Maverick

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Heston breathed heavily, turned his voice into a rheumy, phlegmy geezer’s voice. “Hello?” he quaked. “Is this—" Heston rustled a piece of paper close to the cell. He breathed heavily in and out, putting a wheeze in it. “Is this K-Kensington House?”

  “Yes, sir,” the voice on the other end said patiently. “How may I help you?”

  “My niece is staying there. Claire. Claire Day. My brother’s girl. Can you put me through to her?”

  “I’m sorry sir,” the voice said politely. “Ms. Day is out. May I take a message?”

  Perfect.

  Heston hacked a cough, drawing it out. Old geezer, one foot in the grave. “Yes. Please tell her Uncle Charlie called. I’ll call again.”

  Heston walked quickly back to Massachusetts, to a small sidewalk florist. He spent over a hundred bucks buying every rose the guy had left. Once white things the florist called baby’s breath and some big green leaves had been added, the bouquet was as big as a soldier’s rucksack.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was walking into the quiet, elegant lobby of the hotel with a big, friendly smile on his face. Briefcase in one hand, white roses in the other. Lawyer Guy on a romantic mission.

  “Hey.”

  A dark-haired young man with wild hair looked up from a book and smiled faintly.

  Heston looked around the lobby, as if in appreciation of the elegant wall sconces and antique armchairs. No security cameras here, either. Not one. Jesus.

  “May I help you?” The clerk’s voice was very formal.

  “Yeah.” With a big shit-eating grin, Heston placed the hand holding the big bouquet in its fancy wrapping on the counter. His left hand. “You’ve got a guest staying here tonight. A Ms. Day. Ms. Claire Day.” He winked heavily. “Looker, know what I mean?” Heston had no idea whether Claire Day was a looker or not. She could have seven chins for all he knew, or cared. “We, ah, had a little disagreement.” His grin widened. “All my fault, and I want to make up for it.” His hand wagged the bouquet a little. Christ, it was big enough to atone for murder.

  The clerk looked him in the eyes, not smiling, reaching for the bouquet. “I’ll be happy to see that Ms. Day gets this.”

  Heston pulled the bouquet away from the clerk’s hand. “Ah, ah, ah. I was hoping to leave it in her room. Actually, I was hoping you would let me into her room so I could wait for her. She should be back soon.”

  The young man’s face was stiff with disapproval. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. If you wish to leave the bouquet and a message, I’ll be glad to give them to Ms. Day when she returns. Or you’re welcome to wait in the lobby for her.”

  Heston’s eyes flicked to the cubbyholes behind the clerk, keys dangling from brass hooks. There was a folded sheet of paper in the cubbyhole of room number 7. A message from good ole Uncle Charlie.

  Oh yeah, Uncle Charlie’ll call back real soon.

  Heston leaned forward again, a hundred-dollar bill folded between his fingers. “She’s really, really mad at me,” he said, his voice low and coaxing. “It wasn’t all my fault, but you know what women are like, there’s no reasoning with them. But you know what I think? I think if she opens the door to her room and sees me with a bouquet of roses and, say, a really good bottle of champagne and two flutes, well, I think she might start to forgive me, what do you say?”

  Leaning down casually, the fingers of his right hand opened the briefcase, out of sight of the night clerk, and came out with what he wanted. He palmed it.

  The clerk was stiff as a board, features pulled tight in disapproval. “I’m sorry, sir—"

  Heston’s right hand snaked out from the open briefcase, K-bar gripped in his fist while with his left he dropped the flowers and grabbed the clerk’s jacket lapels, jerking him halfway across the counter. A second later, Heston gently slipped the K-Bar between the 3rd and 4th ribs and punctured the fuckhead’s heart.

  The clerk opened his mouth, but only a gurgle came out, eyes wide and shocked, as his mind tried to grapple with the unthinkable. His olive skin turned pale as the blood drained from his face. They stood there, face to face, so close Heston could kiss him, while Heston watched the clerk’s face cycle through shock, despair, hopelessness. Waiting for death.

  Heston knew precisely what was happening inside the man’s chest. He’d punctured the aorta and the blood was pumping out at three feet per second, straight into the chest cavity. Heston had knowingly sliced sharply down, severing the aorta. If a heart surgeon were here right this second, he could do nothing to save him. The damage was irreparable and death came fast. After a minute and a half, the clerk stopped breathing, the light fading from his eyes.

  Always a good moment.

  Heston let go, letting the clerk slide back down behind the counter. He worked quickly, but carefully. Good soldiering was all in the details.

  Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he pulled a bleach-soaked rag from a Ziploc bag and wiped the doorknob, the counter, all the surfaces he’d touched. The cleaned knife went back into the briefcase. He circled the counter, stepping over the dead man, and gently lifted the key to room number 7 from its hook, together with the slip of paper. He pulled the body into the back office, turned off the light and quietly closed the door.

  There was a Dumpster across the street. He threw the bouquet in, then jogged back up the stairs, quietly opened the door to Room 7, then went back to put the key back on the hook. The key board was on the left-hand wall. When the clerk didn’t come out, she’d just reach up to get the key herself. The hotel was small, guests probably did that all the time.

  Inside Claire Day’s room, Heston stopped and took stock. The Boss wanted the computer, first and foremost. Okay. The laptop was small—and pink for fuck’s sake!—and fit easily into his briefcase. He stuck in the cloth carrier and the charger and carefully put the usual hotel crap—stationery, a pen, a brochure on Washington inside a big folder—at the center of the small desk. There was nothing there now to even hint that she’d been carrying a computer with her.

  He checked the closet and the chest of drawers. Wow, the chick travelled light. There was nothing in the closet except one pair of wool pants, a pair of shoes, and a roll-on trolley suitcase. The chest of drawers held a nightgown, a change of underwear, and a sweater.

  Heston picked the bra and panties up in his gloved hand. Ms. Day might not be a clothes hound, but she sure had sexy underwear. Silk and lace, pale lilac. He brought the silky underthings to his nose and sniffed. Some fancy perfume. Pure woman.

  Man, that would usually be enough to give him a hard-on, but not now. Not on an op. When he was on an op, he forgot thirst and hunger and horniness.

  He became a tool, like a hammer or a gun. Hard and cold and unfeeling.

  He’d learned that lesson the hard way. It had cost him a dishonourable discharge.

  And anyway, he wasn’t here to moon over underwear, he was here to take away evidence that might hurt the Boss, and to get rid of the woman.

  He brought out his folder. The K-bar was too unwieldy for this kind of work—he needed a tool not a weapon.

  Inside of twenty minutes, all Claire Day’s clothes and underwear were slashed into small pieces of fabric that floated around the room, the curtains were slashed, as were the pillows and the mattress and the cushions of the two chairs.

  Heston looked around, pleased. The effect was of rage, of intimate threat. Guaranteed to send the cops on the lookout for a violent killer, probably one who knew Claire Day.

  He eyed the curtains. Part of one panel was still relatively intact. That wouldn’t do. When he finished, he’d switch off the lights and sit on the wrecked mattress, rifle in hand, ready and waiting.

  Phase one of the mission was almost complete.

  Did we kiss?

  The question hung in the air. Claire’s pretty mouth was a shocked O. She hadn’t wanted to ask the question, that was clear. And the strong, controlled woman he’d kissed a year ago would never have asked the question, she’d have
finagled the info out of him, cleverly and casually.

  But that Claire was gone.

  In her place was this pale, shaking ghost. Man, she was in bad shape. So thin he could feel bone when he touched her, bruised-looking eyes with a lost look in them, the very light tan she’d had in Laka gone without a trace, though she now lived in Florida.

  This new Claire had had a panic attack when Stavros’s waiter started piling food on the table. Dan could have kicked himself in the ass. It hadn’t even occurred to him that her system simply wouldn’t be able to deal with it. And yet he’d seen how thin she’d become, held her briefly in his arms and felt the fragility. Duh. It meant her system couldn’t handle food.

  He’d seen that before. He’d seen every manifestation of PTSD there was. His gunner, who’d had both legs blown off, had simply turned his face to the wall, unwilling to live. He’d had to be fed parenterally for a couple of months to keep him alive.

  Dan hadn’t thought of that. He’d simply wanted to take Claire to a place that was warm and welcoming, where the food was good, and where she could relax. And Stavros’s place fit the bill. Except Stavros overdid the portions, always had. Marines had hearty appetites. And shit-for-brains Dan hadn’t thought of that.

  Man, Claire had nearly fainted. She’d been pale before, but as the waiter slid the dishes in front of her, she’d turned the color of ice. He was lucky she hadn’t fainted, or thrown up.

  But she’d had a panic attack. And in her panic, she’d blurted out her question, and now looked as if she’d accidentally tripped a land mine.

  This was going to be hard. But Dan was a Marine. He knew how to do hard.

  He picked up her cold, trembling hand.

  “I don’t know why I said that.” Claire’s shaking voice was high, breathless. “It’s crazy. I am so sorry. I don’t know where that came from, it just—"

  Dan laid a finger across her lips. “Shhh.” He couldn’t stand to see that lost look on her beautiful face. “Hush. It’s not crazy. You’re not crazy.” Reluctantly, he lifted his finger from her mouth. She had amazingly soft lips. He remembered that, nightly. “And for your information, we did kiss. Just before you left with Marie.”

  “We did? We kissed?” Claire’s huge, silver-blue eyes never left his face, watching him as carefully as if he were a grenade that could blow up at any moment. Or as if he would kiss her again.

  Which, well, he wanted to do. Badly. So badly he held his right fist under the table, tightly clenched. It had taken all his willpower—and he had a lot of willpower—to take his finger away from her. He didn’t just want his finger against her mouth. He wanted his own mouth there, too. He wanted to be mouth to mouth, chest to chest, groin to groin, with Claire Day. So close he could breathe for her. So close he could feel her heartbeat.

  “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared it. “And then you went out and got yourself blown up.”

  Her face lightened a little. It wasn’t a smile, but it was the ghost of one. “I’m sure the two events were unrelated,” she said. The big chandelier in the middle of the room reflected off her eyes as she searched his, bright lances of silver. “How did we—how did we get to that point? Had we been… dating? That past week? Because I don’t remember you at all.”

  “We didn’t date.” Dan pushed a small plate of baklava a little closer. “Eat some of that. You don’t have to finish it, stop when you don’t want any more. But I want you to eat a little. One. Just a bite or two, if you can’t finish it. Please.”

  Because now Dan knew what his new mission in life was. Dan had been intensely mission-oriented ever since he joined the Marines. He focused on his goal and he achieved it.

  And now his goal was to take care of this incredible woman. She was magic. Smart and beautiful and strong, brought low by thugs. He’d almost lost her, and by some miracle had found her. He wasn’t losing her again. No way.

  “Yessir.” A corner of her beautiful mouth lifted. For a second, Dan had a flash of the woman that was, hidden somewhere inside this frail, wounded creature. She wanted out and he wanted to help her get out. “Nobody disobeys the Detachment Commander.”

  That was true. In times of danger, the Detachment Commander was Commander-in-Chief. He was to be obeyed instantly. He was God.

  “Damn straight.” Dan cut a corner of a piece of Stavros’s superb baklava. “Now put that in your mouth.”

  “Yessir,” she said again. He watched the forkful disappear in her mouth, and envied it. “So.” She tilted her head to one side, considering him. He knew what he was. A battered 34-year-old with a metal knee, no spleen, half deaf in one ear, who’d had to start over from scratch. A man who owned his own home and his own business, but who didn’t have looks and didn’t have charm.

  She smiled. “I guess it was that old classic. The moonlight, the exotic locale, the gunfire...”

  “Exactly.” Great. A flash of the old Claire Day. “Now eat.”

  She ate. Two pieces of the baklava.

  Dan talked to her constantly while she ate. At first, she almost had to choke the food down, then later started taking small bites with more ease, all to the tune of his deep basso profundo.

  He was interesting, but she found herself tuning him out, letting the low rumble of his voice roll over her while she observed him. Though he wasn’t overly tall, he had the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen, twice the size of the chair’s back. He had on a white dress shirt, but no tie. A tie would look strange on him, she thought. A little too milquetoast and civilized for that strong, tanned throat. Instead, he had the first button of the shirt open and an intriguing swirl of dark hair peeped out.

  Her last lover, Maurice—sweet, vain Maurice—had manscaped like crazy. It had itched like the devil growing back. Over dinner Maurice would constantly scratch his chest and she had to pretend nothing was happening. Just like she pretended that she was using her super fancy eye cream up faster than usual while the skin around Maurice’s eyes grew noticeably softer.

  Dan Weston was the furthest thing possible from a metrosexual. Judging by the fine, weather-beaten lines around his eyes, he had never in his life moisturized. She couldn’t even begin to imagine him going in for a chest and leg wax. Maurice had had a weekly manicure. Dan’s hands were big and rough, callused, the nails clean and cut but not manicured.

  They were fascinating hands, though. Dark and broad and sinewy, the forearm muscles visible beneath the shirt sleeve. They were the strongest hands she’d ever seen.

  Everything about him fascinated her. The ultra-strong, fit body. The deep voice. The utterly male vibe coming from him like steam off a grate, mixed in with a godzillion male pheromones.

  It wasn’t until they were getting ready to go that Claire realized that the fascination he held for her had sucked her right out of herself. For a year now, she’d been like the walking dead. Barely able to function, hardly aware of the world outside, living completely inside her broken self. She’d barely spoken a dozen words to anyone.

  And now she’d eaten—if not a full meal, at least food—with another human being, talked to him, sat so close she could feel his body heat.

  She felt like a baby that had spent its first year in the dark, but now was walking on shaky feet toward the light. It was wonderful, but she also felt exhausted. What little energy she had had been eaten up in the panic attack.

  The huge fire at her back, Dan sitting so close to her, melted the icy core she carried around inside herself. She felt warm, for the first time in a long time. Warm and… sleepy. Her eyes drooped.

  Dan laughed, jolting her upright. “I guess you’re not up for this great jazz club on Wisconsin Avenue right now.”

  “Guess not,” Claire said sheepishly. Then, before she could stop herself, “Maybe tomorrow night.”

  Well, that was dumb.

  She was a spook, for heaven’s sakes. Or had been. Capable of keeping her country’s secrets, more than capable of the security dance, where you doled out just enough inte
l to get what you wanted, making sure, always, the equation was in your favour.

  Claire had gone to endless international meetings and to an infinity of cocktail parties where her brief had been to winkle out some shard of intel and she had never, ever blurted anything out. Every word she spoke had been as precisely calibrated as if it had been turned on a lathe.

  And now look at her. Just opening her mouth and… plop. Whatever was bouncing around in her crazy head at that moment came falling out. Lord.

  “Sorry,” she muttered.

  She had no idea where she would be tomorrow night. Probably back home, in her big, empty house. Why should she be here? She’d come racing up thinking this man could magically erase the clouds in her mind, but he couldn’t. He could only make her eat and feel warm.

  Whatever had happened in Laka remained essentially a mystery, except for the intriguing detail that she’d kissed him.

  But besides the kiss, what claim did she have on his time? None. He was a busy man, ran his own company and successfully too, if that office was any indication. A successful businessman didn’t have time to just drop everything because an old acquaintance showed up. An old acquaintance who didn’t even remember him.

  “I’m sorry. That was dumb of me. I should be…” Home by this time tomorrow. The words stuck in her throat.

  His mouth turned up as he watched her flounder. Was that—was that a dimple? Maybe dimple was too strong a word for what appeared on that rough face. A dent. It was definitely a dent. A smile-induced dent.

  Dan picked her hand up and brought it to his mouth, hot breath washing over her palm. He planted a soft kiss in the center of her palm. She caught her breath, pulled her hand away and placed in on her lap, under the table. Curling her fingers around the spot that felt as if a small sun had blossomed there.

  “I’d love to take you wherever you want to go. Tomorrow, the next day. Whenever. Today you surprised me. Tomorrow I’m clearing the decks for you. My time is yours.”

  Claire blinked. She opened her mouth then closed it. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t be wrong. Her mind was blank, utterly void.