by Nikki Logan
Distant. Official. Once more a stranger.
Clare turned to follow the line of his gaze. Agent Amazon stood by the entrance to the women’s tent, her attention squarely on the two of them, her face neutral.
Seriously, Simon? Are we still all about secrets and tip-toeing around?
He couldn’t even have a conversation with her without raising suspicion in his partner’s eyes? And he was ashamed enough to try and hide it? All the warmth that had just inflated the wary muscle in her chest back to its usual heart-shape escaped into the cool African morning.
Clare faced him again and forced a smile past her full body sigh. Tired of trying to work out which of his multiple personalities was the real Simon. “Looks like your services are required. Thanks for breakfast.”
She rose and walked resolutely toward her tent, leaving him standing alone in the center of camp.
…
Simon followed Clare’s retreat from behind his government-issue sunglasses. She passed McKenzie and the two women ignored each other entirely. He met Mac at the Nissan where she began dissembling and reassembling her gun restlessly.
“Waving your gun around is not going to win you any friends, Mac.” He leaned against the car next to his scowling partner.
“Like I care. I’m here under sufferance.”
“We both are.”
“Bull. You chose to be here. Her shrink could have debriefed her, but you wanted to do it yourself. The personal touch.” She mimicked the last words.
He glanced across camp. “There’s more to settle between us than the mechanics of what happened last year.”
“You must want to settle it pretty badly. Enough that I’m crusted with tsetse flies instead of enjoying a pot of English Breakfast in Soho.”
He shook his head. “Not coffee? Do you have any American left in you at all?”
“I’m British on my father’s side. I have a genetic predisposition toward tea, I’m sure.”
Simon shook his head. “The US posted you with SIS to work any case involving an American citizen. So you’re fly-bitten because of them.”
“They posted me in the interests of inter-organizational cooperation,” she sniffed, ignoring his obvious attempt at changing the subject and disassembling her weapon again. “So I still blame you. You’re a maverick, deVries. You always were. I’m sure this won’t be the last time you’ll make my life hell.” A hint of a smile played at her lips. “So just make damn sure it’s worth it.”
Simon looked to where Clare sat in a low slung chair, her binoculars firmly fixed on the bush as she scanned the tall grass for a sign of the pack.
“It is.”
“I’m talking about the case.”
He turned to her, put on his best intelligence officer face. “Me, too. I have a chain of custody to ensure for our evidence.”
“The pair of you looked pretty cozy just now for two people supposedly keeping things strictly business.”
He glared at her. “I know the boundaries, Mac. Exactly where they are.”
She snorted. “And I know you, deVries. You’ll push up against them until they quiver under the strain.”
What could he say? Mac was his best friend. She knew him better than anyone on the planet. “And yet, have I ever failed on a job?”
She made a face at him.
“So trust me to know what I’m doing on this one. The crown will get their evidence and their witness statements, and hopefully convict themselves a basketful of bad-guys with it.”
Mac jammed the clip into her reassembled weapon and slid it into her back holster. “You know you’ll have to question her at some point, right?”
He’d managed to finesse information from hardened criminals; surely he could manage one meaningful conversation with a pint-sized civilian. He just needed the right time and place.
“Unless you want me to talk to her?” Mac offered, nonchalant.
His horror was immediate. “Hell, no.”
“Why? Afraid I’ll tell her how you feel about her?”
“I’m afraid you’ll tell her how you feel about her,” he grunted.
She smiled. “You know me too well.”
He turned to scan the camp. “Why don’t you like her?”
And why did that matter so much to him?
McKenzie shrugged. “I don’t like what she did to you.”
The drugging. “How else was she supposed to get away?”
“And I really don’t like what she does to you. Making you turn against what you know.”
He lifted his eyes to the deep, blue sky. “Thanks Mac. I’ll keep that in mind.”
There were just two problems with her theory.
Clare hadn’t done a blessed thing to him yet. Unfortunately.
And, how could he turn against what he knew if he no longer knew a damn thing about anything?
Chapter Twelve
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” A gentle hand shook her awake. “It’s your watch.”
Clare lurched into consciousness and blinked at the vague shape crouching over her, lit by the moonlight that spilled in through the open tent flap, a dim lantern by the foot of the bunk.
Nadia dropped a woolly blanket next to it. “See you in the morning,” she whispered before tip-toeing to her own bunk and collapsing beneath its mosquito net.
Clare’s heart beat out the adrenaline rush. She was still dressed from the night before, warm and rumpled from an amazingly good sleep, which made getting ready easy. She’d fallen asleep to the gentle sound of voices chatting around the crackle of a campfire, and the symphony of surrounding wildlife—a cacophony of whoops and barks and other-worldly harmonics—and the swish of trees in the night breeze. The sky would lighten in an hour, but until then she was grateful for the deep, dark peace.
As she made her way to the holding yards, the pre-dawn noises intensified. Distant jackals, chenje, and innumerable birds preparing for their live performance when the sun crept over the horizon.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the essence of Africa. Spicy. Dusty. Wild.
Settling down on the cool ground within the woven-branch hunting blind, she draped the soft blanket around her shoulders and picked up the end of the rope that was attached to the swinging gate, so she’d be ready for the dogs. She peered out the narrow viewing slot. The little shelter’s orientation gave her a good view of the approach to the pens and the chute’s entrance, still lit by the waning moon. Above, the sparkling expanse of night sky winked at her through the loosely woven branches.
The peace and solitude gave her precious time to think.
Simon didn’t blame her for drugging him. Thank God. Six months’ worth of doubt and self-recrimination slowly dissolved; absorbed into the starlit sky above, along with the burden of guilt she’d carried. Only to leave a writhing, uncertain fear behind.
Dr. Douglass had pulled out what little hair he had every time she’d refused to concede that her attraction to Simon and her difficulty in letting go of their relationship were signs of capture-bonding. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. And he’d then schedule another appointment on his couch for her.
It was kind of their ritual. Though her shrink was unquestionably wearing her down.
Hell, maybe she was in denial. If someone told you enough times something wasn’t true, maybe you started to believe it. Maybe she wasn’t just drawn to Simon because he was a handsome, charismatic man with a good heart and unfailing sense of honor. Perhaps she was all messed up inside.
But if this was Stockholm syndrome, shouldn’t it have worn off now that she was free? Instead, her feelings for Simon were intensifying.
She plucked at the frayed end of the gate rope.
“When are you going to forgive yourself for leaving him?” Douglass had once challenged.
She’d jumped up from his sofa—complete with passionate arm waving. “I never said I loved him!”
Douglass had just smiled in that infuri
atingly calm way and said, “I said leaving him.”
Oh.
Crap. He and Sigmund Freud had dined out on that one for a month.
But naming her feelings out loud had shifted something significant inside her, even if via Freudian slip, and even if she wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge it. Or trust it.
Because if it wasn’t Stockholm…
“Clare?”
It was a sigh on the breeze more than a human voice. But her subconscious was finely tuned to Simon’s frequency as he squeezed himself into the blind. She swallowed hard. “What are you—?”
He shook his head and placed a finger to his lips, then sank, cross-legged in what little space was left in the blind. She shuffled to one side, taking the end of the gate rope with her. Accommodating his size.
She felt his movements more than saw them in the dim light.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded softly. Watches were solo occupations for a reason. Double the human smell, double the chance of being overheard. Double the chance of scaring the dogs away.
“I’m sitting silently,” he whispered, so very close. “Keeping you company.”
He was serious.
She had no idea who this Simon was—the one that made her heart squeeze or the one that made it swell.
He leaned back and the glow of moonlight spilling in the narrow viewing window cut across his intense eyes as he regarded her. His nearness, the stark maleness of him in the confined space combined with the richness of the earth, distracted her more than any conversation could. She shook her head and forced her focus back onto the rope, giving it a little flick for good measure.
Minutes passed.
Was he still set on clearing the air? No doubt, sleeping with your captive did not feature highly in the Pocket Book of Spy Etiquette. Did it gall him so much that he’d done something outside of the rules?
He turned and his face was mere inches away. The intensity of his stare made her toes curl. She’d never felt more…seen.
She directed her attention back to the yards, but memories of his darkened eyes, flushed skin, and hot mouth filled her mind. Her breath instinctively fell into sync with his. The heat of his body reached out to her, making the blanket redundant, and her ears grew sensitive to every sound he made.
The suck of his tongue as he licked his lips.
The sigh of his breath.
The masculine growl in his throat as he softly cleared it.
Every sound drew her further in. Closer. Remembering…
“This is ridiculous,” she burst out in a stage whisper, desperate for him to leave.
“Shhh!” He turned toward her and the censure blew warmly against her skin.
She shook her head.
It was the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done.
The memory of the callous words stung just as much as when he’d tossed them out at her. Clearly, he had no idea she’d slept with him because she’d fallen for him. Which was a good thing. It meant she might yet get out of this with a shred of dignity. Not a big shred, but it was something.
“Either go or speak,” she whispered. “But I can’t sit here with you in silence.” Not without going insane. Or doing something completely inappropriate.
The silence grew heavy. As though he were taking a moment to celebrate her admission. “What about the dogs?”
“Just…whisper. That will do.” It would have to.
The dim light thickened. And lengthened. The air grew stuffy.
“This reminds me of my childhood,” he murmured. “My younger brother and I used to pretend we were part of Scott’s expedition across the Antarctic.”
She peered at him incredulously.
“Adam and I built an igloo in the back yard one winter, and we’d huddle in it and imagine trekking by foot across the ice. It was freezing.”
Her lips parted. He had a brother?
It was a small thing, not the world’s most fascinating detail, but everything she knew about him was so removed from personal, separated by six degrees of deception, it felt like a gift. But the way she automatically clung to the detail was enough to make her fight it.
“Cowboys and Indians too pedestrian for the deVries boys?” she whispered to the shape beside her. And suddenly she was imagining him as a bright, gray-eyed little boy with a talent for finding trouble. Her heart molded itself around the visual.
He leaned closer so he could lower his voice. His heat amplified. “We were pretty serious kids. And we were way into adventure.”
She forced her focus back on the rope. “Is that why you became a spy?”
“Operational officer.” His smile enriched his voice, and all she could remember was the slide of those teeth against her skin.
She heaved in a breath to banish the sensation. “What’s the difference?”
“My time undercover would barely be an apprenticeship for the long-haulers in the espionage department.”
“Why do you do it? Live your life like that? Undercover with scum for months at a time.”
“That was an exception. Ninety percent of my job is paperwork.”
“But you prefer the ten percent.” She suddenly knew it was true.
She felt him shrug. “Beats driving a bus.”
“But…you risk your life every day. Why?”
“Because I believe in what I’m doing.” He must have sensed her frown. “Do you find that hard to understand? You’ve done the same thing for WildLyfe. For those dogs. You’d gladly risk your life for them. I’ve never forgotten that desolate, accusing sound you made when you thought we’d killed your dogs.” He grew quiet and her heart thumped harder.
“That was a bad day,” she admitted.
“Weren’t they all bad days?” he asked quietly.
No. Not all of them.
When she didn’t answer, he glanced at her. That’s when she noticed it was getting lighter outside. Sunrise came fast in Zambia. And early. One minute it was black as midnight, the next it was a paling blue.
“I knew the dogs and I were suffering together.” She took a deep breath. “And then they were gone. I was completely alone. Even you were gone.”
He frowned. “I wasn’t.”
“You were to me. Because I thought you’d done it, and you—and the dogs—were all I had.” She swallowed back the rush of remembered emotion.
Their eyes met in the light of dawn. “I would have given anything to have been able to tell you who I was.”
She hung suspended in the force field of his gaze. In the sudden intensely personal turn of conversation. “I knew you were helping me,” she said in a breathy whisper. “I thought it meant that you—” No, she couldn’t give him that. “I didn’t understand it was work for you. Until yesterday.”
“It should have just been work,” he said, cryptically. His chest rose and fell in her silence, his expression stormy as he struggled with something. His gaze never left her. “I’m supposed to be staying away from you,” he said at length, his voice gravel-rough. “I’m under orders.”
The rope lay forgotten in her fingers. The seconds ticked by, counted off by the chirp of rousing insects.
“Then why did you follow me in here?” she whispered…a last, flimsy defense against the simmering focus of his intent.
His eyes dropped to her lips. He settled one arm close behind her, bringing their bodies harder against each other. His mouth was just inches from hers as he murmured, “Because I never was very good at following orders.”
Blood thrummed in her ears. Her nipples tightened. “This is not a good idea…”
And what if it’s not real?
She clung to the nearest good reason not to take what she so desperately wanted.
He tipped his head until his lips barely brushed hers. His knuckles scraped back her hair. “It wasn’t a good idea last time, either, but you applied yourself admirably to the task.” His breath tortured her lips with the lightest of caresses. “Tell me you don’t feel the spark
between us and I’ll crawl out of here and never trouble you again.”
It wasn’t a spark.
It was wild fire.
Heaven eddied around her in dizzying swirls. “You’re not worried about being unprofessional?”
His jaw brushed against hers. “Too late.”
“Are you really here just to guard us?”
“And to collect evidence.” His lashes screened his eyes.
She breathed in the scent of his skin. “Nothing else?”
His eyes smoldered. His fingers slid around to tangle in the thick hair at her neck. Her whole world became about the shape of his lips and the sound of his voice as he spoke in slow motion. “No, Clare. Not just for the evidence.”
He didn’t move, didn’t have to. The magnetism that bonded them pulled her toward him all by itself. His strong thumbs stroked her jaw line. The masculine scent of him permeated every cell in her body. Or maybe it was his pheromones. Either way, she was lost.
One of them must have leaned in first.
Their lips met for the time it took for Clare’s heart to skip just once. It was agonizingly short. It was eternity.
She floated up off the hard dirt floor on a wave of dizzy sensation.
He pulled back a fraction, and then lowered his mouth again. Tasted her. Explored her. Teased her.
She moaned and let her tongue tangle with his. His hand left her hair to palm the hard peak of her breast. Big, sensual, confident circles. Muscles she hadn’t used in six months coiled and tensed deep inside.
Her hand slid along his thigh, aching to touch him.
“You taste just the same,” he whispered, biting at her lower lip. “You feel just the same.”
He twisted around in the cramped little hide to graze her throat with his tongue, and she let her head fall back. “My shrink told me it isn’t real,” she murmured with a gasp when he licked her earlobe.
But her fingers against his zipper showed her just how real this was.
“He wasn’t there.” Simon’s lips pressed against her temple while parts lower down pressed against her hand. “My superiors weren’t there.”
No. The only two people in the world who knew for certain what went down in that farmhouse were here. Together again.