Borrowed Time

by Miller, Maureen A.

  “Smith, yes. That’ll be seventy-five dollars, but I don’t take those cards. I take cash.”

  “Alright,” He dipped his fingers into his back pocket and caught Emily follow his hand, “but I only have a hundred dollar bill. We’ll call it even if you can possibly drum up a pot of coffee for us.”

  “For twenty five dollars, you’ll get that coffee, plus soup.” Her smile smoothed the cobweb of wrinkles atop her cheeks. A quick pat of short gray curls, and a shrewd sidelong glance had her leaning forward artfully. “I just put on a huge tub of chicken noodle soup, and only one other room is occupied, so there’s plenty.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Emily injected with genuine enthusiasm.

  Brian pried his gaze away from her long enough to nod at the proprietor of Edelweiss. “Thanks so much.”

  He reached for the key, an ornate device of tarnished bronze that probably opened the door over a hundred years ago.

  “The last room down the hall.” The elderly woman offered. “Ground floor. If it warms up any, you have the back deck to yourselves.”

  Excellent. He owed Phil for this one. Aside from the strategic forewarning, the room offered several options for escape. Brian shook his head. Hell, when was the last time he had worried about an avenue of escape. He was at NMD to get himself out of situations like that.

  It was only a little over a year ago that he was stationed in Somalia, where an escape route was essential. Naval intelligence had wormed their way into the community in an effort to undermine one of the largest pirating operations. In an incident he really wanted to forget, Brian was holed up in a seaside shanty trying to survive an unsavory local illness. Bowed over a chipped porcelain bowl that served as a toilet, he heard the telltale whisper of the palms. A brush—a murmur—the natural caress of fern against man. They emerged from the trees, men whose morals were beaten out of them by their militant leader. Death was not a threat to these walking corpses.

  Brian knelt back on the balls of his feet and lifted his head into the trade winds to catch their scent. Rancid odors caused his weakened stomach to tumble in protest. His bleary eyes tried to focus on the draped tarp that served as his front door. It was the only entrance—the only exit, and now they drew closer. He fumbled in the dirt for his 9mm.

  “Are you honeymooners?”

  Brian blinked. A mouth full of obvious dentures smiled warmly at him. The proprietor dropped her incisive gaze to his hand, and then jumped to Emily’s clutched fist. Sensing their discomfort, she nodded and flipped the ledger shut, edging out from behind the podium. “I think you two look like you need a little warming up. There’s no fireplace in your room, but the radiator will toast things up.”

  She winked at them, and then tossed over her shoulder as she slipped through the foyer, “Stay decent for a few minutes until I get you that coffee and soup.”

  “I think,” Emily whispered by his side. “That I am losing my mind.”

  Brian pocketed the key and slid his arm around her waist. “No Em, this is reality. Reconsidering your life as a criminal, are you?”

  He was growing accustomed to her death looks. If they were meant to intimidate, they failed.

  At the door with the digit three in ornate brass script, Brian released his grip on her waist and motioned her back with a silent nod. The clunky key turned with an obstinate screech—a blatant alert to anyone who might be waiting inside. The chamber was empty, though. Brian gently tugged Emily into the room, and immediately locked the door.

  Emily drew in a breath as she looked up. A vaulted ceiling harnessed whimsical echoes of their footsteps across the polished floorboards. Casement windows nearly twice their height flanked two walls, their glass panes tarnished yellow, giving the perception of church stained glass. Thick blue cords held back frilly lace curtains to offer a view of the back porch, its freshly painted surface spared from snow by an extension of the room above. A barricade of pine trees offered refuge from the neighboring yards and played host to a family of cardinals rooted to the limbs like Christmas ornaments.

  Captivated, Emily left that tempting view and took in the outdated by lavish Victorian chamber.

  A brass bed swathed in a quilted floral spread nearly made her swoon with a yearning to collapse across it. How soft the pale blue pillows looked. How plump the mattress appeared. If she could just sink into that downy utopia for one minute. Just one minute.

  The queen-sized bed was bordered by two night tables adorned in lace. White porcelain lamps cast an intimate glow across the polished wooden floorboards. Before the wall of windows, a white wicker couch romanticized the motif, with plush indigo pillows tossed strategically at its corners.

  The charm of the room was not store-bought. It was a direct expression of the friendly proprietor, and in any other venue would have made Emily smile with delight. But this was not the venue.

  In the almond-glazed armoire, she saw her reflection. Her hair was flattened by the misty mix of rain and snow, and her eyes seemed shrunken with fatigue. Absently, she reached up to touch her lips as the recollection of that kiss punched her in the stomach.

  What just happened? What just happened in that alcove? Yes, she understood the motivation, the need to find a hiding spot in the open street, but, she didn’t understand the reaction—on her part, on his part. It was hungry. In the midst of all this desperation, her reaction to Brian Morrison was pure hunger.

  With her career and the strain of keeping her brother corralled, there was very little time for men. Any dates usually ended awkwardly. The brave few who hung on for more than one engagement were intimidated or put off by Colin’s behavior. The bottom line was that she had never been kissed like that in her life, and it had all been just an act.

  In the oval mirror, her gaze locked with Brian’s.

  Amber-spun gold washed over her, making Emily tremble. She crossed her arms and hugged herself for warmth. Thoughts of her brother’s safety plagued her and worked to keep her mind off Brian’s lips and the way they felt. The hit squad from NMD still bore an imminent threat and she was fearful of her life and frantic over Colin’s.

  Her breath struggled while locked to that intense stare in the mirror. Over the cacophony inside her head, one thought cried out, and she voiced it hoarsely.

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  The eyes in the mirror widened, and for a fleeting moment she thought she detected pain in the flecks of gold.

  “They were there.” Brian said in an equally husky tone. “One more step and they would have seen us. I had to do,” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “I had to do something.”

  Well there. You already knew the answer. Did you expect him to say, “I did it because I wanted you?”

  In the midst of danger and despite the fact that you mislead him, hell, lied to him in the hospital, Brian had not caved into sudden passion and kissed you like there was no tomorrow. It was simply an act—a quick-thinking gesture to avoid detection.

  “Emily,”

  “No.” She raised her hand.

  There were no words to make this situation any better. She felt like a fool. Surely he sensed her response to him. Surely he must be standing there right now, thinking how could a woman react to a fake kiss like that when their lives were potentially on the line? What type of woman was she to arch into him like she simply couldn’t get close enough to his body? What type of woman would delve her fingers inside his coat, seeking the warmth and strength of his chest, when just a few feet away three men with guns hunted them? What kind of woman cold return his kiss while her brother was out there, alone.

  Oh God.

  “Emily,”

  Again she staved him off with splayed fingers.

  But, hadn’t he responded too? There was no denying the physical reaction of his body. But that was it, wasn’t it? Just physical. Hell, he was human, and she was plying herself against him like an under armor shirt.

  “I felt it too.” He whispered.

  Emily
’s head snapped up. “What?”

  Brian took a step. “That kiss, it wasn’t just a—”

  A knock cracked against the door, the sound reverberating in the arched chamber. Emily’s hand slammed against her heart as her wild eyes sought Brian’s. Silently he commanded her to withdraw to the corner. She obeyed and watched with dread as his fingers move purposefully beneath the hem of his sweater for the gun.

  “Everyone decent in there?”

  Power seeped from her knees. She sagged against the wall at the proprietor’s call.

  “Just a minute,” Brian responded gruffly.

  Emily watched as the tense muscles of his wide shoulders relaxed slightly when he stooped to peer through the peephole. Seemingly satisfied, he returned the automatic to its lodging against his back. In an absurd notion, Emily almost envied that chunk of metal. Right now it was pressed up against his flesh.

  “Mr. Smith,” A delighted, but wrinkled smile glowed in the doorway. In the woman’s hands was a pewter pot, steam leaking from beneath its lid. “Chicken soup.”

  Brian swiftly reached for the unwieldy container. It looked to be made of solid pewter, and likely weighed more than the woman herself. His glance slid down the hall, “You shouldn’t have carried this. I would have come for it if you asked.”

  “Nonsense.” She waved. “I’ll be right back with the coffee.”

  Brian watched the hitch in the woman’s step as she ambled away, using a hand against the wall for leverage. Anxious, he listened to the telltale groans of the ancient house and detected her uneven cadence across the dining room floor. He should have caught her approach before she ever even knocked.

  How much of his former self had he lost? Did Brian Morrison really die that humid afternoon in Somalia? For six months that was his official status in Naval records. Killed in action.

  Only, it had not been warfare. Intelligence missions lacked the romance of warfare. The death of his father, the legendary Admiral Morrison, was heralded as a great military loss. Brian’s disappearance drew no more fanfare than the softest breeze off that African coast.

  He survived that day with cunning and a keen knack for self-preservation. Slipping into the sea through a tunnel that had taken two weeks to develop, he treaded water for hours, watching the shack burn to the ground and the men boast of his death to their leader. When the sun finally set, Brian Morrison, the ghost, returned to shore.

  Yes, he should have sensed the owner’s approach, but he had been consumed by the look on Emily’s face.

  Troubled beauty.

  Even now he could not take his eyes off hers. They had adapted to the oncoming darkness, taking on the hue of midnight. Shadowed and mysterious, they harbored hidden thoughts that she would never divulge. What was she thinking? Did she think that the kiss was just a means to hide from Barcuda’s goons? Well, it was wasn’t it? But then it changed. Oh God, how it changed.

  “Okay you two,” The proprietor returned, offering up a silver tray with coffee and mugs. This time Brian knew her approach well in advance, but he still felt his sharpness was failing.

  He used to be able to hear variances in the wind. He used to be able to discern a man’s thoughts before they were voiced. Now everything was a muddled echo. He knew nothing of what motivated Emily to put her job on the line—her life in danger. The love for her husband? That thought only darkened his mood all the more.

  “Coffee.” He said to the owner. “I believe that this will cure all my ills.”

  A curved finger bobbled up and down in admonishment. “Not all of them.” She winked at Emily. “But I’m sure you’re lovely lady will take care of the rest.”

  On a throaty laugh the elderly woman tapped her hair and managed an awkward about-face, and left.

  With the tray of coffee supported on one arm, Brian locked the door. A final peek through the view hole appeased him somewhat. The sun had set and the room was aglow with too many lights, which created too many revealing shadows to the outside world. He set the tray down and turned off the overhead chandelier, and then stooped to switch off one of the bedside lanterns. One lamp was left to cast a soothing glow that transformed the white furniture into a sultry shade of peach.

  Only now did he return to her gaze.

  If he thought Emily’s eyes were like midnight, it was evident that there was a place darker than that. There was no trace of the warm Caribbean Sea he wallowed in. It was only a faint memory in the eclipse around her enlarged pupils. Unblinking, she watched him, and Brian was reminded of that same uncanny stare that the eccentric engineer had applied.

  “Do you want some soup?” Emily asked quietly.

  I want you.

  Brian dropped down on the foot of the bed. His elbows rested on his knees while his chin was caught in the rough grip of his hand. Preoccupied, he massaged the pain.

  Emily was seated on the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under her as she reached across the wicker end-table to ladle the golden broth into a bowl. The aroma attacked one of his senses. The other was still wrapped in the thought that just recklessly bolted through his head.

  That was exactly what he wanted. To walk over to that couch, haul her up into his arms, and bring her back to bed where he could satisfy every one of his curiosities. He wanted to learn more of the tender touch of the angel that had sheltered him in the hospital.

  “Brian?” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

  He nearly laughed aloud. No, he wasn’t okay. But the fact that she asked that simple question in that tender inclination made him feel a lot better. This was his angel. He realized that the criminal in her—the woman on the run—that was not her. This was her core self, he was sure of it.

  “I think some of that soup, and some sleep is going to do wonders.”

  “But—” Her eyes fled to the windows. There was no need to voice the rest.

  Stiffly he rose and drew down the yellowed shades. An external light brightened the back porch and a small radius of the back yard. For now he believed them to be safe. Barcuda’s men had most likely found the Blazer and figured they skipped town on a bus. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to work with to buy time until he could find the engineer and understand better the motivation behind this whole mess.

  When he turned away from the window, his gaze found hers. “Okay, we’re alone. We’re not going anywhere. Now is the time, Em.”

  “For what?” She swallowed, and her leg came down off the couch.

  “For you to talk. I’ve put my neck on the line here, and I don’t even know what the hell for. Don’t go getting grand illusions that I’m trying to protect you. Just being in your proximity has put me on some sort of hit list.”

  He took a step and glared down at her. “And I want to know why. Dammit, I deserve that. You’ve drawn me—hell, you’ve drawn my best friend into your web. It’s time to talk.”

  Emily wanted to shrink back into the pillows. With the light radiating behind him, Brian’s silhouette was a testimony to power. An athletic body, with long muscular thighs tensed in confrontation. His shoulders were bunched as if struggling not to grab her around the throat and physically extract the answers from her. She trembled at the image, but lifted her head to the challenge and met his eyes dead on. Her voice failed her.

  “Emily,” He ground out.

  “Yes, yes. You’re right. You’ve helped me when you didn’t have to. Just give me a few minutes rest and I’ll leave. As you pointed out, if I’m not around, you’ll be safe.”

  “Dammit,” The giant fell. Those long legs ducked down as he crouched on the edge of the mattress, the intensity of his gaze ebbing. “That’s not what I’m looking for. You aren’t going anywhere until I figure out what’s happening here.”

  The gravity in his expression made Emily realize that that was the truth. He would never let her leave. It was a sobering thought and it made her desperate. Air seeped from her body as she sank back against the pillows.

  “I’m sorry,” Her hea
d shook back and forth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Emily,” Brian leaned forward. She thought he was going to reach for her. She wanted that. Oh how she wanted his arms around her. So much strength—just to be engulfed by it, to feel wrapped in his security. For once she wanted to be the weak one and have someone take care of her. Was that an absurd desire?

  A brief cry of frustration bubbled over her lips. It was selfish, that’s what it was. Colin needed her. She had to be strong.

  “I stole those plans.” She declared. “What more do you need to know?”

  His shoulders seemed to relax. She noticed the heavy shadow around his jaw. The stubble made him look dark and attractive to the point of sinful.

  “Why is a good start.”

  “Misappropriation.” She responded dryly.

  “By NMD?”

  “Yes,” She took a steadying breath. “If you built a model airplane, and let’s just say it was a large enough model for people to fit in. Would you trust a model to fly them half way around the world?”

  “No,” Brian reached for the bowl of soup Emily handed him, and in doing so, touched her fingers. “If the model was made of plastic, I would expect it to disintegrate once it got a taste of air pressure.”

  “Exactly.” She smiled but concealed the gesture with a sip of soup. “Now suppose you built that model airplane during your lunch break at work, does it mean it’s now the property of your employer?”

  “Whoah,” He shook his head, interpreting her point. “It doesn’t work that way, Em.” He set the bowl down on the floor. “If you built that model airplane on your lunch break, in a plant that manufactures model airplanes, then the line gets very thin and fuzzy.”

  “So I’m finding out.”

  From the depths of Emily’s purse, the muted shrill of her cell phone sounded an alarm. She stared at the leather bag down by her feet as if it were eight million miles away. Frantically she sought Brian’s gaze and mouthed the words what do I do?