Trisha Telep (ed)

by The Mammoth Book of Special Ops Romance (epub)

“Then the kill has to be set for tomorrow night.”

  At his use of the word “kill” she turned ashen.

  He wanted to take her in his arms, tell her everything was going to be OK. He also didn’t want to make promises he couldn’t keep. Right now they both needed to think, not feel. “No one wants to die a second before they have to, plus he’s planned a dinner for, according to Collier, his closest friends.” He looked at Laine, who’d put a hand over her mouth, as if to contain her distress. “Joe Derek doesn’t plan to wake up.”

  Laine leaned heavily on the edge of her father’s massive desk. What Tanner said made perfect sense. Her father had been planning tomorrow night’s dinner for a month now. A reunion dinner, he called it. He’d flown old friends in from Chicago, New York . . .

  Damn him, he was saying goodbye!

  “What’s wrong?” Tanner asked, taking a couple of steps towards her, then stopping.

  “Thinking about him . . . planning all this, while I fussed and worried about him coming through the surgery.” She shook her head. “Bringing you here. Hiring his own killer! Damn it, I could kill him myself! When he gets home, I’m going to call him on it and—”

  “No, you’re not.” He came to stand in front of her, lifted her chin. His blue eyes were dead serious. “I need to know if he’s hired a Raven for this job. You tip Joe off and that won’t happen – he’ll find another way. Maybe cancel the surgery.”

  Her stomach sank. He was right. If her father was anything, he was determined. “Then what? How do we stop this insanity?”

  He took his hand away from her face. “We play his game. But starting tomorrow night, after the dinner, your father doesn’t leave my sight until he’s on that operating table, meaning whoever he’s hired has to get to him through me. And that’s not going to happen. That’s a positive. OK?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. But judging from that look in your eye, you’re not. So you’re welcome to keep those suspicious eyes on me if it will make you feel better.”

  “It will.”

  “Fair enough.” Brushing her hair back, he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead in the way he’d done so many years ago. Then he touched his lips to hers, and her knees turned to rubber.

  “I don’t entirely trust you, you know.” She sounded too breathy. “No matter how much you kiss me.”

  “I wouldn’t trust me, either.” He kissed her then, softly, slowly, his mouth whispering over hers. Her arms went around his neck, pulling him closer, until the hard length of him was flush between her hips.

  He felt so good, so right . . .

  “Have I told you how beautiful you are,” he whispered, taking the kiss deeper. “How much I love your mouth, that soft sound that purrs from the back of your throat when we kiss.” His mouth hovering over hers, his voice hoarse, he said, “I want to make love to you, Laine. I ache with wanting you.” He lifted his head, looked into her eyes. “When this is all over . . . is that going to happen?”

  She should have hesitated, done at least a second or two of the I’m-not-that-easy routine. She didn’t. “Yes. That’s most definitely going to happen. If—”

  “Shush.” He put a finger to her mouth. “I know the ‘if’.”

  The dining room was immense, the table a mile long and the guests formal. Tanner donned the tux, which, thankfully, was soft-structured. He was comfortable enough at the dinner party in the role of “old friend”, and the swirl of conversation, clinking glasses and occasional bursts of laughter provided enough distraction for him to keep a close eye on the dinner guests. Other than an initial clap on the shoulder, Joe Derek kept his distance. No surprise.

  Wearing some kind of soft pink body-hugging satin thing that had him drooling, Laine sat at the far end of the table near her father. Tanner feasted his eyes on her every chance he had.

  Definitely going to happen. If . . . her father stayed alive.

  Speaking of whom, Joe Derek was one hell of an actor. Watching him in the role of gracious host, you’d think he was planning a holiday, rather than a meeting with the grim reaper.

  Collier stood in shadowy attendance, his face grim.

  Holister was the last to arrive and, not surprisingly, he was seated next to Tanner. They’d played casual acquaintances for the last couple of hours. Finally, Holister leaned closer and whispered, “Everything on track, Cross?”

  Tanner didn’t answer, just picked up his water glass, took a sip, and asked, “I assume you’re staying the night.”

  “No. I’m heading for the airport. As a matter of fact—” he glanced at his watch “—I’d better move on. Say my goodbyes to Joe and Laine.”

  Tanner watched him go, greatly relieved he could remove him from the suspect grid.

  Holister’s departure initiated a flurry of leave takings and within a half-hour, Joe and Laine were in the grand foyer saying goodbyes to the last of the guests.

  The Derek staff descended on the table like a school of piranhas on speed, and within minutes the table was cleared and its brilliant floral table centre perfectly repositioned.

  Tanner intended to be equally as efficient dispatching Joe’s hired killer. He headed for Joe Derek’s room on the third floor and let himself in. Not a second later, the barrel of a gun was lodged against the back of his neck. “What the fuck are you doing in here, nosing around where you don’t belong?”

  “Collier. I was really hoping it wasn’t you. Figured we might get to be pals, you know?”

  “Fat chance. Turn around, Cross, and make it fast.”

  Tanner never argued with a gun – particularly one in a position to splatter his brains over Persian rugs. He turned.

  The sound of voices filtered in from the hall. “Fuck!” Collier appeared to panic, glancing left then right. He grabbed Tanner’s shoulder, spun him. “The window. Behind the drapes. Now!” He shifted the gun to Tanner’s back.

  “You’re kidding me. Behind the curtains?”

  “Shut up and move.”

  He moved. In seconds they were both hidden by rich damask, a second later Derek and Jacobsen walked into the room. Tanner had a half-assed view of the room through the panel break in the draperies. He guessed Collier had about the same.

  Joe said clearly, “Have you got it?” He took off his jacket, placed it on the bed and started rolling up his sleeve.

  “Yes, sir.” Jacobsen opened a small box and pulled out a syringe.

  “You can leave it,” Joe said. “I’ll do it myself tonight.”

  What the hell . . .

  Ignoring the gun Collier had parked on his left kidney, Tanner threw back the curtain. “Stop right there.”

  The men froze in place: Joe with his hand holding his shirt up above the elbow; Jacobsen, the hypodermic in his hand; and Collier, his gun now pointed at empty space.

  Tanner strode to Jacobsen and grabbed the needle from him. Turning to Joe, he said, “Game over. Nobody’s dying here tonight.”

  Jacobsen looked faint. Fainter still when Collier stepped from behind the curtains, and pointed a gun at his gut. “Stay put.”

  Joe Derek closed his eyes a moment then let out a long breath. “Let him go,” he said to Collier. “He thinks it’s a B12 shot. I’ve been taking them for months now.”

  “But this one’s not B12, is it?” Tanner said.

  “No.”

  “Let me guess . . . a heavy-duty barbiturate. Like maybe enough to kill an elephant?”

  Joe rolled down his sleeve and did up his cuff. “I knew you wouldn’t kill me, Tanner, but I didn’t expect you’d ride in on a damn white horse – figuratively speaking.” He glared at Collier. “What the hell are you doing here? And get rid of that.” He nodded to Collier’s gun.

  Collier shrugged, holstered the gun. “I didn’t like the way this guy’s been sneaking around. Plus he made one too many trips to buy pharmaceuticals. I figured whatever he was up to, it wasn’t good.”

  “I have not been ‘sneaking around�
� as you put it. I have been following instructions.” Jacobsen came to life and turned on Joe, his back valet straight. “Mister Derek, I have been happily in your employ for ten years, and it pains me to submit my resignation, effective immediately. But what pains me more is that you would use me in such an underhand way. You were selfish to do so, and cowardly in the extreme. Before I go, may I suggest you do the honourable thing? Face your fate from your surgery with courage and resolve. And, as they say, let the chips fall where they may.” He looked around the room, his chin high. “Gentlemen, I bid you goodbye.”

  Three pairs of eyes watched Jacobsen leave the room. Then Collier gave a curt nod and followed him.

  When they were alone, Tanner nodded to Joe. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Joe gave a shaky laugh. “Looks like Robbie Burns was right – ‘The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.’ Including mine.” He walked to a cabinet near the window; atop it was a decanter of brandy and some glasses. He lifted the decanter. “Drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Joe brought him his drink and they sat in the two chairs in front of the fire. “Does Laine know?”

  “Yes.”

  He cursed softly, put his head down, rubbed his forehead with the glass. “Now what?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “About now I’m supposed to be a dead man, so I’m fresh out of ideas.” Joe downed his Scotch in one jerky movement.

  He’s finding it harder to face the unknowns of the surgery than death itself, Tanner thought. He got that, figured he might be the same in his shoes.

  “You want a plan, here it is. First, I don’t leave your side until they wheel you into that operating room. Then—” he took a drink, leaned back in his chair “—we take Jacobsen’s advice, ‘let the chips fall where they may’.” He gave Joe a steady-on look. “And if you’re concerned about the Raven Force, don’t be. I’ve got your back, for as long as it takes.”

  “I arranged for you to take charge, you know. The money, the contacts, all of it.”

  “I know.”

  Joe raised a brow.

  “Laine found your notebook.”

  He cursed, rubbed his forehead again. “That girl is so smart it’s scary.”

  “Won’t argue with that.”

  “About the surgery . . .” Joe looked at him a long time, his expression that of man who wanted to be convinced, but wasn’t. “The best ‘chip’ would be my dying on the table. Better for the Ravens.”

  “Negative that. The best chip is your waking up at a hundred per cent, and a few months from now, giving me your blessing to marry your daughter.”

  Two months later

  Laine rested the back of her head on the tub’s porcelain rim and closed her eyes, fragrant minty bath oil wafting up her nose. “I think there’s a law against this. Has to be. Somewhere.”

  Tanner, occupied with massaging one of her soapy feet, said, “And what law would that be?”

  “I don’t know . . . something about not being allowed to be this happy. Like, ‘Thou shalt not have more than your share of bliss.’”

  “Nope. No such law. You can have all the bliss you want.”

  “We’re not really right for each other, you know.”

  “I know.” He gave her foot a nip before releasing it back into the water and rested his arms along the sides of the tub. “I knew you were wrong for me the minute I met you. Trouble, that’s what I thought.”

  Laine pulled herself up, happy to see Tanner’s attention gravitate to her naked breasts. Breasts were a nuisance when you were trying to fit a damn bra, but absolutely great at times like this. “You like trouble, Tanner Cross.” She lowered herself over him, and he did what she wanted him to do, cupped her breasts. So good . . .

  He licked each nipple, then kissed them. “That I do.”

  “I taste like soap.”

  “You taste like heaven.”

  She knelt between his legs, and took the length of him in her hands. His inhalation was sharp and powerful. “God, damn it,” he whispered, “I love your hands on me.” He closed his eyes, and she stroked him until his broad chest quaked under his short, rapid breaths. Finally, he grabbed her hand, inhaled deeply, and in an urgent tone said, “Let’s get out of this tub and—”

  Her own breathing no better than his, she managed a smile. “—go find some trouble?”

  Returning her smile, he said, “All you can give me.”

  Two hours later, the only light in the room from the dying fire, Laine woke up to find Tanner looking at her. Did his dark-blue gaze wake her? She didn’t know, but with the firelight dancing across his features, she’d never seen him more . . . beautiful – or intense. His face, cast in shadow and gold, appeared almost stern.

  She touched his cheek. “Tanner?”

  “I love you, Laine.”

  The words took their place between them, whole, fresh and full of promise.

  What took you so long, you mule-headed male! But, oh, she loved him for waiting. “I love you, Tanner,” she said, her heart near to collapsing under the weight of it.

  “Thank, God. I’d have felt like an ass, if you’d said I was just your boy toy.”

  “Well, you’re that, too.”

  He grinned, took her hand from his cheek to his mouth and kissed her palm. “I’ve been waiting to tell you. Actually, I’ve been biting back the words since that kiss in Harrods’ dressing room.”

  “Why?”

  He propped himself on an elbow, looked down at her. “I thought if I said it too soon, the words would . . . lose value. And because I wanted to be sure your father was in good enough health for us to make plans.”

  She laughed at that. “My father, it seems, is indestructible.”

  He nodded, turning serious again. “You understand I’ll be taking over the Raven Force? Your father asked, and I’ve accepted.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know what that means?”

  It means danger, separations, distance and endless secrets. It means I have to share you with your job — your calling. “Yes, I know what it means.”

  “You’re good with it?” He held her with his eyes. So blue, so intense, they burned.

  “Negative that.” She smiled, touched his jaw. “But if my boy toy promises to spend every hour of every day that he’s not saving the world with me, I’ll make it work.”

  “We’ll make it work,” he said, kissing her again.

  “Yes . . . we’ll make it work.”

  The Grey Man

  Caitlyn Nicholas

  “Oh. Shit. Ow.” Amelia dropped the sea snail on to the sand.

  Stunned, she looked from the barb buried deep in her hand to the pretty shell it’d come out of. An intense painful itch that grew and burned until it was unbearable made her whimper. Panic blossomed. Those things weren’t venomous, were they?

  She took a step and almost collapsed. The same unbearable, itching, burning pain sped up her leg.

  Must. Not. Panic.

  She dragged in a breath. Her chest felt like it had tight elastic bands wrapped around it, squeezing. Slowly and deliberately she limped up the tropical East Timorese beach, putting one foot in front of the other until she got to the path that led to the Maubara orphanage. Breathing became more difficult with every step, and when the glaring white walls and red tin roof of the orphanage came into view, she tried to call for help. But she couldn’t pull enough air into her lungs to get the words out.

  Must. Not. Panic.

  She made it to the cool dusty porch, grabbed the cord of the bell used to call the children in from lunch, then sank to her knees while the bell rang.

  “Amelia, what is the matter, child?” Clara Eisenberg appeared at the door, and was on her knees beside her in a second.

  “Shell . . . my foot . . .” wheezed Amelia. “Can’t . . . breathe.”

  This could not be happening.

  A creeping numbness settled over her shoulders and crept down
wards towards her heart.

  “A pretty shell? Gold-coloured, with black and white? You stood on it then picked it up?”

  Amelia nodded – that was exactly what she’d done – then rested her head on the rough cement and concentrated on trying to breathe. Clara was shouting something in Tetum – the local Timorese language – to the orphanage staff. Her voice had become distant, and Amelia could not follow what she said. Grey spots appeared at the outer edges of her fading vision.

  “I’m calling your father,” said Clara, her face swimming close.

  “No,” gasped Amelia. It’d be the end of everything.

  The world faded to black.

  “Ahh, shit.”

  Mick was halfway across the river when the downpour hit. Seconds later an odd rumble beneath his feet made him glance upstream. He had a moment to realize that there was a wall of black water hurtling towards him, before he – still attached to his forty-five kilogram pack – was sucked into a churning, whirling hell. No oxygen, not even sure which way was up. His rifle was ripped out of his hands by the torrent.

  It was 3 a.m.

  Somewhere in a river in the depths of the Liquica district of East Timor.

  And he was about to drown.

  Screw that.

  The need for oxygen began to nag.

  His webbing vest, loaded down with ammunition, and the backpack were making it almost impossible to get to the surface. He tried to lose the backpack, but something cannoned into the side of him with bruising force, knocking the remaining air out of his lungs and sending his arm numb and clumsy.

  He broke the surface and dragged in a desperate breath before being sucked back underwater.

  Finally the backpack came off and he struggled upwards again. In the manner of all flash floods, the torrent was ebbing around him and it was easier to surface this time. He tried to get his bearings, but it was pitch black. The gush of water eased more, solid ground scraped beneath his boots. He kicked sideways, found his feet and, within seconds, managed to crawl on to the muddy shore. Panting heavily. He was torn between frustration that he’d just potentially screwed up a mission and relief that he was out of the water and not dead.

  Below his elbow, his left arm felt prickly and strange.