by Rebecca York
“No. She was alive and well and eating apple pie a half hour ago.”
The older man cursed. “You checked on that personally?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“Listen, we’re supposed to trust each other.”
“Yeah,” came the gruff response.
“Do you have a Plan B?”
“I’m setting up another opportunity.”
“Good. Make it work this time.”
“I can’t give you any guarantees.” Before he had to listen to any more whining, he turned and stalked into the night.
###
Hunter pulled off his shirt, pants and shoes and climbed into bed in his briefs just like on all the nights he could remember since they’d trusted him to get ready for bed by himself.
But this wasn’t like all the other nights, he thought as he lay staring into the darkness, mulling over the way his life had suddenly changed.
The mere fact that he was thinking in such terms astonished him. For a long time, he had followed orders without questioning how they made him feel. In the space of a few hours he had been bombarded with more feelings than he knew existed. Now he was angry. Not with Kathryn Kelley. Never her. His ire was directed at his attacker and Winslow—who had spoiled dessert by stomping into the house as if he owned it.
Hunter sighed. Winslow had the right to question training methods. And tonight was supposed to be part of that. Yet it had been so much more. He felt a hollow place open in his chest. He should have stayed at the table. Finished dessert. Kept talking to her. Touching her.
But he wasn’t supposed to touch, he reminded himself, even if she said it was okay. Because simply pressing his fingers against hers had made him want to do things that were forbidden.
He tried to switch his thoughts to weapons. Clandestine communications. The art of covert operations. Anything besides Kathryn Kelley.
But he couldn’t drive her from his mind. Too much had happened since that moment he had almost run into her car. Too much had happened tonight.
He clenched his fists, unable to cope with the unaccustomed emotions seething inside him. He was a warrior. Destined for a specific purpose. His life would be short. He had come to realize that essential fact months ago and had dismissed it as irrelevant. For the first time he felt a kind of sadness. Not for the end of his life. For leaving her. That would come sooner.
He looked toward the door, remembering the sounds of her walking down the hall, getting undressed. Now he imagined her lying on the bed. Naked. Her blue eyes open. Her creamy skin against the white sheets. The roundness of her breasts. And the wonderful red color of her hair against the white pillowcase.
His body tightened as he pictured her holding out her hand to him the way she had reached across the table tonight.
He hadn’t imagined anything could feel as good as her hand on his. Or that intense. The feeling flooded back through him as he lay with his eyes closed, thinking about her, and he had to gather up a wad of bedding in each of his powerful hands to keep himself from getting up and striding into her room.
He tried to drive her out of his mind by remembering the taste of the warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top. In its own way, the taste was almost as good as the sensation of tasting her. Almost, but not quite. The effect of her on his senses was beyond imagining. Yet it brought pain as well as pleasure.
Once he had had the flu. He’d had a high fever, and his body had ached. He felt a little like that now. Hot and achy. It was because his body wanted to mate with hers. The urge to mate was a powerful force. He had read that somewhere. Now he understood what it meant.
In the darkness, he gave a little snort. He might want her, but he didn’t know much about how to do it. He’d probably screw it up.
The observation brought another sound to his throat. Screw. That was a word for doing it. Not a nice word, but one the men used. He had heard other words, too. Like horny. He understood that now. Too well, since he was lying here as stiff as an animal horn.
Again, his fists clenched around the wads of sheet. He kept picturing himself leaning over her, closing his mouth around the crest of her breast. Tasting her. Stroking her with his tongue. Probably she would think he was disgusting if he did anything like that.
Don’t think about it, he ordered himself. She is your friend. That is enough. Yet he knew he was lying to himself. It wasn’t enough.
###
Kathryn slept fitfully, waking and thinking about the man lying in bed across the hall. So much had happened since she’d met him, that her mind was in chaos. It seemed no one at Stratford Creek besides her thought of Hunter as a human being with needs and rights. He was their test subject—who might go berserk if not handled correctly or who might escape if given the chance. But he was too honorable to run from them. That was one of the complexities of the personality they had tried to obliterate.
Now that she’d gotten a chance to interact with him, she couldn’t for a moment imagine that he was a convict volunteer. She had studied enough criminals to characterize their basic behavior. They were dishonest, shortsighted, unable to postpone gratification, and averse to following rules. They were also mean and nasty. If they weren’t dumb as a post, they were psychopaths with inadequate personalities.
All of that was just the opposite of what she’d learned about Hunter. He was fundamentally decent, law-abiding. Honest. Highly intelligent, possessed of amazing self-restraint. Ready to protect her whether that was to his advantage or not. Those were not the traits of a felon. They were the hallmarks of a good and decent man whose innate integrity had survived Swinton’s hellish experiment.
She supposed the best thing to hope for was that they hadn’t had him long enough to damage him permanently. Or, she thought with a strangled sound that didn’t quite make it as a laugh, that he’d watched enough Father Knows Best reruns to have some sense of life beyond the confines of Stratford Creek.
Talk about grasping at straws, she thought, sitting up in bed and swiping her hand through her hair. Life as a fifties sitcom. She could be the mom. And what would he be? Not her son. And not her brother. That had become clear. Pulling up her knees, she sat with her chin in her hands, contemplating her relationship with Hunter.
Basically, she’d been hired to work with him, and it was highly unprofessional to be considering anything beyond that. Yet she couldn’t help being drawn to him. Or responding to him physically. Just as he responded to her. Every time they touched, she could feel the heat building between them. But that didn’t make it a good idea. Really, she had to figure out a way to cool things down—which was going to be difficult with them sharing the same house.
She wasn’t going to ask for a change of quarters, though. Being near him suited her purposes too well. She had promised herself she was going to help him. And somewhere along the line, she’d come to understand that meant getting him away from Stratford Creek. The trouble was, she didn’t have a clue about how to accomplish that goal, she conceded with a stab of chagrin. And she wasn’t used to living and working under siege conditions. There was a digital recorder hidden behind an access panel in the hall. She was restricted to the grounds. And she suspected she wasn’t going to be allowed to check Hunter out on a day pass to Deep Creek Lake.
The man himself was another major problem. They’d been indoctrinating him for months, and she’d heard him tell Winslow he wasn’t going to run away. Could she convince him that leaving was an honorable option?
Hands clasped tightly together, she vowed she’d find a way to do it. And when they were someplace safe, she could help him regain his memories—starting with the few things that seemed to have carried over from his former life. Which brought her to the topic she’d been avoiding, she silently admitted. He told her twice now that he remembered her. She was more convinced than ever that they’d never met. Yet she knew there was a kind of bonding between them. How else did you account for the instant physical response that was more potent th
an anything she’d ever experienced in her life?
She turned that around in her mind for a while, unable to come up with any answers. Around six a.m., knowing that she wasn’t going back to sleep, she got up, showered, and dressed in gray slacks and a turquoise knit shirt. Pulling aside the curtain, she saw two security men standing at the bottom of the front steps. Close enough to come to her rescue if they heard a scream from inside. The thought made her snort. Winslow had it the wrong way around. All her experiences here had taught her they were the threat, not Hunter.
When she came into the living room, she found him sitting in front of the television set with the sound muted.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said without looking up.
“But you can’t hear anything.”
“I can read their lips,” he answered, his gaze flicking briefly to her before focusing on the screen again.
She nodded, no longer surprised by anything he told her.
He had barely looked at her, but he must have heard her getting dressed. Was he fascinated by the weatherman’s report of a high-pressure system building over the Ohio Valley, or was he trying to avoid talking to her?
“Read my lips: no new taxes,” she said.
“George Bush,” he replied in a monotone.
How many facts did he have at his fingertips, she wondered, even as she felt the sting of his rejection—even as she told herself he had a perfect right to privacy. They had connected intensely last night, and he might be having trouble handling his emotional and physical responses. He might be trying to distance himself from her. She’d been lying in bed wondering how to do just that. She should be grateful to him for taking the initiative. Instead, she couldn’t help feeling hurt.
Very professional, Dr. Kelley, she thought. Annoyed at herself, she crossed to the kitchen and found a loaf of bread and some crumbs on the counter and a steak knife in the sink. On it were the dregs of some peanut butter. It appeared that he’d licked the knife. Another distinctive scent also lingered in the air. Peering into the trash, she found a banana skin and couldn’t repress a grin. It looked like Hunter had fixed himself a breakfast sandwich.
She walked to the kitchen doorway. “You like peanut butter and banana?”
He shrugged. “Granger talked about it once. I wanted to see why he liked it so much.”
“What did you think?”
“It was strange.” He glanced briefly toward the counter. “I should have cleaned up better.”
“I’ll do it later.”
When he turned back to the television, she pulled open the nearest cupboard. “Did you leave room for some pancakes?”
That got his full attention. He focused on her with an undisguised look of naked hope. “Do we have any?”
“I bought a box of mix. Why don’t you get out the syrup while I start making them?”
He trotted into the kitchen, rummaged in the cabinet, and came up with a plastic bottle of syrup. Not the real thing, but the only alternative available.
“I can set the table again,” he offered, and she wondered if he was feeling guilty about his lack of communicativeness.
“Thank you. And you can make coffee.”
“How?”
She handed him two of the pods next to the machine on the counter. “Read the directions.”
He read quickly and followed instructions exactly, she noticed, as she mixed the batter.
“Good,” she complimented him as she ladled batter into the pan.
“It takes a long time to make them,” he said, licking his lips.
“You can have the first two.”
He looked torn, but finally said, “No. Finish making all of them. We can share.”
“Why do you want to do that?” she asked.
“I—” He shrugged. “It seems like the right thing to do.”
“Good instincts,” she whispered, wanting to lay her hand on his arm. Instead, she picked up the turner.
He watched her work for a moment, then went back to the television set—leaving her alone again. As she often did when she felt lonely or emotional, she began to hum and then to sing. She picked a folk song she’d learned long ago at camp, a song that took its words from the book of Ecclesiastes in The Bible. Not the version that Pete Seeger had adapted but one that was more faithful to the original text.
To every thing there is a season
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born, and a time to die
A time to kill and a time to heal
A time to weep, and a time to laugh.
While the pancakes cooked, she poured the coffee and added milk and sugar to hers.
“How do you want your coffee?” she asked.
“How can I have it?”
“With milk and sugar. With just milk. Or just sugar. Or black.
“Milk and sugar sound good,” he said wistfully
Maybe they’d never offered it to him any way but black, she thought, turning away to open the refrigerator.
“Are you angry at me?” she asked as she set down the plate of pancakes.
“No,” he denied.
“Why wouldn’t you look at me this morning?”
“I—” he stopped, swallowed. “I’m not used to. . . conversation.”
She knew that was part of the truth. She wouldn’t press him for the rest. Silently, she handed him a plate, then watched him enjoy breakfast. Cooking for him on a regular basis would be very gratifying, she thought, then warned herself not to think in those terms.
After they carried their plates to the sink, she touched his arm and looked down the hall toward the tape recorder. Let’s go outside so we can talk, she mouthed, thinking that it was convenient that at least one of them could read lips.
He nodded and followed her into the yard.
Last night, she’d wondered about the wisdom of trusting him with her plans. This morning she’d decided that she needed his help. Yet she still didn’t know how much she could tell him.
“What do you want to say?” he asked.
She ran a hand through her hair. “I need some background on the senior staff, so I have a better idea of what’s going on here.”
“I can get that for you.”
She stared at him. “How?”
“I have a computer session this afternoon. I can download personnel files onto a thumb drive to use in your laptop.” He paused, considering. “Do not . . . don’t transfer the files to your hard drive. Leave them on the thumb drive and erase the data when you are finished.”
Relieved, she grinned at him. “What other talents do you have that I don’t know about?
“I’m an expert mountain climber. I have a black belt in Karate. I am qualified on many types of personal firearms and knives. I am certified as an emergency medical technician. I speak five languages fluently. I can drive a car. I heard Dr. Swinton say that in one of my brilliant careers before I died, I was a decathlon champion.”
Chapter Seven
Hunter felt Kathryn grab his arm. “What?” she wheezed. “What did you say?”
Patiently, he began again. “I am an expert—”
“No.” She waved her hand for him to stop. “The last part. What did you hear Dr. Swinton say?”
“He said that—” he halted, his chest tightening as he realized what came next. “—that in one of my brilliant careers before I died, I was a decathlon champion.”
“But you aren’t dead!” she exclaimed with a combination of frustration and elation, her hands trying to shake him the way Beckton sometimes tried to shake some sense into him. But her touch was very different.
“I—” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush as he considered the meaning of the words. His mind worked like that sometimes. He had information. Yet he didn’t know the significance until someone else pointed it out. Holding up his right hand, he clenched and unclenched the fingers. “I feel alive.�
��
“Of course, you are!”
Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart, making the rhythm speed up. Could she detect his reaction?
He closed his eyes and covered her fingers with his for a moment, pressing her hand tight to himself, feeling the imprint of each separate finger like a brand. Then he made himself take his hand away.
“When did he say it?” she demanded. “When did Swinton say you were an athlete before you . . . before you died?” she demanded.
His eyes blinked open. “A long time ago, in the lab. He was lecturing Beckton. He said to push me hard because I had been a decathlon champion.”
She stared at him, cleared her throat. “Only one of your brilliant careers!”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember any careers.” He had thought nothing came before waking up in Swinton’s laboratory. Was it possible he was wrong?
“In your computer session, can you get onto the Web? Can you download me information on decathlon champions who died?” she asked.
He didn’t let himself get excited about it. Or hopeful. Hope could be dangerous, he had learned. “I can try,” was all he said.
“We can find out who you are,” She sounded breathless. Transformed.
This morning had been bad. He had been cold with her, thinking that pretending he wasn’t aware of her every move, her every look would make life easier. He had been wrong. The sad expression on her face had made him want to hold her close. Stroke her. Tell her he was sorry for making her feel bad.
Now she was happy, and he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying her enthusiasm. She was so pleased. So excited.
“On television there used to be a show about the ‘Six Million Dollar Man,’” she went on in a rush. “He was nearly killed in an accident, and scientists repaired his body using bionic parts. Then they trained him and sent him out on important missions. It was just a story, but maybe they found a way to do it.”
He gave a casual shrug, sorry she had thought of it. “I have training,” he said curtly. He didn’t have to tell her the other things. That wasn’t lying, he told himself firmly.
“I—” she stopped.
