “No, Mr. Burstall, you will not die—not today at least, and not while you are still somewhat useful to me. But you have been…shall we say, insubordinate? Learning to whom you answer will be a most needed lesson in your survival skills.”
The first punch winded him, the second he felt crack a rib. And still the hits came, knocking him down until he curled in a ball, begging them to stop, that he’d learned who was boss.
“That’s good news, dear boy.” Falcone was gently amused as ever. As if his voice conjured magic, the pounding stopped—but the goons left him on the floor, gasping, trying desperately not to heave. “Wonderful news. I am certain we won’t need to have this conversation again, will we, Mr. Burstall?”
“No,” he gasped.
“Excellent.” Falcone walked over him toward the doors. “Oh, and do try not to throw up on the carpet.”
The doors shut behind Falcone, clicking quietly into place, of course. Robert Falcone was always the gentleman, who never needed to yell, to threaten or slam doors. Nothing so dramatic.
Next time he crossed the line, he’d be dead.
Chapter 10
“Mmm…mmm,” Mary-Anne sighed as she swallowed a piece of some succulent fruit Tal had never seen or heard of in Australia—the only food she’d eaten all evening, except for one piece of chicken and a few mouthfuls of salad. “This is glorious.” She picked up a tiny ball of fruit between her fingers and lifted it to his mouth across the candlelit table. “Taste it, darling.”
Tal opened his mouth, holding in a groan when her fingers deliberately brushed his lower lip. “Delicious.”
Her eyes gleamed soft and sultry. “I knew you’d like it.” She leaned forward and kissed him, long, lingering—
And carefully controlled…because everything they did tonight was an act for the avid cameras snapping at them outside the enormous plate-glass window. Her eyes and luscious body promised pure heaven—and flames of desire were licking at him, even though he was in on the performance. Verity West the Star was showing the world her superb talent.
Now he knew why so many men were obsessed with her. The Iceberg had proven her ability to turn a man into a shivering wreck of frustrated desire. Heaven knew he was a wreck already, and yet he knew he’d soon be gettin’ lucky again…and now he’d made love to her, he knew lucky was a massive understatement.
But—looking beneath the veneer her beauty and talent presented, he still saw the shy girl who would once almost rather have left one of her beloved animals to its fate than kiss and touch a man in public—even him.
She hated every second of this.
He leaned forward and whispered against her mouth. “Hang in there, honey. It’s almost over.”
Her smile widened, as if he’d said something wonderful, but her eyes revealed more. Beneath the self-satisfied expression of Verity West, Mary-Anne’s need to run had only grown. “It was hard enough when the whole thing was only for the mission and I thought you were acting,” she muttered, “but now—”
“Now that we’re lovers, you mean?” he asked to distract her.
Soft hands reached out to his, playing the game. “I don’t want the world knowing about us. I don’t want them hounding us for pictures and questions. What we have should be ours alone.”
His kiss this time was real, a tender reassurance. “It will be while we’re on the yacht.”
Her face, shimmering incandescent in the candlelight, took his breath away—but her words haunted his soul. “Every day is me belonging to my fans, and tabloid journos thinking it’s their right to invade my life…”
He clam
ped down the words hovering on his tongue. Then walk away. If that time ever came, it had to be her decision alone. “I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t handle your life.”
That flash of pain came and went again, followed by a smile of bravado—the one that grabbed him by the throat and wouldn’t let go. “I guess our lives have reversed, huh? I could never handle all the attention you got when we were kids.”
Willing to follow her lead, he grinned. “I didn’t handle it too well, either. Why do you think I loved hanging out with you so much?” His fingers moved, caressing her palm, willing her to smile. “You were too busy shoving your injured animals at me to care about my latest score on the football or cricket field, or whether I’d put Murrumbooee High on the map with my test marks.”
That made the pain fade, because she laughed, that lovely silver and golden ripple of sound he loved so much. Her hand turned, she laced her fingers through his, and from her wrist, the scent of rose and lavender floated up to him, filling his head. How could such a soft smell seem so completely sexy? “I guess you must have felt like you went from the sublime to the ridiculous.”
“I loved it. When I was with you and your animals, I could just be myself.” He felt the corner of his mouth quirk up; he rolled his eyes, trying to ignore what just the simple act of holding her hand did to him. “Yeah, I really was myself when you made me muck out that hell on earth you called a hospital. The farmer’s kid, doing what he did best—shoveling muck and dirt.”
“Hey, bud, I was right beside you on that job—even if you had to remind me to do it most of the time.” Her eyes lit warm and soft with the memory. “I think Mum forced Dad and Greg to build me the shed for my hospital, just so she could have her laundry room without animal droppings or slipping in the blood I’d forget to clean up.”
Remembering some of Aunt Miranda’s choice cusswords when she’d find her laundry a disaster again, he chuckled. “Forget? Yeah, right. You always hated cleaning anything. Leaving the blood was your way of getting your own shed, if you ask me. If your mother screamed or fell over in the mess enough—”
Can You Forget? Page 12
