Troubleshooters 04 Out of Control

by Suzanne Brockmann

  The helo was directly overhead. Now was not the time to leap away so that they could both pretend that lying on top of her wasn’t giving him one giant boner.

  She stopped moving, but it was too late. She shifted once more, then froze.

  Yes, indeed, babe, that there was him.

  The fact that his body part in question was pressed right up against her sweet little tush wasn’t helping the situation any.

  Yeah, if she had any remaining doubts about the fact that he still burned hot for her, they were now gone. He was such a loser, wanting her so badly even after being duped by her, and now she knew it, too.

  But even the waves of humiliation and anger—at himself, at her, at his parents for giving birth to him in the first place—that swept over him weren’t enough to subdue his body’s extremely physical reaction to her nearness. No, his dick definitely hadn’t yet caught on to the fact that he wasn’t going to have sex again—at least not in the near future. And probably never again with Savannah.

  He’d fucked up his chances of that ever happening but good.

  Which was a goddamned shame. It was both a shame that it wasn’t going to happen, and that he wanted it to happen again.

  Ken closed his eyes, trying to focus on a programming problem he’d been working on in his spare time over the past few weeks, trying to think in code, praying that would counteract his rampant libido.

  But her perfume cut through. It floated over the scent of the jungle, the dank earth, the rotting leaves, the plants, his own less than fresh aroma.

  That perfume was going to make it impossible for him and Savannah to hide, he realized with eye-opening intensity. If the men in the helo started searching for them on foot, they were going to be in trouble.

  One whiff and they’d be found, no matter how well Ken dug them into their hiding place. Jesus, even her hair smelled of it. And it wouldn’t take a genius or a specially trained tracker to sniff them out. Just men with guns and noses.

  The helo was finally far enough away, so he pulled his own nose out of her hair and lifted himself off of her. She got to her feet before he got the chance to give her a hand up.

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Of course, he wasn’t trying very hard for eye contact himself.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, figuring he should probably say something.

  “You should probably work on your self-control,” she said much too sweetly. “Considering that you think I’m ugly and that I dress like my mother your reaction was a little, well, unexpected and unwelcome.”

  Ugly? “Whoa,” Ken said. “I never said—”

  “Unless, of course, you have a secret thing for my mother.”

  “—that you’re ugly. I said—”

  “Which I find extremely icky.” She was furious with him.

  “—that your clothes were—”

  “Stop,” she said. “Just . . . just shut up!”

  Ken shut his mouth, aware that Miss Too Polite had probably never told anyone to shut up before in her entire twenty-something years of life.

  Talk about self-control. If he needed more—and he probably did, he’d grant her that—she needed less. There was real irony here that someone who was wound so tight, who liked everything in its prelabeled, predetermined slot would become so completely out of control during sex. Multiple orgasms. How freaking untidy. It probably scared her to death every time it happened.

  Her entire night with him had probably scared her to death. Grease on her neck. Clothes that didn’t fit. Tableware that didn’t match. Sex that didn’t end.

  “I would rather you leave me alone in the jungle,” she told him now, “than ever touch me again.”

  That was a crock of shit. He had to laugh. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Yes,” she said through clenched teeth, “I would.”

  All right. Fine. Let her think that she would. He wasn’t going to leave her, and he wasn’t not going to touch her if touching her meant saving her ass.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. And he was. He was sorry he’d upset her. Sorry he’d given himself away. Sorry none of this had been as easy as she’d hoped it would be.

  He was sorry for himself, too—sorry that she wasn’t the woman he’d fallen so hard for last night. Last night? No, there’d been another night in there somewhere, but they’d been on a plane or in airports, so it didn’t really count. His last real night had been spent in bed with her. Or maybe just with someone who looked a whole lot like her. “I don’t think you’re ugly, Savannah. Let’s just get that straight. I happen to think that you’re unbelievably—”

  “Enough already!” She looked ready to cry. But Ken knew absolutely that she wouldn’t. Tears wouldn’t help matters any, and even if they would somehow make her feel a little better, she wouldn’t let her emotions get that crazily out of control. She would rather die first.

  “—beautiful and extremely hot,” he said, finishing his sentence just to see what she’d do. What would it take to get her to throw something at him? Which would happen first? That, or her busting into tears?

  Or maybe her head would just explode.

  She turned away, her mouth a tight line. “You always have to push it just a little farther, don’t you?”

  “It needed to be said.” He took off his shirt, took off his undershirt, put his shirt back on. What would she do if he grabbed her and kissed her? Probably kick him in the balls. He decided not to try it and find out. He was still sore from being tossed by that explosion. “Is there any extra room in that briefcase?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said tersely.

  “Open it for me, will you?” Ken could still hear that helo in the distance. Judging from the sound, it was searching an area about seven clicks to the west.

  He knew that there was room in the case. He’d seen when she’d opened it for him in her hotel room. There was an entire top section that covered, and hid, the money. There had been a few files, some loose papers in that top part, but that was it. He was betting he could get almost a quarter of the dynamite and all of the fuses in there.

  The rest he’d carry in a bag he’d make by tying closed the end of his undershirt.

  She opened the lock and sure enough, quite a bit of the dynamite would fit. It would make it even heavier to carry—something he wasn’t looking forward to.

  He took out the papers and files. “Anything here irreplaceable?”

  Savannah shook her head. “No, those are copies. One’s for Alex—was for Alex. The other’s . . . not important. Something I was working on. I have it on my computer back in New York.”

  “Bury it,” he ordered.

  “Shouldn’t we save it?” she asked. “Won’t this paper come in handy when we try to start a fire?”

  A fire? She was serious.

  “Rule number one for not letting the bad guys find us—no fires.” Ken loaded the briefcase with dynamite. Dynamite and money—what a combination. “Smoke can be seen from miles away. Have you ever even been outside of the city before?”

  “My grandmother had a summer house in Westport,” she said. “In Connecticut. When I was little, I used to go there all the time. I haven’t been up there in a while, though.”

  Westport. To Savannah, fricking Westport was the rolling countryside.

  “Actually we might want to save some of those papers—if you’ve got room in your bag.” Ken glanced up, wanting to watch her face as he added, “It could come in handy as toilet paper.”

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Nine

  As I stood sipping champagne at the party at Jonathan and Evelyn Fielding’s Manhattan penthouse, I realized that Heinrich von Hopf was the man I’d set out to locate.

  He was surely the top-level Nazi spy, code name Charlemagne, of whose imminent arrival in New York City I’d heard whispers.

  His face was more angular than it had been the last time I’d seen him, his aristocratic cheekbones more pro
nounced. The rest of him was thinner, too. Leaner, harder. His hazel eyes, however, were exactly the same. Beautiful and luminous, he still had the eyes of an angel.

  “You’ve grown even more beautiful,” he told me. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible.” He took me by the elbow. “Let’s go out on the balcony. There’s much I wish to say to you. Privately.”

  Oh no, I did not want to go onto the balcony with this man, who knew I’d seen him as the Nazi he truly was—in his SS uniform, no less. He may have had the eyes of an angel, but he was pure devil. He knew I could blow his cover—even send him to his death as a spy.

  However, one swift push off the balcony would silence me forever.

  Yes, I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. If he were a Nazi spy, he should have known that I was also believed by the Nazis to be one of their spies, right?

  Wrong.

  The German espionage network was organized very carefully. As a lower level operative, I didn’t know the names of hardly any of my superiors, although I was working all the time to find out as much as I could. And likewise, there were only very few in the Sicherhietsdienst command who knew that agent code name Gretl, working in New York, was actually me, Rose Rainer. This way, if one of us was caught, it didn’t mean the entire network would go down, too.

  Which was a shame for those of us at the FBI and the OSS who were tired of a war that had already been going on too long.

  Naturally, I resisted as Heinrich pulled me toward the balcony, trying to slow him down without flat out slugging him and creating a terrible scene. Or even letting him know that I was resisting him.

  I’m not sure exactly why I didn’t simply slug him and start shouting that he was a Nazi spy. All I know was that I didn’t say a word.

  Perhaps it was the shock of seeing him, of being this close to him again.

  Maybe it was the realization that, although I’d tried to convince myself otherwise, I had not forgotten him. Despite all that he’d done, despite who he was—my enemy—I still found him to be the most attractive, most desirable man I’d ever known.

  And on some level, I must have realized, too, that I was still in love with him, although I did not admit that to myself until later.

  But as for now, I could see Jonathan Fielding heading toward us from across the room, ready to pretend to stake out his territory, the way he would if I truly were his mistress and another man had his hands on me.

  “It’s cold out there,” I told Heinrich, stalling for time. “I’m going to need another glass of wine to keep me warm.” I quickly chugged my champagne in order to have an empty glass to wave at him.

  He didn’t release his hold on my elbow as he took the glass from me and exchanged it for a new one from a tray, somehow gracefully juggling his own champagne flute at the same time in a way that only European aristocracy or Cary Grant could successfully pull off.

  But then Jonathan was there, thank goodness, taking hold of my other elbow. For a moment, I felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war, but then Heinrich released me.

  “Well, von Hopf, I see you’ve met my Rose. Quite the looker, isn’t she? But watch out, there’s a brain in that pretty little head, too.”

  Evelyn would’ve smacked him if she’d heard that one. Of course, just like her frosty greetings to me, Jon’s male chauvinist attitude—although all too common at that time—was pure make-believe on his part. One didn’t woo and marry a woman like Evelyn while actually believing that kind of drivel. I think, however, that Jon enjoyed saying such things while we had no chance actually to smack him.

  “She’s been my secretary and all around gal Friday for . . . how long has it been?” Jon turned to ask me.

  “Nearly two years,” I replied. “Six since I started working in your office.”

  “Six years,” he mused, letting his gaze linger on my low-cut neckline. Later he’d chide me for wearing that dress. Too risque, he’d say. It gives the wrong kind of man the wrong kind of ideas. To him, I would always be eighteen and pure as the driven snow.

  “Has it really been that long?” he continued. “It seems just like yesterday . . .” He pulled his attention back to Heinrich. “I’m a very lucky man, don’t you think, von Hopf? To have such a lovely and talented secretary?”

  Heinrich was smiling, but I saw him watching as Jon’s hand moved from my elbow to my back and then lower. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

  As if on cue, Evelyn appeared, stepping between Jon and myself. “Ah, Rose.” Her voice dripped with ennui. “I see you’ve met Heinrich von Hopf.” She turned to her husband. “Have you introduced these two properly?”

  “Rose, Hank von Hopf,” Jon did the honors in his traditional straight-forward, New Yorker manner. “Hank, Rose Rainer.”

  Heinrich was looking at me, no doubt waiting to see if I would admit to having met him before. In Berlin. While he was wearing the uniform of the Nazi SS.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. von Hopf, I’m sure.” I held out my hand.

  Heinrich took it and kissed it. It was a more intimate kiss than many I’d received on the lips. He gazed at me and I couldn’t have looked away from him if my life had depended upon it.

  “Hank von Hopf?” Evelyn scolded her husband. “I’m sure Rose would appreciate a little more information. His name is Prince Heinrich von Hopf,” she told me grandly. “He’s from Austria. He fled after the annexation—after the Nazis took control, isn’t that right, Prince Heinrich?” She turned back to me. “He’s been forced into exile, because of his opposition to the Nazis. If he’d stayed, they would have killed him or sent him to one of their horrible camps. He’s fighting on our side now.” She turned back to Heinrich. “What is it exactly that you’re doing for the war effort, Prince?”

  He finally stopped looking at me, and turned his attention to Evelyn. “I’m afraid I cannot say,” he told her with one of those charming smiles that still managed to make my heart turn over. “And please. I do prefer to be called Hank. Particularly while here in America.”

  I found my voice. “How long will you be staying?” If he was Charlemagne—and I was nearly convinced he was—this would be useful information. Of course, he could well lie. But I’d been given a crash course in Nazi spying techniques before leaving Berlin. We were urged to stick to the truth as often as possible. Chances are he would, too.

  Heinrich looked back at me. “I’ll be here for just a few weeks. Then it’s back into the thick of things.”

  “How thrilling,” Evelyn breathed.

  The band had started playing in the other room. Can you imagine? An apartment in New York City large enough to hold a band? The money of course was all Evelyn’s. Her grandfather had invented some kind of gasket that was essential for sewer pipes, which brought a new meaning to the phrase filthy rich.

  One didn’t make all that much money working for Grumman—unless, of course, one was also subsidized by the Nazis. If I’d kept the money I’d received from the Germans since 1939, I’d’ve been able to move into the apartment next door. But I turned that money around, putting it all back into the war effort. I got a certain grim amusement in knowing that the Nazis were helping fund the creation of the OSS—the American spy network that would be essential in bringing Hitler’s Third Reich to its knees.

  “Since you’re not going to be in New York for long,” Evelyn said to Heinrich, “you must get in all the dancing you possibly can. I’m sure Rose would love to dance with you.”

  She was playing a dual role here—a woman who saw the opportunity to throw her husband’s mistress at a very attractive man (and therefore getting her away from her husband), and a woman who was so happy in her own marriage that she couldn’t believe the entire world didn’t want to walk two by two, and was forever trying to set up her good friends with anything in pants.

  “Rose did mention that she couldn’t stay long,” Jon pointed out.

  “Rose can surely stay for one dance,” Evelyn countered, reaching for another glass of champagne. “Prince
Heinrich appears to be smitten. Sir, you’ve hardly taken your eyes off our little Rose since she walked in. Perhaps you should just sweep her off her feet and abscond with her to Maryland. Marry her before midnight. Knock her up before dawn.”

  That was going too far—even for outrageous Evelyn. But she was pretending she’d had too much to drink.

  Jon had a sudden coughing fit.

  And Hank—Heinrich—handled it with his usual charm, somewhat unfortunately for me.

  Instead of asking Evelyn if she were completely out of her mind or stiffly excusing himself and walking away insulted, he smoothly said, “Surely Rose deserves better than a husband who will disappear in two weeks time, and perhaps never return. She’s already lived through that with her fiancée. She doesn’t need for it to happen again.”