Frozen Fire

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  She hadn’t heard it when she refused the offer to become a flight instructor in favor of resigning from the military. But the hated word had quickly resumed its place as a staple in her life when she became the chief pilot for the Climate Research Institute.

  The institute was a small, quiet, privately funded think tank and the plaything of the occasionally flamboyant and perpetually eccentric Dennis Cavendish, a telecommunications wunderkind who had retired at forty to take on the challenges of climate change. In his spare time, he served as president for life of The Paradise of Taino, his own private tropical nation-state snugly situated between the Florida Keys and the Bahamas.

  Wendy loved her job; it paid well, provided her with lots of perks, and allowed her to have her say in what sort of planes Dennis bought. That had been enough when she’d been hired and for the four years that had passed since then. It had been enough until she’d met Garner Blaylock, a beautiful, earthy man who was lit from within with passions and understanding Wendy could only marvel at. He’d swept her into a world she’d never known existed and had reframed her life, banishing from it forever the association with anything remotely “typical.”

  And in a few hours from now, to cement her commitment to Garner, to her new way of thinking, to the cause he had introduced her to and which they now shared, Wendy would do something that was anything but typical by anyone’s standards. The event was going to be spectacular and meaningful; if her actions were ever to become public knowledge, they would be called crazy by many, but adjudged heroic by the people she cared about most. By the person she cared about most. By Garner.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Wendy rolled over and looked into the deep brown, soulful eyes of her lover, her mentor, the man for whom she was about to make the biggest sacrifice in her life.

  She reached up and smoothed his tousled golden curls, threaded her fingers through them. “What do you think I’m thinking about?”

  He cupped her cheek as he eased his thumb along her bottom lip. “Well, I hope you’re thinking about how we spent the last few hours, but I imagine you’re thinking of what you’ll be doing in the next few.” His deep, cultured British voice was husky with sleep and sex.

  She didn’t allow herself to respond with anything other than a smile.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked gently.

  “Yes.”

  Garner watched her, peering into her soul with eyes that were soft and loving. “Were you afraid every time you flew into a battle zone? Or is it just this task that has you worried?” he asked, his voice low.

  She hesitated, not wanting him to mistake her fear for doubt. “I was afraid every time, every mission. We all were. The fear helped us keep our edge. If you weren’t scared, you weren’t focused. But you had to subdue the fear by keeping foremost in your mind the knowledge that you’d be coming back.” She paused. “This time, that knowledge, that assurance isn’t there, Garner. It’s an odd feeling to know I won’t be coming back.”

  “When you flew for them—” He never uttered the name of any of the groups he fought, so deep was his loathing of all things political.

  “When you flew for them, you would have died for them, wouldn’t you? It’s what they expected you to do, if necessary. Am I right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He drew his thumb across her lips again, silencing her. “The oath you lived by then was an oath to a political body, Wendy, a myopic, human-centric organization that survives by cannibalizing its allies if they don’t support its warped economic ideals.” His hand slid to hers, brought her palm to his lips. “You’re different now, darling. You operate at a different level of understanding, at a different harmonic frequency as it were. You’ve learned how badly the Earth needs us. It’s left to us—to you—to send the rest of humanity a wake-up call. There’s no other way to save Her and all Her creatures from senseless destruction at the hands of shortsighted, parasitic mercenaries.” His grip tightened slightly as his voice became more intense. “You’re no longer bound to the empty words they made you believe in, Wendy, nor to the desperate actions they made you carry out. You’re bound to the true reality now, my love. To the tangible. To the eternal.” He looked into her eyes with a passion that stopped just short of ferocity.

  The energy radiating from him made her light-headed.

  She took in a shaky breath, her eyes never leaving his beautiful face.

  “My darling Wendy, the war we’re fighting is bigger than all of us. It’s so, so much greater. It’s the battle for ultimate justice and you, my love, you’re our warrior. Our lovely golden warrior,” he whispered, trailing his fingers down the front of her body.

  She caught her breath as a rush of cool air followed the warmth of his hand, leaving her skin tingling with the cold burn of sparks and desire.

  “Only you can do this for me, for us, Wendy. It’s your destiny and your debt. Tell me again that you won’t fail us. Let me know the depth of your commitment, my love.”

  Wendy closed her eyes against the tears welling in them. With every pulse of life beating inside her, she knew that what she was going to do today was the right thing, a necessary and noble action undertaken for the good of the Earth. She’d known it since the day three months ago when she’d met Garner purely by chance and had fallen in love with him as if guided by Fate. It never failed to astonish her that he’d felt the same passion for her before that first week’s end.

  The heady rush of desire she’d felt when she met him was one she’d never expected to feel, and therefore undeserved—until he convinced her otherwise. And when he’d asked her to help him a few weeks later, she hadn’t hesitated. She’d known before he’d told her that she was the only person in the entire organization who could execute his plan.

  And she would. She had never failed at anything and she would not fail now. It was not in her to fail.

  Wendy slid her arms around his hard, muscular body and reveled in his heat and power.

  “You don’t have to persuade me, Garner,” she said in a voice as strong as she could muster, her gaze unwavering as she looked into his endless eyes. “I’ve made my decision. I accepted the assignment and I’ll complete the mission. But there is a part of me—”

  “No ‘buts,’ Wendy,” he whispered, his lips warm and soft against hers. “There is no weakness in you. You are my fearless warrior princess and for the rest of my life, if ever I falter, it will be you who will inspire me to continue the fight for justice. Let’s stop talking, love. Let me live within you in this moment, and forever.”

  As he finished speaking, he moved on top of her. His hands, his mouth offered an escape she seized without hesitation. But even his lovemaking, so sure, so tender, could not alter her reality, could not obliterate the knowledge humming in her brain.

  In six hours, she was going to die. Horribly.

  5:30 A.M., Saturday, October 25, Gainesville, Florida

  Sam Briscoe smiled as he made the transition from sleep to wakefulness with a little help from a pair of warm, feminine lips pressed against the back of his neck. He smiled into the pillow and a moment later lifted his head. Slowly, so as not to dislodge the lips.

  “I’m leaving.” Cynthia’s voice was soft, barely a whisper against his skin.

  He rolled over as he blinked his way to a clear focus on her face, fully made up and ready to meet the day. Even though day hadn’t broken yet.

  “It’s five-thirty,” he mumbled, coherency coming slowly. “What in God’s name are you doin’?”

  She smiled. “If I’d told you last night what time I had to get up, you wouldn’t have let me stay. And I didn’t want to miss out on that goodbye . . .” Her voice trailed off, bringing a bigger smile to his face and greater clarity to his brain.

  “You wouldn’t have anyway,” he replied, returning her smile although his voice was still hoarse with sleep. “I thought your flight was at nine.”

  “I lied. We fly out of here at seven and I still have t
o pick up Stephanie and Grace.” She placed a small kiss on the end of his nose.

  “Here” was Gainesville, Florida, a vibrant, bustling town when the University of Florida was in session, and a hot, humid, laid-back town when it wasn’t. Right now, the university was bracing for a day of football, which should have meant that Professor Briscoe could sleep in for a few more hours before deciding whether to put on his blue and orange fanwear and head into the madness on campus. But today his long-term girlfriend was heading off for a week-long Caribbean sailing cruise with some girlfriends, and that required wakefulness, at least until her car was backing down the driveway.

  Sam didn’t bother to stifle a yawn. “Shoot, Cyn, you can get to the airport in fifteen minutes. Come back to bed for a spell.” He backed up his offer with a grin.

  “I can’t get there that fast when I have to pick up Stephanie and Grace,” she repeated, pulling away and straightening up just as some of his more primitive mechanical parts were waking up. “You know how disorganized they are.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” he drawled as he led the hand he held toward the newly erected tent of sheets.

  “I’ll take a rain check.” She stood up with a laugh and stepped away from the bed, slipping her hand out of his grip. Then she reached over and brushed some hair out of his eyes. Like a mother would.

  Annoyance flickered within him. They were going to be apart for seven days. No way should picking up her girlfriends take precedence over some last-minute grab-and-tickle.

  “So why did you get me up?” he asked mildly, not betraying the shift in his mood. Much.

  “To say goodbye.”

  “Bye.”

  She cocked her head at him with a look that should have been accompanied by her hands thumping onto her hips. But that might wrinkle the pants she was wearing. He knew that too well. Backwater Georgia boys, even ones with Ph.D.s, learned a lot of new things when they dated princesses from Washington, D.C.

  “Don’t do this. I want to enjoy myself, Sam. Don’t try to send me off all guiltified. It won’t work and it’ll just piss me off.”

  “Is that a word? Guiltified?”

  “You stick to the weather and let me worry about syntax.” She blew him a kiss—letting him know in her own princessy way just how well he’d succeeded in infuriating her—and turned toward the bedroom door.

  Well, damn. He pushed himself from elbow to upright and ran a hand over his face. “Hey, Cyn?”

  She turned and glanced at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “How about you bring that fine body and gorgeous face of yours back over here so we can start this goodbye again?”

  The hint of a smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “Apology accepted. I really have to go, Sam. I don’t want to be late.”

  He grinned at her and raised an eyebrow slowly. It was an expression that rarely failed to get him what he wanted. “I won’t make you late, darlin’.”

  “Sam—”

  “Don’t give me any of that whinin’, woman. Just get over here and give me a kiss that doesn’t make me think you’re channeling Grandmother Briscoe.”

  The way she hesitated let him know it was just for show, and the way she walked back to the bed made him know that her expectations were high.

  “That’s my girl,” he murmured as she sank onto the bed next to him and ran a cool hand over his chest.

  “I’m going to miss you, Sam,” she whispered as he brought his face to hers.

  “Damned right you will,” he growled against her mouth.

  They sank into each other with a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. She pushed him away gently after not nearly enough time. “I really have to go, Sammy.”

  “I know.” Her neck was soft and sweet and too damned close to his mouth for him to think straight.

  “We should have planned to go together. All those stars and the sea air . . .” Her words drifted into a contrite smile.

  He lifted his head to meet her dark eyes and let his hand trail down her warm, silky arm. “Next time you suggest taking a cruise with those girlfriends of yours, I’m going to remind you that you said that. Gotta be a big boat, though. Not one of them pissant little things. They turn this big dog into a pup.”

  She laughed and pushed herself off the bed, sliding out of his grasp. “Okay, Sam. A big boat.”

  “Hey, just a sec. There’s something I forgot to ask you last night,” he said, feigning a yawn as she turned to walk to the bedroom door.

  “What’s that?” she replied, her all-business persona slipping back into place.

  He reached into the shallow drawer of the nightstand next to his bed, grabbed the small velvet box in it, and casually tossed it to her.

  She caught it with both hands and he watched her eyes widen as she realized what it was. After a long, silent look, she snapped it open. A moment later she looked back to him, even more wide-eyed and pleasingly slack-jawed.

  “Yeah, I meant to bring it up last night, but a certain gorgeous wildcat sorta pushed it clear out of my head,” he said with an easy shrug. “But think about it, darlin’. I’m kinda crazy about you. And I was wonderin’ if you’d let me continue to be for—” He shrugged again. “Well, forever, I guess.”

  “Sam.” It came out as a whisper, with a hoarse edge to it.

  “Yes, ma’am?” There was no point in trying to hide his grin.

  Without saying anything more, she walked back to the bed and kissed him again, softly this time, and unhurriedly.

  “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  She smiled. “It’s a ‘yes.’ But can I leave this here with you? I don’t want to put it on and then disappear for a week. I want to wear it around you at first, not the girls.” She paused and looked down at the diamond solitaire nestled against blue velvet. “It’s beautiful, Sam. I love it.”

  Trying not to frown at her logic, he nodded his reluctant assent, and was rewarded with another kiss.

  “Thank you, Sam. I love you.” And then she straightened up and left the room, leaving the ring in its box in his hand.

  Well, damn.

  He felt a little stunned and a little lost, and not at all like a man who’d just gotten engaged.

  6:45 A.M., Saturday, October 25, the White House, Washington, D.C.

  Lucy Denton, a former CIA case officer and the current director of national intelligence, walked into the anteroom of the Oval Office and nodded a greeting at the president’s secretary.

  “He’s expecting you, Director Denton. Please go in,” the woman said with a polite smile, which Lucy returned before continuing to the door and walking through it.

  President Winslow Benson was standing at one of the windows, with his back to the room. He was dressed casually, presumably in anticipation of heading out to a golf course shortly, but he still managed to look imposing and almost regal.

  The Sterling Fox.

  It was what she’d always privately called him, even before he was her commander in chief. Winslow Benson was highly polished, beautiful to look at, and worth a lot of money. But other than the fact that he was dangerous if you crossed him, there wasn’t a lot of substance beneath his gleaming exterior.

  He glanced at her over his left shoulder and gave a short nod. “Lucy.”

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” she replied, and then glanced around the room, nodding her greetings to the rest of the people gathered there.

  It was the usual Saturday-morning crowd: a few national security advisors, the secretaries of state and defense, two of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the secretary of homeland security, and the president’s campaign manager. Everyone was in a suit. No one was smiling. They never did during these “informal and off-the-record” chats about the state of the world, as the president liked to call them.

  Lucy was the newest member of the team, everyone else having served with the president throughout his not-yet-complete first term in office. She’d been named DNI less than a year ago, shortly after her
predecessor had suffered a catastrophic health failure. She hadn’t known the man personally, but he’d seemed to be a pretty fit man. Lucy had found it somewhat odd that a fifty-five-year-old triathlete had suffered such a massive stroke, but then, he had just been blamed for the intelligence failure that had allowed Hurricane Simone and Carter Thompson to terrorize the Eastern seaboard. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard of something like that happening and it likely wouldn’t be the last, but she didn’t like coincidences like that and preferred not to dwell on them. She just did her job and took the necessary hits.

  It was a dubious honor to be part of what the president considered his inner circle, much like it had been an honor to be grilled in class by the toughest professor when she’d been in law school. She was certain that the only reason she was part of this group was because of what the president’s team had called her “stellar performance” during the confirmation hearings. She’d been the dark horse, the nominee no one had ever heard of. There was no reason they should have—her personal history was classified at the highest level. What had been released to the press and carefully placed into the wild as “confirmable” had been an artful and charming work of fiction. It was just another part of the game, and one she was well used to.

  She’d been a hell of a good case officer, spending her entire career on the dark side taking calculated risks, facing occasionally terrifying odds, and receiving accolades she could never publicly acknowledge. But that part of her track record was not what had made the powers that be bring her in from the cold and set her into the heat of the spotlight.

  Lucy had been made the president’s DNI because she had a cool head, a steady hand, and a flexible morality, and she was known not to flinch. Ever.

  If she took aim, she took the shot.

  And her shots always hit their mark.

  Lucy walked farther into the room and came to a stop in front of one of the two empty chairs opposite the one President Benson usually chose as his own. She could have sat closer to the president, but that would have meant she would have had to sit next to Katy Wirth, the secretary of defense, and that was something she always tried to avoid doing. Their paths had crossed in law school, and later in their training at the Farm. Katy had failed to make the cut into the Agency, though, and they hadn’t met again until Lucy had been brought into this office for an interview eleven months ago. By then, they’d hated each other too long to even pretend to get along.