by Cindy Dees
Knife wounds? Shooting? “General, if you’re trying to inspire confidence in me about the man, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”
“Ma’am, Brian Riley is as fine a soldier as I’ve ever had the privilege to work with. Hear him out. And please. Give his request serious consideration. We did our level best to spare you—looked high and low for someone else we could bring into this operation. But you’re it.”
What in blue blazes was Wittenauer talking about? Doubtfully, she said, “Thank you for confirming his identity at any rate, General.”
“My pleasure. I’ll look forward to hearing from you again, Miss Giovanni.”
Riigghht.
She hung up the phone, roundly confused. She looked over at her companion.
“He said to ask for your concealed-weapons permit or your official passport.”
Riley reached for his wallet.
“Just pass me the whole thing.” That made him look up hard. The way his eyes glittered made it clear he didn’t like the idea of her pawing through his wallet. Nonetheless, she held out her hand. His jaw muscles rippling, he handed her the leather billfold.
No pictures of kids. No women, either. North Carolina driver’s license naming him Brian T. Riley. A couple of credit cards. Hundreds of dollars in cash caught her attention, though. “It’s not safe to carry that much money on you, you know.”
He stretched out, lounging across the chair with the casual power of a lion. “Who’s going to take it from me and live?”
She gulped and tore her gaze away from all that muscle.
“The concealed-weapons permit is in the pocket behind the credit cards. You’ll have to dig it out. Not something I flash around often.”
She wedged out the laminated card. The picture on it made him look like a cover model. She looked up at him. “Take off your shirt, please.”
“What?”
“General Wittenauer said I should check out your scars. They can’t be faked.”
She thought she heard him curse under his breath, but he leaned forward and peeled off the soft, black cotton polo shirt.
Sweet merciful Heaven. She was not one of those women who swooned at the sight of a half-naked man, but this one made her come close. Suddenly the cover model sat across from her in the flesh. She glanced up from acres of ripped muscles at his face. He was smirking at her, darn him! She scowled back. “How’d you get that scar on your shoulder?”
“AK-47 in Afghanistan.”
“And that scar on your stomach?”
“Which one?” he drawled. “I got the little one over here when I had my appendix out. I got this one—” Using his index finger, he traced a long, puckered white line wrapping from his left side almost all the way to his belly button. “—in a knife fight in Tel Aviv.”
Her eyes widened, following the mesmerizing path of that tanned finger across the washboard muscles of his stomach. She practically had to shake herself to get her brain in gear again. “Would you mind showing me your right hand?”
He held it out silently, palm down.
She leaned forward across the narrow aisle separating them. Her fingers touched his and the world stopped spinning. His gaze jerked up to hers in surprise, and all of a sudden, she was drowning in the lazy, warm, tropical ocean that was Brian Riley’s turquoise eyes. Such power in that gaze.
Such power in those long fingers lying still within hers. The pinkie was crooked near the base. His nails were short. Neat. Pale against his bronze skin. Slowly, she turned his hand over. And gasped at the angry red scar slashing across his palm. Only peripherally did she notice the heavy callous at the base of his thumb as advertised.
“Hell of a life line, isn’t it?” he rasped.
“Does it hurt?” she breathed. She couldn’t stop herself from running her fingertip lightly over the wound. A fine shudder passed through him. “What happened?”
He shifted uncomfortably but didn’t remove his hand from her grasp. “A guy pointed a semi-automatic machine gun at me. He’d been firing it for a while and the barrel was hot. When I grabbed the gun to dissuade him from shooting me, I burned my hand.”
Her stomach tightened at the thought of how painful that must have been. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He forced a laugh and extracted his hand from her grasp. “You’re sorry I got burned, or that he didn’t shoot me?”
She gave him a reproachful look and didn’t bother to answer. She leaned back in her seat. But it wasn’t anywhere near far enough from him to dampen the sexy vibes pouring off him—or her reaction to them. He shrugged back into his shirt. But the close atmosphere of the jet remained charged.
“Okay, I believe you. You’re Captain Brian Riley. Now what?”
He sighed. “I’m afraid this conversation hasn’t gotten off to a good start. You look like you’re planning to put my eye out any second, and we haven’t even gotten to the part that’s going to make you mad, ma’am.”
“You can stop calling me ma’am. It makes me feel older and dowdier than I already am.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to protest. Closed it. Opened it again and said, “I’m involved with a very important investigation. You’re here because I need your help.”
“What sort of help?”
“The information I’m about to share with you is highly classified. It actually is a matter of national security. Before I tell all, though, I need to inform you that a background check has been performed on you and a top-secret clearance was issued for you yesterday.”
Sophie stared. “You’re kidding.”
“I have a form I need you to read and sign that explains the legalities of such a clearance.”
She checked his eyes for signs of humor. But he was one-hundred-percent serious. She shamelessly watched the way his taupe dress slacks hugged his muscular thighs and juicy tush as he climbed into the cargo area in the back of the jet and fetched his briefcase. My, my, my.
Perching it on his knees, he opened the case, reached inside and pulled out a government document with attached carbon copies.
“If you could read and sign this…”
She took the document and scanned it quickly. The dry legalese didn’t faze her. She dealt with this sort of stuff all day long. It did indeed appear that she was now the proud owner of her very own top-secret clearance.
“Don’t these things take a long time to do?” Even in the heat of a high-profile criminal trial, a decent background check took several days and a whole lot of man-hours.
“My investigation is high priority.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Please sign the clearance paperwork first.”
He held out a pen. Her fingertips brushed his as she took it, and the same thing that had happened last time happened again. The moment froze, suspended in time while sexual energy buzzed all around them, shivering across her skin. She gave herself a mental shake and signed the document. “Any other hoops you want me jump through before you tell me what the heck is going on?”
“No ma’am—sorry, uhh, no.”
A vague sense of foreboding wedged her shoulders deep into the leather upholstery as he began to speak. She folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself protectively.
“Everything I’m about to tell you is top secret and falls under those rules you just signed off on.”
She nodded her understanding. Don’t reveal anything she was about to hear to anybody else or he’d have to shoot her—or something like that.
He continued, “Several weeks ago a team of military observers intercepted signal intelligence that led them to believe a major terrorist attack was being planned against the United States.”
She snorted. “What’s new?”
“True. But this is a specific attack on a nuclear facility in the United States. And from what our surveillance team has been able to gather, it’s well-planned and stands a reasonable chance of succeeding.”
“I assume you’ve put said nuclear plant
on high alert?”
He snorted back at her. “Are you kidding? It’s already off-line. It’ll stay that way until we resolve this problem.”
“I’m sorry, I interrupted. You were saying?”
“We know practically nothing about the leader of this terrorist cell. However, we know enough about him that a decision has been made to neutralize him in the name of national security.”
Her sense of foreboding deepened. “Neutralize him? Are we talking about putting him in jail here? Or something else?”
He replied smoothly, “We’re talking about whatever it takes to stop him, up to and including killing him.”
Dread crept up her arms like a cold chill. She rubbed them to ward it off, but it didn’t help. He said that so calmly. “I fail to see how I can be of any help in…eliminating…a terrorist.”
“Ahh, but you see, you’re the key to killing him.”
Chapter 2
Watching closely for Sophie’s reaction, Brian asked casually, “Ever heard of a guy named Freddie Sollem?”
Immediate recognition lit her face. She answered readily, “I grew up next door to him and his family. His grandmother babysat me when I was little so my mom could work. When I got older, Grandma Sollem watched me after school. Heck, I spent more time at the Sollem house than I spent at my own. Freddie and I were in the same grade. We were good friends—as good as a boy and a girl under the age of ten can be.”
Brian knew all that. It was why he was here. “What language did the Sollems speak at home?”
“Bhoukari. They’re from Bhoukar. It’s a little place tucked in between Oman and Yemen.”
He knew all that, too. “Did you learn any Bhoukari hanging out with them?”
Sophia laughed. “I spoke it better than English when I was tiny. When I got mad at my mom, I used to yell at her in Bhoukari.”
“Still speak it?”
“Good grief, no. It’s a pretty obscure dialect. It’s not like I ever got any chance to use it after the Sollems moved away.”
“Where’d they move to?”
“Back to Bhoukar as far as I know. Freddie’s dad thought the kids were being corrupted by living in America. He hauled them all back home to live in their own culture.”
“What did Freddie think of that?”
“Why all these questions about Freddie? Are you telling me he’s become a terrorist?”
“Do you think he’s capable of it?”
She leaned back and crossed her arms under her chest again. “What’s going on?”
He studiously kept his gaze off of the breathtaking cleavage her pose created above the edge of her shirt. Not that the impression of it hadn’t already burned itself hopelessly into his brain. “You are correct, Miss Giovanni—”
“Call me Sophie.”
“All right. You are correct, Sophie. Young Freddie appears to have crossed over to the dark side of the Force.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Why do you want to talk to me? You’ve obviously done your homework if you know about Freddie’s fascination with Star Wars.”
“Nonetheless, we’d like to talk to you about him and his family. Perhaps you can provide some vital tidbit we’ve missed.” That, of course, was only a fraction of what he hoped to talk her into doing, but after meeting her and seeing how cautious she was, instinct told him he’d better ease her into the proposition rather than hit her with it all at once.
“What sort of tidbit are you looking for?”
He shrugged. “We won’t know until we find it. Are you willing to help us?”
“I’m an American citizen. Of course I’m willing to help. What do you need me to do?”
Triumph surged for a moment, but he reined it in hard. They were a long way from her agreeing to the whole proposition. “I’m taking you to a private location where we can talk at length about Freddie.”
“To interrogate me.”
“Debrief you.”
“You want to pick my brains by whatever name you choose to call it.”
“Close enough.”
“How long is this going to take?”
He shrugged. “As long as it takes. Days. Weeks.”
That alarmed her. “I have a job. I can’t just up and leave for weeks.”
“I spoke with your boss. The government has hired a temporary replacement and will pay all of that person’s expenses until you return to work.”
“You called my boss without even talking to me?”
He gazed deep into her eyes, doing his damnedest to convey how much he needed her help. “Time is of the essence. The situation is unfolding very rapidly, ma’am. Lives are on the line.”
She murmured absently, “I told you not to call me ma’am.”
He leaned fractionally closer to her. “Sophie—” The word felt like melting caramel in his mouth, all sweet and smooth and languorous. “—Please. I need your help.”
She sighed. “That’s the second time you’ve said please. And darned if I’m not a sucker for polite men.”
He allowed a tiny smile to reach his eyes.
“But I don’t have anything to wear. Not even a change of clean under—”
She broke off. Didn’t want to talk about underwear with him, huh? Wait till she found out he’d already pawed through hers and packed it for her.
“I took the liberty of packing a few things for you.”
“Of packing?” She repeated blankly.
“Yes. Packing. Putting clothes and toiletries into a suitcase to take with you on a journey.”
Startled, she laughed. She had a great laugh. It was warm and fun and invited a person to laugh with her. “I’ve got that part. But…how…” she demanded all of a sudden, “did you break into my apartment?”
Ahh. Time to make the lady well and truly mad. “I let myself in and packed a few things I thought you might need.”
“You broke in…that’s illegal! Of all the—”
He gently interrupted her sputtering. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I did what was necessary. And I had permission from a judge.”
That made her start. “You mean a warrant?”
He flinched slightly. He’d avoided the word because of its criminal implications. The last thing he wanted to do was make her defensive or uncooperative. “Technically, yes. A warrant. But I repeat, you’re not under suspicion for anything. We just need to talk to you.”
“What kind of warrant? A bench warrant?”
He sighed. “I’m not a lawyer. All I know is someone way above my pay grade got permission from someone else way above my pay grade for me to enter your residence and pack a few things for you. You have to understand, it’s very tricky for military members to take any kind of direct action against a civilian citizen of the United States.”
She replied dryly, “Pesky little document, that Constitution.”
He smiled. “Exactly.”
“Why would your superiors go to all that trouble so I could have a change of underwear and my toothbrush?”
“You’re very important to us.”
She hmmphed and subsided into silence, turning her head to stare out the window, obviously thinking hard. He watched closely to gauge her reaction to his explanation. Did she have the moral flexibility to do what they needed her to? Could she accept that she was a pawn in a greater game? That the government was willing and able—and in this case without any choice in the matter—to do something unsavory in the name of a greater good?
It was clear she didn’t like the fact that he’d broken in to her place. That was good. She’d need a steady moral compass to succeed at what Uncle Sam had in mind for her. Finally, she turned her head. Made solid eye contact with him. Another good sign. Not shying away from the issue.
She said wryly, “I tremble to think what you packed for me to wear.”
He released his breath carefully. She’d passed the test. She’d accepted that necessity sometimes dictated unpalatable action. Not to mention that she’d resorted to humor to bre
ak the tension of the moment. A perfect reaction all the way around.
“Anything I forgot to grab, Uncle Sam will be glad to purchase for you.”
“Why didn’t you just knock on my door, introduce yourself and let me pack my own bag?”
“I couldn’t take a chance on you saying no. And besides,” he added lightly, “I’m a helpful guy.”
Her shoulders relaxed as if she’d made her peace with what he’d done. Another good sign. She wasn’t the type the hold grudges. Better and better. Maybe his task wasn’t entirely impossible after all.
Although, her general softness was going to be a hell of a hurdle to overcome. Particularly in the limited time they would have together. Not only were her plentiful curves distracting as hell, but he doubted she was a serious athlete if she was shaped like that. She was by no means unhealthy, but the women special operators he’d worked with didn’t carry an ounce of fat to give their bodies Sophie’s womanly hourglass.
She opened her bag and grabbed a skirt and blouse off the top of the pile of clothes he’d stuffed in it. She excused herself and moved to the back row of seats where she changed clothes quickly. He resolutely kept his gaze glued on the rusty hues of the high desert stretching away outside his window. Not that he saw a lick of it. In his mind’s eye danced images of a curvaceous woman, with a come-hither smile and smelling of peaches, peeling off her clothes inch by inch to reveal a tempting landscape of satin-smooth skin, a garden of delights to beggar the senses.
She returned to her seat on a whiff of peach that all but made him lunge across the aisle and devour her whole. It had been too long since he’d had a woman. Suddenly, the idea of the beer-and-pretzels groupies who hung out in Coronado looking to pick up SEALs curdled on his tongue. It was peaches he craved. Ripe, sweet, sassy peaches.
He turned away from Sophie as much as he could within the confines of the Lear’s tight seats. Definitely not designed for a man his size. Uncomfortable on several levels, he stared out the window, disturbingly aware that she was studying him intently. He did his best to ignore the attention. He failed, but he faked it.