The Stealth Commandos Trilogy

by Suzanne Forster

  A shaking sound had trembled on her lips as he’d approached, half whimper, half sigh. It had astonished him, that sound. It had ripped through his heart and gut, turning him into a hardened animal. All he’d wanted was to touch her. His body spasmed painfully with the impulse, but his hand had locked. He couldn’t do it. Something powerful had held him back, something as ancient and unchangeable as his Apache bloodlines.

  That first encounter had set the boundaries of their relationship. They were destined to become friends, kindred spirits, to share their loneliness, but nothing else. He had never touched her in all the months they knew each other, except accidentally once, and even then the sight of his dark hand on her fair skin had made them both pull back. Their eyes had met, and the staggering sexual truth of their attraction couldn’t be denied.

  They had never touched again.

  Johnny’s hand clenched painfully now as he remembered the rest. He’d fought the young toughs who’d taunted and humiliated her, almost killing one of them. He’d protected Honor Bartholomew from everything and everyone, especially from himself.

  He dragged back his chair and sank down in it, sweeping a hand across his desk as if to clear the clutter. A pencil box and letter opener went flying. Close up the wound, Starhawk, he told himself savagely. You’re bleeding all over the place. It was insane to let himself wallow in romantic teenage swill this way. He had work to do, a landmark case in progress. She’d disrupted his schedule enough for one day. Make that one lifetime, he thought.

  He glanced at his desk calendar and saw Honor’s name in the ten o’clock slot, neatly printed by his secretary. The pain that rose inside him was lacerating as he pulled the page from its binding and crushed it in his fist. Seeing her again had brought it all back. Now even to read her name ripped at him.

  For all the anguish in her eyes, she couldn’t possibly have been torn apart the way he had. Every barely audible word she’d uttered on that witness stand had clawed a piece from his soul. Just once, he thought. Just once I want her to know this pain, to hurt the way I have.

  “Pack your clothes, lady! Go home.”

  Honor sighed heavily. She’d been issuing that order to herself all evening, but she hadn’t yet moved from where she sat in the wingback chair of her hotel room. Not even to seek sustenance or to answer nature’s call. She couldn’t. She was immobilized, like a woman turned to stone. Not that she questioned the soundness of her own advice. It was probably the sanest plan she’d had in recent days, but something wouldn’t let her act on it.

  “Leave now,” she promised herself, “and this is the worst it will get. You’ll go back to Scottsdale, reopen your bookstore, and all this will seem like a bad dream.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temples, massaging the hot throb that wouldn’t go away. The worst was plenty bad enough. She had a headache coming on, and her whole body felt bruised and aching. However, if she stayed, a headache would be the least of her worries. Johnny seemed determined to wreak havoc, and vengeance, and anything else that could possibly be wreaked. It was a frightening prospect.

  “Go home, Honor. Pack. Get on that plane.” She glanced over at her suitcase and felt the impulse to act move through her, but she couldn’t make herself do it. Going home was too easy. There were any number of reasons why she couldn’t board that plane and fly away with a clear conscience.

  She’d be letting Chy Starhawk down, but perhaps more important, she’d be letting herself down. Going home was exactly what Johnny would expect her to do. He undoubtedly thought of her as weak-willed, and she couldn’t fault him for that. He had little reason to think otherwise.

  She’d let herself be swayed by her father, admittedly an intimidating man for a fourteen-year-old to defy, and the results had been disastrous. He’d persuaded her that if she didn’t testify voluntarily, she would be subpoenaed, which would reflect badly on the Bartholomew name. And then he’d promised to intervene with the judge, an old friend, if Johnny was convicted, and see that Johnny didn’t serve any time. Afterward she’d realized his plan all along was to separate her and Johnny.

  After the trial, when she’d gone to see Johnny to beg his forgiveness and try to explain, she’d learned he’d been sent away as a condition of his suspended sentence. She’d been talked out of trying to find him by his Apache godmother, the woman who’d raised him after his own mother died. A petite, soft-spoken woman, his godmother had been both compassionate and convincing as she begged Honor to leave Johnny alone, to let him get on with his life and make whatever he could of it. He’d been hurt enough, she’d said.

  Honor had been a shy child by nature and raised to be mindful of authority and respectfully obedient to the adults in her life. Spontaneity was not encouraged, and what independent spirit stirred inside her gentle soul was quickly squashed under the weight of her father’s rules and regulations.

  But she was an adult now. Whether it was fate or circumstance that had intervened in the form of Johnny’s grandfather, he was giving her an opportunity to right a wrong, and this time she needed to follow through, to have the courage of her conscience. She had something to prove, to herself as well as Johnny.

  She rose from the chair and released a sigh of relief. Free at last! An uneasy smile crossed her face as she glanced at her reflection in the dresser’s mirror. But free for what? A fight to the death with the courtroom warrior?

  Good manners are never old-fashioned. It was her mother’s favorite saying, and Honor could almost hear Adele Bartholomew’s musical tones resonating in her head as she smiled politely at one of the most obstinate women she had ever encountered, Johnny Starhawk’s receptionist.

  “If you won’t make me an appointment,” Honor said, “then perhaps you’ll tell me when Mr. Starhawk is coming in?”

  The svelte auburn-haired receptionist shot Honor a glare designed to vaporize her on the spot. “Mr. Starhawk isn’t coming in this morning,” she said, turning back to her typewriter. “He’s in court.”

  “In that case,” Honor said evenly, “I’ll wait.”

  The secretary drew a deep breath and mustered a cold smile. “I think Mr. Starhawk would prefer that you didn’t.”

  The gauntlet had been thrown down. “I’d prefer to hear that from Mr. Starhawk himself, thank you,” Honor said politely but firmly.

  “You’re about to get your wish.”

  The deep tone of Johnny’s words sent a shock wave of alarm through Honor. It had come from behind her, but she hadn’t even heard the office door open. When had he entered the room?

  She whirled to face him and saw the menace in his dark eyes even before he voiced it. “If you know what’s good for you”—he said so softly he could barely be heard—“you’ll get the hell out of here.”

  Honor tried to speak, but she was trembling too hard. A shudder of fear weakened her thighs and swept up her body, slamming into the lump that had formed in her throat. “No—” She shook her head. “No, I won’t do that.”

  Logic told her he couldn’t force her to leave his office without becoming physical. She didn’t think he would do that in front of his receptionist. She prayed he wouldn’t, but she flinched back instinctively as he raised his hand.

  “Don’t!” she cried.

  “Don’t what?” He ground out the question as he jerked loose his tie, letting it hang like a noose around his neck. “Is that what it takes to get rid of you? You need to be threatened, roughed up?”

  “No!” Honor insisted. “Talk to me. Give me a chance.”

  “Mr. Starhawk,” the receptionist broke in.

  “Not now!” He waved the woman silent, his glare fixed relentlessly on Honor. “Get inside,” he said, flicking his head toward his office door.

  “You’ll talk to me?” Honor was genuinely startled.

  “I didn’t say anything about talking, I said get inside.”

  She edged away from him, every sense alert. It had never occurred to her that he might hurt her. Now she wasn’t sure. His flyi
ng black hair and flared nostrils reminded her of the frightening legacy of his Apache heritage—never forget, never forgive. Even the expensive Italian-cut suit he wore did nothing to diminish the threat he exuded.

  “You’ve got two choices,” he said, moving toward her. “Get inside. Or get out.”

  He wanted her out, she knew that. He was trying to frighten her into bolting. And he was doing a damn good job. Despite the ultramodern surroundings, she couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment he might break through the thin veneer of civility and turn savage. Still, she couldn’t back down. She would never be able to live with herself if she didn’t follow through on what she’d started.

  She turned and entered his office, listening for his footsteps behind her. Her throat went dry with fear as the door slammed shut. “I don’t care what I’ve done to you,” she said, whirling to face him. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you hurt me.”

  “Hurt you?” Something that might have been pain flared in his dark eyes. “I’ve never even touched you.”

  Honor fell silent, remembering vividly the one time they’d accidentally brushed up against each other—the shock, the incredible sexual pull. The chemistry between them had always been highly charged. Now it was explosive. “Why did you bring me in here then?” she asked.

  He walked to his desk and shrugged out of his jacket, throwing it and his tie over the chair. The powder-blue shirt he wore created a strikingly beautiful contrast to his tawny skin. “Because I don’t like to fight in public,” he said, unbuttoning his cuffs.

  “I didn’t come in here to fight.”

  “That’s unfortunate, because I did.”

  “But why?” she pleaded. “Why can’t you let go of the past and deal with what’s happening now? The tribe needs a high-profile attorney, Johnny. They need the best, and that’s you. You’re acting as if I destroyed your whole life, but it’s not true. Look around you. Look at this office, it’s beautiful. You have money, respect, a brilliant career.”

  He stopped rolling up his sleeves and glanced up at her, emitting a sound that was too harsh to be laughter. “There are lots of ways to destroy a person.”

  Again she caught the flicker of pain in his eyes. It held her, haunting her. She wanted badly to say something that would touch that pain, anything that would let him know she understood, but she sensed intuitively that sympathy would be dangerous. Only a fool tried to pet a wounded panther.

  “We all get hurt,” she said awkwardly. “Life isn’t fair, but you have to move past the—”

  “I did move past it, Honor. I was doing just fine until you showed up.”

  He’d cut her off so abruptly, she knew it was hopeless. There was no reaching him; he wouldn’t allow it. Averting her eyes, she ran her hand down the sleeve of her silk blouse and cupped her elbow. When she looked up, he’d finished rolling up his sleeves and was opening a drawer in his desk.

  He drew out an object that glinted in the light from the window. Honor couldn’t see what it was. but fear struck at her heart as he came around the desk and started toward her. Caught in flashes of sunlight and shadows, he looked like some angry god of justice, a demon executioner sprung from hell.

  She began to back up, not stopping until she hit a wall. “What is that thing? What are you going to do?”

  “I want something to remember you by,” he said.

  “No, wait!” Her hands flew up, a gesture intended to protect herself more than to ward him off. A soft cry filled her throat as she realized what he had in his hand.

  He raised a brass-lined sheath and thumbed a lever that released a glistening knife blade. The snap and click it made, the slice of metal against metal, were nerve-shattering.

  “No, Johnny—please!” Honor flattened herself against the wall, too horrified even to scream. The metallic ching of the knife reverberated in her brain. “What are you going to do?”

  “Turn your head,” he told her, his dark eyes flaring. He tipped the blade to signal the direction he meant.

  Honor stared at him, frozen with disbelief. “Johnny, don’t do this, you can’t.”

  “Don’t delude yourself, Honor. You haven’t even imagined what I’m capable of doing. Now turn your head,” he said roughly.

  She did as he told her, fear spilling into her mouth, scalding her throat with its vile taste. She waited for what seemed like several seconds of cold terror, and then she felt something heavy dragging on her hair. His hands? He was working at the coil she’d secured at her nape with an elastic band and hairpins.

  There was a wrenching jerk against her neck muscles, and then, to her astonishment, her hair tumbled loose from its bonds, falling free around her face. A moan caught inside her as she realized what he’d done. And what it meant. He’d loved it when she wore her hair this way, loose and free. He’d told her that once. After he was sent away, she’d begun wearing it up, in the coil.

  “Johnny, don’t,” she said, tears welling up as she turned to him.

  He sheathed the knife and dropped it into his pocket.

  “There,” he said, stepping back to see what he’d done. A terrible, painful light suffused his eyes. “That’s more like it. Now you’re exactly the way I remember you—pale and golden, the angel of sympathy, sister-confessor to the poor, dumb Indian kid.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he stared at her.

  “Who would ever have guessed that the fair Honor Bartholomew was really a betraying little bitch? Not me. Sure as hell not me.”

  “Don’t do this,” Honor said, her voice choked with pain. “Please don’t. I told you I was sorry.”

  “Don’t give me sorry. Not now! Get out of my life. Give me some peace.”

  “I can’t, Johnny.” A sob racked her, and then another and another—aching, shuddering tremors that ripped her apart inside. “I have to do this. Please understand that. Let me find some way to make things right.”

  His head lifted, frozen in some kind of agony. Icy glints of pain and rage sparkled in the depths of his eyes. He shook his head slowly. “No, you can’t make it right. You can only make it worse. Go—get out of here.”

  “Johnny, don’t—”

  He moved toward her, then checked himself. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “If you keep this up, Honor, I promise you I will hurt you.”

  Honor edged away from him. You’re hurting me now, she thought. You’re destroying me. Unable to say the words, she met his gaze and saw there a capacity for vengeance beyond anything she’d ever dreamed. Dear God, she thought, what have I done? Until that moment she hadn’t truly understood how unforgivably she’d hurt him.

  The boy he used to be flashed into her mind with his remote yet beautiful Apache pride, his shyness, and the traces of wonder in his dark eyes when he looked at her. Johnny! What have I done? Tears streaming down her face, she turned and left the room.

  Honor didn’t sleep that entire night. She sat in the wingback chair that was becoming her prison and wondered what was to become of her. There were no choices to be made this time, no question of flying home to safety. She was beyond that consideration. The past was a horrible, festering scar that had been reopened. She would either die of the rupture or find a way to heal it.

  She would never have Johnny’s forgiveness. He’d made that clear, but if she could bring him back to the reservation, even temporarily, if she could rebuild that one bridge, she would feel that she’d done something. Perhaps all she could do.

  She was trembling from lack of sleep and a sick stomach when she entered Johnny’s reception area the next morning. Given what she was facing, it was a miracle she wasn’t in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. As it was, her nerves were raw, and she hadn’t been able to keep down any food, not even a cup of coffee.

  “He isn’t here,” the receptionist snapped, rising the moment she saw Honor.

  “I think we’ve had this conversation before.” Honor took a seat on the couch. “I’ll wait.”

  “No you won’t,” the woman
said, coming around her desk toward Honor. “Mr. Starhawk specifically said you weren’t to wait. And he asked me to escort you out of the office if you showed up.”

  Honor sprang to her feet, trembling with the effort it took. “If you lay a hand on me,” she said, “I’ll slap you silly.”

  The receptionist stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening with surprise.

  Honor was startled too. The threat had tumbled out before she could stop it. Queasy, she reclaimed her seat and whisked up an issue of Town and Country, leafing through the magazine determinedly to try to cover her shakiness. The lady she’d been raised to be abhorred confrontations, but if she couldn’t win a minor skirmish with Johnny’s secretary, she didn’t stand a chance in the battle with him.

  The receptionist returned to her desk and shot Honor an indignant but grudgingly respectful glare.

  Honor felt a moment of mild triumph as she pretended to peruse the magazine. Having another human being regard her with anything other than glacial contempt was a welcome change after her encounters with Johnny. She’d come to think of herself as an emotional warrior in the last twenty-four hours, and as much as she needed to think in those terms to endure, her morale was desperately low.

  As she continued to thumb through the magazine, the pictures and articles she’d only been half-aware of began to come into focus. The landscaped estates and lawn parties took her back to a happier time, before the tragic incident that split the Bartholomew family. They made her think of the woman of gentle breeding who’d reared her, Adele Bartholomew, her mother.

  A bred-in-the bone New Englander from a fine old Vermont family, Adele would never have approved of Honor’s behavior that morning. A lady didn’t indulge in public displays of emotion, and she certainly didn’t enter into arguments with “unpleasant people”—an elastic category that seemed to include anyone who didn’t jump to do Adele’s bidding, including officious secretaries. Now Honor realized how antiquated her mother’s social codes had been, but she still loved and missed her terribly. Adele had been killed when Honor was only ten.