"Hunter was glad to respond to her need," Rio said, completing the niceties.
Marina grew more serious as she added, "I am one of few who know who you are. I will make certain you are aware of the others, most of whom are modestly involved in our inexperienced security efforts. To everyone else, you are merely visitors. Doña Amaia often opens her home to the most obscure of relatives, so no one will consider your presence unusual."
"And the Doña?" Kimmer asked. Rio caught it, then—the faint tip of her head, the tension in her shoulders. Waiting for what the woman hadn't yet said.
The smile disappeared; those stern lips thinned. With reluctance, Marina said, "She is detained in Barcelona, where she spends much of her time. We had hoped she could meet you here, but her health...it has been troublesome of late. We do not speak widely of it."
I've got a feeling about this, he thought loudly at Kimmer, but didn't voice it. He'd had his chance to say no; he hadn't.
"Let us start with the villa," Marina said, smiling again. "Leave your luggage—someone will see to it. And is that...that does not look like a rental car—?"
"It's a loaner," Kimmer said, as careful with her words as she ever was. "Do the Doña's guests often draw unwelcome attention at the airport?" And then, when Marina responded with nothing more than a blank look, she added, "Some men tried to take us. This is their car."
Her surprise would have been hard to fake. "To take you! But—"
"We didn't hang around," Kimmer said dryly, relaxing just enough so Rio knew he'd been right—Marina hadn't known about the incident. "The car seemed handy."
"But—the men—"
"In the hands of the Guardia, probably."
Rio couldn't help a cheery smile. "Worse for wear, too. I thought these incidents had faded since the arrest?"
Marina waved her hands in a distressed fashion. "They have, they have. This is terrible. I don't think I should tell the Doña—" She gave them each a sharp look, assessing their appearance—recognizing, belatedly, the signs of their scuffle—seeing Kimmer's bare foot. "You are without a shoe!"
"I have other shoes," Kimmer said. "And we're fine. But we'd like to discuss this incident with the Doña. We need to figure out if we were attacked for who we are, or who we're supposed to be."
Marina spent a moment in thought. "No one knows the true circumstances of your arrival. Although things have been much more peaceful here since the cease-fire and discussions with the ETA, lately..." She hesitated, casting Kimmer a reluctant look.
That's my cue. Rio faded several steps away, distracting himself with an examination of the villa. After years in the field cultivating foreign assets for the CIA—understandably cautious assets who were understandably reluctant to spy on their own governments—he knew when to give an informant a little space.
And he'd been good at it, too; he'd liked it. He'd felt it was important work, even if the injury would have changed the nature of it.
No, the injury hadn't driven him out of the Agency. But for Rio—who valued family, friends, and loyalty—the betrayal of a fellow agent from within meant that the Agency no longer felt like home.
Hunter had yet to prove itself one way or the other.
Marina was saying, "They call themselves Basajaun—a name from our myths—a spirit who dwells in deepest caves and forests, and who protects this land. They say that is what they do, but...where the ETA has targeted politicos and institutions, these people strike at influential families to make their points. They call us traitors and collaborators. We, who have been here as long as or longer than any!"
The ETA turned uncivilized. Now there was a thought.
"And Richard and Kimberly are here to visit an influential family." Kimmer shook her head. "Probably nothing to do with our undercover status, then." She glanced at Rio, who lifted his shoulder—part shrug, part agreement. They'd send their glove box intel to Hunter, but it seemed that Kimberly and Rick Haight had been the ones in trouble today, not Kimmer Reed and Rio Carlsen.
"Please," Marina said. "As long as you are both unharmed, let us forget about this terrible thing for now. Allow me to show you around the villa—to offer you a light meal. Tomorrow, you can see to the arrangements for the antiquity. It is soon enough."
Kimmer gave Rio a shrug; it'd give them the evening to connect with Hunter and prowl around without scrutiny. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and kicked off her second clog sneaker to go barefoot.
The villa boasted only a modest alarm system at the front entry, but the authorative architecture within was more impressive--an airy cathedral foyer with exposed beams at the ceiling, a stairway off to the side, everything whitewashed and spacious and groaning with the importance of heritage. The kitchen was a modern wonder, the stairways narrow, and the partial second floor lined with a wood banister. Outside the back of the house, a stone terrace interfaced with the hill, sporting planters of lush green ivy and cascades of the outrageously large red blooms. Their rooms were adjoining, and both had glass doors leading to the terrace, an area made more private by the skillful arrangement of stucco walls. The shared bathroom was tiny but modern and full of Mediterranean tile.
Pleased with their genuine delight at the villa, Marina led them back to the dining area—a huge table with place settings at only one end. "Tomorrow you will see the arrangements for the antiquity and meet more of the staff," she said. "But for tonight, it is just the three of us."
How long had it been since those cookies? Rio sat happily before txnagurro rellano, a spicy stuffed crab arrangement eaten with a snappy white wine called Txakoli. Not far from the sea at that.
And though Rio made easy small talk with Marina, he also could easily see the wheels turning in Kimmer's head. She wouldn't wait until the next day to see the arrangements for the antiquity, he could see that right away. He also clearly caught the look she sent him as they received a dessert of light sherbet. As hampered as she was when it came to interviewing the staff as Kimberly, she'd seen someone she wanted to talk to.
He'd find out who soon enough. Whatever Marina had planned for the evening, he and Kimmer would tidy up a few loose ends and then quietly explore the villa. With the Basajaun adding themselves to the mix, they couldn't afford to...afford to...
He realized, then, that he'd lost the thread of the conversation—that Kimmer was saying with distaste, "Step-siblings. As adults."
"Oh, but it is perfect." Marina took the last spoonful of her sherbet. "Just the lightest touch of scandal to draw the eye away from what's really there. And the Doña was so grateful that you could attend her need. She had heard so many good things about you—"
"Where?" Kimmer's interruption came lightly, but she cast Rio a look—pay attention, it said. This is important.
Marina dabbed at her lips with the napkin. "I beg your pardon?"
"Where did the Doña hear of us?" Kimmer asked again, playing in her sherbet. When she looked up to pin her suddenly intense gaze on Marina, the older woman fumbled her napkin.
"I—" she said, nonplused. "I'm afraid I didn't ask her that. I only know that she said it to me."
Kimmer gave the tiny little nod that meant the woman's subtlest body language cues matched her words, and finished her sherbet. Rio discovered that his sat barely touched before him; he stared at the cut crystal bowl. Stared rather stupidly, even if he had to say it himself. God, was he getting that old? Jet lag had hit him that hard?
He suddenly realized that Kimmer had cleared her throat. Loudly. And that she was saying, "I'm sorry. He didn't travel well. Maybe it would be best if we retired for the evening."
"Certainly." Marina was nothing if not understanding. She probably saw a lot of the Doña's travel-stupid relatives. "We can start fresh tomorrow." And she added a congenial Spanish phrase that Rio might have been able to puzzle out if he'd had half a brain. Kimmer responded in kind, and then she was at his side, tugging him to his feet.
He felt as though he should have something to say...but not
hing came to mind. He followed her to his assigned second floor room, lurching against the narrow staircase...stepping on Kimmer's foot a number of times to boot. Damn, but she was patient, yanking her bare toes out from under his with such apparent speed that he pondered the possibility that he now existed in a parallel, slowed universe.
It could happen.
Once in his room, she made sure he found the bed—she pulled off his sneakers, and then his pants. She checked that the overhead fan was set to lazily stir the air, pulled the window drapes, and finally bent over to prod him once in the chest. "You should have told me if you were going to take more stuff for your back," she said, a glint of betrayal surfacing in her dark blue eyes.
She was counting on me, he realized. To cover her back this evening in the villa. And then, I didn't take any more—which he tried to say out loud but got stuck in a grunt.
He hadn't. Had he?
But here he was. An idiot. With Kimmer's kiss lingering on his lips and the overhead light snapping out as she hit the switch at the door and closed it behind her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHAPTER 4
Kimmer prowled out her annoyance on the perfectly nice room she'd been given. She checked it for bugs, then checked it twice. Angry at Rio, angry at herself. Of course he'd needed to take another round of meds to get his back through the tail end of the trip. Even if he should have told me. And how feeble had she grown, that after such a short time together, she needed a partner to proceed?
She damned well didn't.
Working together means being able to work apart.
And it meant getting his back when he was down.
But it didn't feel quite like that, somehow. It felt...
Alone.
She grabbed her camera—better than comfort food—and framed an offset image of the antique dresser. The dresser, the heavily carved mirror frame—a close-up or two, there, filling her world—and she felt herself relax.
She stopped, then, setting the camera aside and letting go of the remaining trickle of worry and hurt and sliding back into Chimera...breathing in the room around her—the spacial feel of it, the smells, the scant clues of its layout in the falling darkness. Lavender—she took another deep breath—and, somewhere, cedar. Faint light trickled in through the open curtains and the terrace door; darkest shadows marked the wardrobe and beneath the bed.
Once she'd marked it all in her mind, she walked it—learning the hard tasseled edges of the area rug and the corners of the furniture, finding the lights...marking the exits.
And then, quite matter-of-factly, she flipped on the light, closed the curtains, and withdrew their shared laptop from the luggage that sat neatly beside the bed. A few moments with a satellite connection and a hand scanner over the crumpled pages from the glove box, and Hunter would be on the trail, such as it was, of the men at the airport. Late afternoon in the Finger Lakes left plenty of time to get started.
But the car...the car had to go. It should have been taken care of this evening, but Rio...
First thing tomorrow would be good enough, she told herself.
She took a moment to answer email from the girls, letting them know she and Rio were fine and were enjoying their business trip. She told them about the stuffed crab entree, knowing the giggly-shrieky reaction that would get from the girls. She told them again how Caro was coming just to see them—and warned Karlene that Caro knew exactly what poison ivy looked like.
She wished she could find a way to tell them to be kind to Caro, her newly acquired cousin-in-need, but...they were still learning how to be kind to themselves. And what did Kimmer know of such family dynamics, anyway? She signed off with hugs and kisses that still didn't feel quite right, but for which Sandy in particular showed a craving—and which she knew, with all her hot, hard memories, that feisty little Karlene needed most of all.
And then, because she had a moment, she scrolled through the heavily filtered junk folder in search of misfiled mail. Blah, blah enhancements blah performance blah stock market secrets! All forwarded from her seldom-used public account—only the girls and her Hunter associates had that address.
Except...
What was that? Personalized, but unfamiliar...some sort of anonymous remailer, straight to her Hunter account. Virus free, or it wouldn't still be sitting on this heavily protected server, but...she gave it a squint, and clicked it open.
THINKING OF YOU.
All-caps shouting, no signature. Right here in her private email.
She scowled at the monitor, kicked the email into a forwarding window, and made a note to Owen. We have to talk about this when I get back.
Someone knew where she lived...and cared. Someone knew her off-the grid email address...and wanted her to know about it. There had to be a point...
Or not. Sometimes, harassment was the point. Who knew what toes she'd stepped on while repeatedly saving her little corner of the world?
She logged off but left the machine running; if Rio happened to wake, he'd know she'd been at work; he'd be able to log on if he wanted. Maybe by then they'd have the villa personnel files on which he was taking point.
But she didn't expect him to wake. Not as hard and fast as he'd gone down.
She jittered around the room another moment, thinking about her options. Early bed, as wise as it would be, held no appeal. Too much sleep on the plane. She did a few spontaneous jumping jacks; skipped an invisible rope. Maybe a run along the country road. Maybe a sly skulk or two around the antiquity.
But skulking...she couldn't quite bring herself to move ahead without Rio.
Not fear or concern, no—not for herself, or for leaving him here. Just a reluctance to leave that hard-won partnership behind.
So she dug into her luggage for her running shoes, streamlined Adidas Litestrikes that left her feet feeling free. Lycra running shorts, a loose tank top over her sports bra, a slim LCD flashlight card strung around her wrist, and Kimmer slipped out to the terrace to find her way down to the driveway from there.
The right decision. She knew it as soon as her feet struck up a good running stride. The rich crab fueled her; she'd gone several miles on the flat, winding road before she even thought about turning around, and even then, when she arrived back at the villa, it was with plenty of energy to spare. Silently, she made her way back to the terrace, where she stretched out in evening air gone muggy, lit by a waxing moon just now rising—and by the glow of the single light she'd left on, filtering through the curtains.
A shower, she thought. And then she'd be ready for bed. Or she should be ready for bed. She didn't feel it yet. Face it. You don't get so many overseas assignments to be used to it.
She walked through the terrace door with the oversized tank top—Rio's—halfway over her head, moving by memory—and stopped short.
A new smell. Spicy. Not food.
Aftershave.
She dropped the hem of the shirt, pivoting to take out the glowing little bedside lamp with her foot. She had a glimpse of a startled form jumping up from the wing-backed chair in the corner, and then the lamp crashed into darkness.
"I know this room in the dark," she told the man in Spanish. "Do you?"
He took an obvious step toward her in the dark. "Please," he said, and reached for her.
"Your mistake," she muttered. Because I'm not there anymore. She slid around behind him, silent in the soft-soled running shoes—and unleashed a controlled kick into the small of his back, sending him straight into the bed. Face first in the soft feather duvet, and she leapt for him, landing on his back and scrabbling for his arms.
He fought to turn his head away from the enveloping duvet, hunting air. "Por faphbvr!" he cried, garbled as it was.
There was a panicked sincerity in his voice; it caught at her. She leaned on the puffy material, clearing his mouth. "Speak," she demanded.
"Larraitz—no, Marina," he gasped. "Sent me."
Ah?
"To my room?" Kimmer inquired, her voice all
silk. "To do what, exactly?"
"Let me up now?" he suggested, using heavily accented English in a tone that suggested this should please her. It revealed the youth in his voice and the macho in his thinking, but she heard nothing of threat.
Still. "Not just yet." She offered a subtle demonstration of just how much more uncomfortable he could be if she shifted her knees just so. On another bed, a hard bed, he could have rolled or thrown her. Not on this one—and he didn't seem inclined to try.
He grunted, a wordless acquiescence.
"To do what?" Kimmer repeated.
He sighed—no mean feat under the circumstances. "To watch for you," he said in English, then hesitated. "No, that's not right. To watch out for you? To help. To make sure no thing of wrongness happens."
"She thinks we need protection?" Kimmer didn't hide her affront. Not that Rio had made an impression this evening, but still.
"No, no, no." There was that touch of panic again; he turned earnest. "To make the beginning, ah..."
"I do speak Spanish," she told him. Not Basque, which would probably get inconvenient before this job was over, but for now Spanish would do.
Apparently he'd forgotten it in the scuffle, for he instantly broke into a fast babble. "It is just a courtesy, that's all. I can run errands, I can help watch—whatever you would want. I am at your disposal."
"What you are," Kimmer said, stern enough to hide her rising amusement, "is in my room. At night."
That silenced him for a moment. "Oh," he said. "That."
Laughter lurked behind her throat; she shoved it back. "What's your name?"
"Jurdan," he said, and his hope leaked through. He thought the worst was over. "Now, I can get up?"
"Let's just deal with why you're in my room."
He shifted beneath her knees. "Just to see if you needed anything before the rest of the household went to bed. Marina—"
"Larraitz?" Kimmer suggested. A terrible liar, this one. She'd figure that part out later.
He went sideways. "You did not respond, but...there was a light. So I—"
Making the Rules Page 4
