Much to his own amazement, shortly after she returned from her swim, he caught a fish. Not being much of an ocean fisherman, he had no idea what it was, but it was a foot-and-a-half long, and, Shiloh assured him, quite edible.
"I know all the poisonous ones," she told him, laughing at his expression. Then she relented. "It looks like a yellowtail. Not quite tuna fish, but close."
"Oh." He looked relieved. And about twelve years old when he looked at her and said, "Can we have it for dinner?"
She laughed again, but she was blinking rapidly against the sudden stinging of her eyes. It was as if she'd gotten a brief, fleeting glimpse of a different Con, younger, happier, with a touching vulnerability in the place of his icy shell. She wondered if he'd ever been like that for more than brief, fleeting moments.
"Only if you clean it," she said when she could speak again. "And guillotine it. I could never eat anything that was looking back at me."
He laughed, that shining moment lasting just a little longer. "Aye, aye, cap'n. Find me a knife and I'll behead this beast."
That night she cooked the fish in a sauce of what was left of the wine, butter and whatever herbs she could find that sounded good. Served over the last of the rice, it was delicious, and they finished it to the last scrap.
The fog had rolled in right on schedule. It made them feel even more secure; if they couldn't see anything, then neither could they be seen. By anything or anyone. Shiloh made a brief call to her father, who reported all was well.
"Wish that ungrateful son of mine would at least call his old man once in a while," he whined in a perfect imitation of a crotchety old man. Con could tell it was an imitation by the grin on Shiloh's face.
"Well, we didn't really expect to hear from him. He'll be in touch when he can. We're on a time-out for the moment anyway, so don't worry."
"Don't tell me not to worry, girl. You sure this friend of yours knows the rules of this game?"
Shiloh studied the radio intently. "Oh, yes. I'm perfectly safe, even if he does have this habit of making up some rules of his own as he goes along."
Con flushed, but she gave no indication that her words had had a double meaning.
"Sometimes you have to," her father said. "When does play resume?"
"Tomorrow night, maybe. Thursday at the latest."
"I'll be ready. Take care, baby."
Shiloh held the microphone for a moment or two, as if loath to sever the connection. At last, very slowly, she hung it up.
"I'm worried about him," she said softly. "He's all alone there, and he doesn't move very quickly anymore—"
Con lowered his eyes, feeling sick. He'd gotten her into this, and therefore her father, too, and there wasn't a thing he could say to change it. So he said nothing. In her worry, Shiloh took his silence for indifference and whirled on him.
"Wouldn't you be worried if it was your father?"
He laughed, short, harsh and bitter. "I doubt it."
She stared at him, taken aback. He was sitting at the navigation station, toying with a pencil, his eyes fixed on it in the way of someone who wasn't seeing the object at all.
"You really mean that," she murmured in wonder.
When he spoke, his voice had the same bitter undertone as that mirthless chuckle, and the same hesitant, broken cadence she'd noticed before whenever he spoke of something personal. His fingers tightened around the pencil.
"My father … walked out on my mother before I was born. He didn't want her anymore … and he never wanted me." His thumbnail was digging gouges into the soft wood of the pencil. "She was only sixteen…"
Shiloh held her breath, afraid that any slight sound would stop the broken flow of words.
"She … couldn't get a job… She'd quit school to … run away with him. After I was born … she did the only thing she could. She was broke… Her parents said they'd take her back if … if she got rid of me. But she wouldn't."
His eyes had gone flat, unfocused, and Shiloh knew he was deep into the painful memories. When he went on, his voice was low and strained.
"She used to leave me with the lady downstairs. I didn't know … until later. I thought all mothers … went out every night, all dressed up." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "When I was five, one of her … customers beat her to death."
The pencil snapped, the sound echoing like a gunshot and making Shiloh jump. A jagged splinter of wood dug into his palm, and blood welled up immediately. He never even blinked.
And then Shiloh was there, kneeling beside him, taking his bleeding hand in hers. His head came up in a sharp, jerky motion, and his eyes fastened on her face. He saw, for the second time, tears brimming in her eyes. The faraway, unfocused look vanished.
"Don't," he said harshly, hating the thought of her pity. He lifted his other hand to her cheek. "Not for me."
"Not just for you," she whispered. "Your mother … she must have loved you so much…"
He stared at her. "You … you're crying … for my mother?"
No one had ever expressed anything but disgust for his mother; no one had ever believed she had truly loved her son, that her life had not been her choice.
The first of the crystalline tears slid over the silken skin of her cheeks. "What a horrible thing to have to do," she said raggedly. "And what a beautiful thing to love your child enough to do it."
Con paled. "I … they never … she was always 'that woman.' That I was better off without her. A prostitute for a mother. They thought she'd always been … that I was … from one of her Johns. I tried to tell them—"
"But who listens to a child?" The tears were falling rapidly now, and Shiloh made no effort to wipe them away; her hands were holding his too tightly. She could feel the little tremors that were going through him, could guess what this was costing this very strong, very private man.
"She was … always waiting … hoping he'd come back… She used to tell me about him…" He gulped in a breath.
"He walked out on a pregnant sixteen-year-old girl, and she never once said a word against him—"
He shuddered, and she could sense him trying to pull together the remnants of his control. She sensed, as she had been able to all those years ago when her brother had come home from the war, that he had gone as far as he could go right how, that any more would make him shut down completely, possibly forever. She drew on her own control and this time found it there, for him.
"I'll get the first-aid kit. That needs cleaning out."
She went for the box, taking her time to give him a moment to pull himself together. When she came back, he was studying his bloody hand, and the tremors had stopped. He bore her ministrations quietly, stoically, silently, until she went to put an adhesive bandage on the small wound.
"Leave it. It's fine."
She hesitated, then nodded and put everything away and went to put the kit back under the step. Her mind was reeling. She knew in that instinctive part of her that had only come to life since she'd met him that he'd never told anyone, not even Linc, what he'd told her tonight. Every word had held the raw pain of being ripped from somewhere deep inside him where it had hidden, had festered, for years.
It made what else she knew of him, that he had gone on to college, to law school, with no help other than the scholarship he had earned, even more incredible. A sense of regret filled her that the woman—the girl, really—who had sacrificed her pride and eventually her life for her child couldn't know what he had done. With a feminine, maternal knowledge she'd never experienced before, she knew with certainty just how proud that girl would have been.
When she came back he was sitting at the main table. He looked from his hand to her still damp cheek, where the cut from the shattered windshield had nearly healed in the fresh air and saltwater.
"Remind me to buy Wayne a new first-aid kit. We've made a dent in this one."
It wasn't what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her how much her tears had meant, tears for a woman who'd had no one to cry for her
except a bewildered little boy. He wanted to tell her what a relief it had been to talk about it, even while he was stunned at the fact that he had. He wanted to tell her things he'd never told anyone in his life, wanted to forget the harsh training of a lifetime and pour out his soul to her. Only the inviolate set of rules that had been hammered into him in the hardest of ways stopped him.
For a long time they sat in silence, the only sounds the oddly emphasized clanging of the rigging on the mast and the gentle slapping of water against the hull. Shiloh sipped at the hot chocolate she'd made again, trying not to be too obvious about watching him. He was deep in thought, running one finger idly around the rim of his own cup in a way that sent odd little shivers down her spine.
At last he let out a sigh of disgust and seemed to come back to the present. He saw her looking at him, and his mouth twisted wryly.
"I'm getting real tired of feeling so stupid," he muttered. "No matter how many times I go over it, or how many ways I twist it, there's still one thing I can't figure out."
Join the club, Shiloh thought, but she knew he wasn't speaking personally; he was back at WestAir. "What?"
"Why they waited so long. Why they took a chance of my finding something out before they came after me. If the joker is that high up, they had to have known from day one."
"Maybe they thought they had it so well hidden you wouldn't find anything."
"Then why come after me at all? Why not let me prowl around, come up empty and give them a clean bill of health?" He shook his head wearily. "It couldn't have taken him two weeks to figure out he had to get rid of me."
"He?"
"Fred Wilkens. He's the head of Research and Development at WestAir." He stopped, looking a little surprised. When had he surrendered all reservations about involving her further? Somehow, after entrusting her with a large part of his soul, trusting her with his work seemed simple.
"And Moose and Company's boss?"
He nodded, in his eyes a salute to her quick grasp of the situation. "Since the chances were good that the leak was in R and D, I started with him."
"And struck oil."
"Apparently. But why did he wait? For all he knew I could already have been poking around in his files. I know now he's the top dog at WestAir in this sellout. It's not like he had to wait for somebody else's decision. Once he knew I was in, that should have been it. I should have been history right then." He ran a hand through the thick darkness of his hair, obviously frustrated.
"What if … he didn't know right away? About you, I mean."
Con shook his head slowly. "With the connection he's got? He had to know as soon as the joker did. Just like he knew what other companies had the resources to complete the work WestAir had started. And how to get them the plans. He's gotten away with it for a long time, and not by being afraid to do what's necessary. And fast."
He grimaced. "Hell, they killed an FBI agent. What's one company man after that? It doesn't make sense that he let me poke around for two weeks before he did anything."
"Maybe he doesn't know how good you are."
The instant spurt of pleasure he felt at her words faded as his own judgment stepped in. "Yeah," he muttered. "So good I'm out before I even start."
"So good that without even starting, you know where the leak is and who the seller is."
He stared at her; he hadn't thought of it that way at all. He couldn't quite smother the smile that tugged at his lips at her spirited defense of him. Loyalty, it seemed, went along with the bestowal of faith. He felt like he'd been given a prize he wasn't at all sure he deserved.
"Those are the most important things, aren't they?"
He tried to concentrate on her question instead of the kernel of warmth her words had kindled in some cold, long-forgotten place deep inside him.
"That depends," he said, running a hand through his tousled hair, "on who the joker is."
Shiloh considered that for a moment. "Who could he be? I mean, who has that kind of access?"
"Joe does, but he's gone for a month."
"Who else?"
"Me." He gave her a sideways look. "I didn't do it."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "I just didn't realize … does everyone on the troubleshooting team have that kind of clearance?"
"No."
"Then it has to be somebody who's getting access without the clearance then, doesn't it?"
He studied his now empty mug. "Aren't you even going to mention Sam?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it's not him."
He looked up at her then. "Just because I said so?"
She nodded. "We have to trust him as much as he trusts you. That isn't exactly a standard security clearance you have there." She added softly. "You have to trust somebody."
I trust you. The words formed instantly in his head, so quickly he was afraid for a moment that he'd spoken them. But would it matter if he did? He did trust her. He had to admit it now. She had given her trust to him with very little reason. And she had given it to Sam with even less reason. How could he deny her what she deserved in return?
Yes, he trusted her, as much as he trusted her brother, even as he was aware of what he was risking, even as all those years of bitter experience told him he was a fool. Well, he thought glumly, it wouldn't be the first time. But it might well be the last. He wasn't sure he cared anymore. If he turned out to be wrong about Sam or her or Linc, he wasn't sure he would care about anything. Ever.
He needed this swim, Con thought as they made their way to the small beach once more. It had been a hellish night, filled with dreams that made the one he'd had in the loft seem innocent by comparison. More than once he'd awakened in a sweat, clenched fists wadding his blanket into knots, and only the vivid memory of that moment's innocent apprehension in a pair of emerald eyes had kept him from going to her.
The fog had disappeared as quietly as it had arrived, leaving them with a sky that was searingly clear and blue, even at this early hour. The last day, he thought as he began to follow her up onto the sand. Sam would be back tomorrow. The waiting would be over. The inaction would be over. His time with Shiloh would be over.
It was for the best, his mind told him as he watched her walk up the slight slope ahead of him, her slender hips moving in that unconsciously sensuous way that sent wildfire racing along his nerves. He would walk away and never see her again, his mind insisted as he tried to tear his eyes away from the taut curves that so temptingly filled the green suit, tried not to think of how much he wanted to cup that trimly rounded flesh in his hands as he pulled her against him.
"Damn," he muttered.
He stopped dead, still waist deep in the water, knowing he didn't dare leave its protective coverage until he had himself under control. This is ridiculous, he told his rebellious body. He'd never been like this, even as a teenager, with hormones running amok.
But you've never known anyone like Shiloh Reese, either. That little voice was back, just as irritating as before.
Right, he growled silently. More importantly, she's never known a man like me. Or any other man, for that matter, not the way I want to know her. So just get yourself away from her, McQuade. She deserves a hell of a lot better than a bastard like you for a lover. Her first lover.
Lover. He looked up at the slender figure in the soft green swimsuit, stunned by the rush of chaotic thoughts that raced through his mind at the word. Not just a casual fling, a mutual expression of physical need, as all the past brief encounters of his life had been. Lover. And all the things the word implied. A relationship. A commitment. Love. All the things she would give—and would expect in return. And deserve. All the things he'd never given anyone, would never be able to give anyone.
He'd never cared before. He'd just accepted the fact that caring was not for him and never would be. He'd never missed it, convinced himself he never wanted it. Life was so much easier, so much simpler, when it was free of entanglements. Entanglements interfered with your
work, gave your enemies levers to use against you, messed up your mind and could get you killed. He knew all that.
So why did the thought of walking out of her life fill him with an emptiness that made what he'd lived with all his life seem minuscule? For the first time in his life, the years that stretched ahead seemed colder, more vacant, than those he'd left behind.
"Are you all right?"
She had turned to look at him, a quizzical expression on her face.
"Fine." Considering that if I move out of this water you won't have to be a mind reader to know what I've been thinking. "I'll be there in a second."
Sure. And it'll probably snow here tomorrow. Gritting his teeth, he stared down at the water, willing himself to regain control. Swimming back to the mainland would have been easier, he thought grimly when, at last, he was relaxed enough to leave the chilly water. So much for the vaunted effects of cold water.
She was walking toward the brush that began to thicken at the mouth of the small canyon that had made the little cove. As he caught up with her, she glanced over her shoulder at him, a smile curving her soft mouth.
"I was looking for—"
Her words were cut off with a sudden gasp of shock as Con leapt, tackling her around the waist and throwing her to the ground. He came down on top of her, hunching over her, moving as if he were shielding her body with his own.
Shiloh didn't have the breath to speak, let alone scream. In the moment when she tried to take in enough air to do one or the other, she became aware of the odd posture of his body, the rigid tension of his every muscle. Then she heard the sound.
It was the slightest rustle in the brush, the merest whisper of branches moving. Followed by the parting of the leaves by a small head, mottled gray and white, with a pair of tiny horns and bright, curious eyes.
"That," Shiloh managed to say despite the difficulty of breathing with his full weight on her, "is what I was looking for."
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