Maverick

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Oh, yeah. He’d have landed on his feet.

  Bowen McKenzie. She’d overlapped two tours of duty with him, in Durban and Laka. It had been an open secret that he was CIA. He never really tried to hide it. She imagined he felt it gave him a dashing air. Hinting that he knew dark secrets was part of his special seduction technique, which had worked on every available woman he’d come across in the Foreign Service between the ages of 20 and 50, married or not, with the exception of Claire and Marie Diur.

  Claire would rather have put her hand in a thresher than go to bed with Bowen. He’d made her skin crawl. But she’d been a lonely exception, and Bowen had taken her refusal personally and had made it his mission to change her mind.

  He hadn’t been successful, and it had burned.

  “Bowen’s in Washington? I wonder if I should have gotten in touch with him, too.” Her mouth twisted with distaste at the thought.

  “Would have been useless,” he answered. “Bowen wasn’t there that day.”

  She sighed in relief. Talking to Daniel Weston was infinitely nicer than dealing with Bowen McKenzie.

  He was sitting across from her, in Male Mode—knees apart, leaning forward, clasped hands between knees. His shoulders were so broad they blocked her view of the lower edge of the window.

  There was nothing polished or elegant about him. He was dressed more for comfort than for style, in corduroy trousers, a heavy brown sweater with a blue shirt collar underneath, and boots rather than dress shoes.

  She stared out the window. It had started sleeting, needle-like shards of ice pinging against the window pane. The windows had triple-glazing so there was no noise, not even from the sharp wind bending the branches of a big, old oak in someone’s back yard.

  There was something about what he said…

  She turned back to him.

  “Bowen wasn’t there?” She frowned. “But…”

  There was something wrong in that. Wasn’t there? Bowen McKenzie had been working with a private think tank on some big development project with military implications, some big, new, unholy alliance the CIA had been forging. She knew he’d staked his reputation on it, and that he was incredibly ambitious. He’d rarely left Laka in the previous six months. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. He wasn’t even in Laka, he was in Algiers, meeting with the Deputy Premier.”

  “Are you sure?” Why was she insisting? It was just that… for a second there, clouds parted in her head and she thought she had a memory of Bowen in Laka that day. A memory of a memory.

  “It was my job to keep track of everyone working at the Embassy,” Daniel said gently. “I’m sure. McKenzie was on a two-day trip to Algeria, due to come back the 27th.” He shook his head. “Of course, he came right back after the bombing. I heard about that from my second-in-command, later. By the time he made it back to Laka, I was being operated on in Ramstein.”

  “You were hurt, too?”

  He nodded curtly and said nothing. He didn’t want to talk about it. Fair enough. She understood completely.

  Close up, she was able to appreciate how incredibly fit he was. He’d been hurt in the bombing, too, but there was absolutely no sign of that. None.

  He looked as strong as an ox—broad, without a hint of fat. Large, very strong hands. Huge thigh muscles visible even underneath the thick corduroy material of his trousers.

  He no longer had that Marine staple haircut, the white-walled high-and-tight she was so familiar with from Embassies. If anything, his hair was a little shaggy. He could use a haircut. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, and crazily, her hand itched to brush it back for him, which was nuts, of course.

  She should be used to her wayward thoughts by now, but wanting to smooth back the hair of a perfect stranger was pushing it, even for her lunatic self.

  And yet, and yet—oh, man. She almost shook with the effort to keep her hands in her lap. Daniel Weston seemed so incredibly… solid. So strong and reassuring. This enormous source of strength and… heat.

  Focus, Claire!

  She circled back to what he’d said. That Bowen hadn’t been in Laka the day of the bombing.

  Claire searched his eyes, so dark and certain of what he’d said.

  Unlike her, who doubted everything.

  She hated that about herself. There was no longer any internal sense of whether something was true or not. A lifetime ago, she’d been an analyst, capable of sifting through contradictory facts to get at the kernels of truth. She’d been very, very good at it, and hadn’t realized how much she cherished that ability until it was gone. Until she’d been left with a world that shifted constantly beneath her feet.

  She had a feeling Bowen McKenzie had been there in Laka at the time of the bombing, and he hadn’t been. Just one more example of not being able to trust herself.

  And yet… why was she so sure Bowen had been there? Did she have a memory that was superimposing itself on her lost week?

  Oh God, nothing made any sense. And she was taking up this very nice man’s time. She stood up.

  Suddenly, visions dredged up from some deep, dark place within her came shooting into her mind.

  Heat, low vicious whispers, a glance up out of feral eyes, a shot ringing out, a head exploding…

  “Oh!” She bent forward, eyes closed tight, as a burst of pain exploded in her head. She held her head tightly between her hands, because when this happened, when her head felt like exploding, she had to hold it together or she’d find shards of skull on the floor. At least that’s what it felt like.

  Spots danced in front of her eyes and she managed by a miracle to keep upright. Once, alone in the house, she’d fainted, waking up on the cold marble floor after night had fallen.

  This time there was someone to catch her. Two big, strong hands, pulling her against a broad chest. She couldn’t fall to the floor if she wanted to.

  For a second, she blanked completely, senses flooded with conflicting input. She was dizzy, despairing. Chilled, scared. There was what was inside her—a cold sort of despair that she would never get her life back, ever again. That she was condemned to live forever in this frozen wasteland where nothing made sense.

  And then there was the input of her senses right in this instant—a feeling of immense safety, in the solid grasp of a man who wouldn’t let her fall.

  For an instant, for only an instant, Claire allowed herself to lean on someone else. Her arms went around that hugely broad back and she simply held on, for dear life, because that’s what it felt like. Holding on for her life, before it slipped away entirely, in falls and headaches and the horrifying sense of sliding away into insanity.

  All the bad things simply… stopped. Her taut muscles loosened, her eyes closed, her nose was buried in a sweater that smelled of fabric softener and man, with a faint tang of smoke.

  She was being held tightly, engulfed in strong arms and warmth, and her mind simply blanked.

  She was so used to the background buzz of anxiety and fear in her head, a constant hiss of static tinged with darkness, that she simply blissed out at its absence.

  No bad thoughts or feelings, no dizziness or sudden panic. Just this blissful… nothingness. Enveloped in a cocoon of safety and strength where no terrible things could happen. Where if the floor were to open up into an abyss, he’d catch her.

  She stood for long moments, forehead dug into the chest of this man she knew only in her dreams.

  Claire stepped back when she could feel Daniel checking his wristwatch behind her back. She tested the ground, found it solid again.

  He winced. “Listen, I really, really hate to do this, but I’ve got an appointment in Baltimore I can’t break. It’s an appointment made a month ago, unfortunately, and I simply can’t cancel. Much as I’d like to.”

  Claire flushed, ashamed of herself. “Oh my gosh, of course. I’ll get out of your hair—"

  “No, no.” He looked at her in horror. “I’m cancelling everything else on my schedule. This
meeting shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours and I should be back by six. Certainly I’ll be back in time to take you out to dinner. When’s your flight back?”

  “I haven’t actually booked a return flight,” she confessed. Staring at the empty RETURN FLIGHT field on the website, she’d pulled a complete blank. Fixing a return had simply been too much for her, so she’d booked a one-way ticket, cost be damned.

  His mouth lifted in a smile. “Great. Then that’s settled. May I pick you up at seven at your hotel?”

  Normally, she didn’t like being steamrolled, but it didn’t feel like that. It didn’t feel like he was taking over her life. It felt like being cared for. She hesitated, then nodded.

  He looked pleased. More than pleased, actually. He looked… interested.

  “Seven is fine.”

  It had been so long since she’d felt anything like this, since she’d been part of that whole man-woman thing. Her only contact with men over the past nine months had been with doctors and physical therapists, then lawyers as she settled her father’s estate. She’d nearly forgotten that she was a woman. Daniel Weston made her feel female once again.

  She felt a connection to him, and even though it was probably a sign of her craziness, because the connection was in her dreams, right at this moment she didn’t feel cold and alone and listless, which had been her default emotional setting for more time than she cared to think about.

  He smiled down at her and she smiled back, amazed that her cheek muscles didn’t crack. Dinner out tonight, at seven. For the first time in a long while, she had something to look forward to.

  Dan helped her into her coat, big hands resting on her shoulders after she’d shrugged it on. They stood there, her back to him.

  A storm was rising outside and the sleet was pinging hard and fast against the windows, the wind bending the branches of the trees in someone’s garden, but no sound penetrated the triple glazing.

  They simply stood quietly, Daniel not making a move, until she finally bent to get her purse.

  His hands lifted, and he crossed to open the door for her. Roxanne was smiling as she said good-bye.

  The instant they were outside, he opened up a big black umbrella and cocked his elbow out in a clear invitation.

  Just like that, she was walking down a city street arm-in-arm with a man. When she’d woken at 4 a.m. after a restless night’s semi-sleep, the last thing she’d have expected to happen today was this. The day had started with the Flight from Hell, and now look.

  Life’s surprises sometimes were good, they weren’t always bad. She had to remember that.

  The sky was slate gray, lit by sheet lightning to the north. Thunder growled in the distance. The sleety rain was coming down so hard it started bouncing off the sidewalk. With a quick glance at the sky, Dan hurried his pace, making sure the umbrella covered Claire. He pulled a key fob out of his pocket and thumbed it. Ten feet away, a black BMW’s locks opened with a whump.

  He settled her in the passenger seat, holding the umbrella over her, then rounded the car.

  “So.” He turned to her, one big hand on the wheel, the other on the key in the ignition. “Where we headed? Where’s your hotel?”

  “It’s not a hotel, really. More of an upscale Bed & Breakfast. It’s on a cul de sac just off Massachusetts Avenue. It’s called Kensington House. On Warren Street.” It was a charming, turn-of-the-century townhouse, with a welcoming touch. Claire had found it on the net and had been delighted with the place when she’d checked in this morning.

  “I think I know the place.” At her raised eyebrows, he shrugged. “I’m a walker, it’s how I get to know cities. I walk them until I know them. And I think I’ve walked by it a couple of times. Now buckle up.”

  The rain was pelting down, huge drops drumming on the roof, water already gathering at the sides of the roads. Traffic was snarled, the sounds of hooting horns penetrating even the soundproofing of the BMW.

  Claire stayed silent as Dan drove, because she’d be in a sweat if she had to drive in this bad weather. It didn’t seem to faze him, though. He was a superb driver, in complete control of the car, as relaxed as if they were taking a drive down a sunny lane in spring.

  She really admired good driving, perhaps because she was a lousy driver herself. She’d never owned a car until she inherited her father’s old Ford, and drove as little as possible.

  Dan made his way with ease through the streets, taking shortcuts she’d never known about, though she’d lived in Washington for four years while getting her degree. She didn’t know half the streets he was driving down.

  It was almost… peaceful, in the quiet car. Once she realized that Dan was such a good driver, the rain became a soothing background noise instead of a source of stress.

  She sat back in the comfortable leather seat and sighed. It felt so good to let go, just for a little while. To let someone else take charge. To just… be.

  Traffic was intense and the drive took almost 40 minutes. She leaned her head back and might even have drifted half asleep. Her eyes snapped open when she felt the car brake to a stop.

  “Nice,” Dan said, pulling up outside the big brass-and-wood front door of the townhouse.

  “Yes, it is,” she replied. “Comfortable, too.”

  He helped her out of the car and walked her into the lobby, which had once been the home’s foyer. It was decorated like a sitting room, with only a long teak counter betraying the fact that this was a commercial building. A very pretty Chinese-American girl was standing behind the counter, reading a book. She looked up and smiled at them as they walked in. The brass nameplate on her starched white shirt read ‘Amy’ and she’d checked Claire in.

  “There you go, Ms. Day. Room 7.” Amy had been reading what looked like a dense textbook. She noticed Claire’s interest. “Big exam coming up.”

  “Good luck.” Claire smiled, remembering all that hard work in college. Hard, satisfying work. It had been so simple—work hard, reap rewards.

  Life wasn’t that simple any more.

  She turned to Dan. He had a face that looked as if it didn’t smile much, but he was smiling down at her now. He was so close she could feel his body heat, smell soap and still the faintest overlay of smoke. He’d been through a harrowing experience just—what was it?—yesterday, but you couldn’t tell it from looking at him. He looked tough and indomitable.

  Oh God, she used to be tough, too. Not running-into-a-burning-building tough, necessarily, not shoot-your-opponent-dead tough, but she’d held her own in a man’s world. She’d had a reputation as a real no-nonsense pro.

  She didn’t feel tough or hard or even very professional now.

  Dan was watching her so carefully, dark eyes so knowing. Did he know what was going through her mind? Did he read how unsettled and rattled she was at her core?

  He picked up her hand, and to her astonishment, brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles. Such a—a chivalrous gesture.

  It seemed so out of place coming from a man like him. He was a Marine for God’s sake! She’d loved the Marines in all her postings. They’d been, to a man, smart and tough and efficient. But she’d have sworn that there wasn’t a romantic bone in the entire Corps.

  “So, get some rest this afternoon,” he said, letting go of her hand, then lifting his to run the back of his forefinger down her cheek. “You look tired—some rest will do you good. You must have gotten up at the crack of dawn.”

  She smiled. “At four.”

  “There you go. So, get some rest and I’ll be here at seven.”

  He stood there, not too tall but so very broad, smiling down at her. Strong, serious, reliable. Claire suddenly knew, in a flash of insight so strong there was no possible room for doubt, that he would be here at seven. And if he wasn’t, it meant he was either dead or in the hospital.

  “Okay. I’m—I’m looking forward to it.”

  She was, she realized suddenly. They weren’t just polite words. She really
was looking forward to it—the first thing she’d looked forward to in such a long time.

  He nodded. “Great—me too. I know a fantastic little place in Georgetown. I’ll book for a quarter to eight.”

  They stood there for a long moment. Amy was openly watching them, gaze shifting from her, to him, then back to her. Clearly she felt something more was required.

  Claire stepped back, because the temptation to step forward, right into Dan’s arms, was so strong.

  “See you at seven, then,” she said, and turned down the corridor of rooms. At Room 7, she stopped and looked back. Dan hadn’t moved. He’d watched her, every step of the way.

  Her room was very comfortable, with a little parlour area outfitted with a sofa, a desk, and a chair. Claire unpacked her bag, taking her time, eyeing the bed. It was a big four-poster with a huge down comforter, and beckoned to her.

  She sat on one of the two chairs and stared out the window at the sleety storm outside and thought of nothing at all, savoring the unusual feeling of relaxation.

  Just as she was contemplating lying down, there was a soft knock on the door. She checked the peephole. Amy, the girl from the front desk, stood holding a tray, grinning.

  Claire opened the door.

  “This just came, Ms. Day.” Amy placed the tray carefully on the desk and stepped back.

  Claire lifted silver covers and discovered a fragrant, steaming bowl of cream-of-mushroom soup, a small salad, hot focaccia bread, and a slice of dense chocolate cake. There was a half-bottle of Chardonnay, and a large bottle of Evian. A small white envelope leaned against the wine bottle with her name in bold black ink.

  She opened it.

  Enjoy the lunch, she read. See you at seven. D.

  She did enjoy the lunch, to her utter surprise. This past year food—the smell of it, at times even the sight of it—made her stomach clamp shut. Just knot right up until she thought she’d never eat again in this lifetime.

  But not now. Now she felt… open. Almost hungry.

  She ate about half of everything. The soup settled, warm and comforting, in her stomach. The hot focaccia made a pleasing contrast with the crisp salad greens, and the chocolate cake was simply divine, the Platonic ideal of a chocolate cake. It was what chocolate cake would taste like in Heaven.