A different side of the man emerged now that he was the focal point. His shoulders squared as he transformed into some exotic Latin playboy. He played the part to the hilt, lowering her sequined body slowly down the length of his until she lay at his feet. She stilled her stupid wings, wishing her jackhammering heart could cease flapping as easily.
Murphy had better have Eric and Jordan to safety by now, because he certainly wasn’t sitting back and sipping a cold one. She knew. She’d checked.
Shea stalled, buying as much time as she dared while she lay there on the floor acting the part of his limp partner. Carlson was a study in showmanship. Very slowly, he dragged her up the length of his leg until she was back in his arms. “I swear I’ve seen you before,” he breathed heavily into her face, one brow lifted. “Have we ever met?”
Oh, if you only knew. She batted her glittery, fake lashes and gave him her best, sickeningly sweet smile. “A girl can only wish.”
The dance continued with a final set of slow-slow, quick-quick steps across the length of the dance floor, and there he stopped. He tipped her back until those damned wings touched the floor along with most of her fake hair. He held her in that position, his eyes darker yet. The stupid, stupid man licked his lips, as if he had a snowball’s chance in hell of kissing her.
Tossing his head back, Carlson pitched the perfect Olympic ice skater pose, his arm curled over his head and his eyes on his audience. The only thing missing was a red rose in his perfect, straight teeth.
Since she had no choice, Shea let him have his moment. The applause continued while Carlson drew her back on her feet, but she dodged being pulled into his arm. The spotlight vanished as the houselights came on, but then he tipped his nose into her hair and whispered, “Take your mask off, Mrs. Hollister. For me. Must I beg?”
Beg all you want, Shea thought as she glanced to the dining room doors, her stomach lifting up her throat even as her fingers tightened around her dangerous little purse. Where the hell are you, Murphy?
Eric flinched at the ice-cold water splashed in his face.
“There you are. Come on son,” a familiar voice murmured as a towel scrubbed over his head. “We don’t have a lot of time. I’m going to lift you out of that chair you’re hanging onto. Come on. Let it go.”
“M-M-Murphy?”
Murphy didn’t answer, just did what he’d said he’d do. Lifted Eric to his weak-kneed feet and draped Eric’s arm over his shoulder. “I’d carry you if I could, but we’ve got to make this look like you’re drunk. Can you walk at all?”
Eric bobbed his head, and God, he tried to walk, but Murphy ended up half-dragging, half-carrying him out of Carlson’s suite. “W-Wait. Jordan.”
“Already taken care of. Jordan’s safe. Keep moving.”
Two guys lay face down beside Carlson’s king-sized bed. “They dead?” Eric tried his damnedest to care about Frenchy and his friend.
“Yes, now shut up. I’m supposed to be dancing with your wife, not you.”
By then, they were out of Carlson’s suite and halfway down the hall. Murphy leaned Eric against a wall while he called the lift. On the second level, Eric went over Murphy’s shoulder in a fireman’s hold. It hurt. Hell, everything hurt, but he refused to vocalize his pain on the short walk to Murphy’s room.
Saving a man from the immediate battle zone often caused more damage to already existing injuries, but the groans and screams of a fellow soldier hurt a rescuer’s feelings. Murphy didn’t need to feel any worse than he already did.
Murphy toed the door shut and crossed the room. Very gently, he lowered Eric onto white clean sheets that weren’t going to stay that way for long.
“Shea,” he whispered, at last able to speak her name. “Where’s Shea? Is she here?”
Murphy loosened Eric’s belt and removed his boots and clothes, stripping him down to nothing but boxers. “Don’t worry about your little wife. She’s packin’ heat, and trust me. She knows how to use it.”
“How’s... how’s Jordan?”
“Here,” Jordan answered thickly.
“He’ll be fine,” Murphy said. “He didn’t take the beating you did, so settle down. I’m going back to get your wife, then we’re leaving. Get some sleep.” He dimmed the lights and left.
“You okay, bro?” Jordan’s voice creaked from the other side of the bed.
“Yeah, man. I’m good.” At least, I will be when I see Shea.
Carlson kept the façade of a rakish gentleman going as another song began, a slow dance number that agreed with Shea’s aching feet. She could see how he might be a difficult man to resist. Overly attentive and silver tongued, he complimented her hair, the unique color of her eyes, her dress—her everything. But his eyeballs kept straying over her bare shoulders to her cleavage, when he wasn’t ogling her exposed thigh.
Placing her right hand in his left, she accepted just one more dance, making sure to expose more of that thigh he seemed enamored with.
“Your husband doesn’t deserve you,” Carlson breathed into her ear, his cheek pressed too close for comfort.
“I love my husband,” she answered back a definite truth.
“Then he’s a lucky man.” Carlson moaned. “A lucky man indeed.”
She rolled her eyes. Oh, give me a break. The only reason this player had glommed onto her was his typical dumb jock vision of a naked fairy screwing the daylights out of him. There was only one man Shea planned on doing that with, but he wasn’t on the dance floor.
Carlson’s slick fingers slid down her back and came to rest on the exceedingly low-cut edge of her dress. If you even touch my bottom... Both hands sank lower until his palms cupped the globes of her ass, pressing her body in closer until she could feel—him. All of him. Through that sequined dress.
She swallowed hard. Yes, hard all right. Everything about this ridiculous night was hard. What else could she do? Run? To where? Play the offended wife? That held merit, but until Murphy returned, she needed to keep the very sophisticated tomcat at her fingertips distracted.
Lifting her face, she fluttered her stiff, fake lashes against Carlson’s chin, giving him the tiniest hope. He sure as hell wasn’t getting anything else. But she was fairly sure that thing in his pants had just twitched. Eww. So not going there. Just the thought of arousing him sent shivers over her bare arms and shoulders.
Her overly attentive dance partner murmured into the top of her head, “You’re cold, Mrs. Hollister. May I ply you with a buttered rum or an Irish Coffee?”
“Why not?” She let loose a drawn-out sigh and played the offended wife. “My husband seems to have wandered off. What’s a girl supposed to do with a man like that?”
Carlson ducked his head to peer into her face. “Your husband’s a fool. An old fool.” The tip of his tongue skated over his bottom lip. “You deserve someone more virile who can keep up with you.”
Shea tightened her hold on her clutch, and without meaning to she eased back.
“It’s only one kiss,” he assured.
And I have a gun in my purse that will take your head off if you try. Her lungs shut down. She couldn’t swallow. Don’t make me shoot you, because, trust me. I want to.
Carlson must have misinterpreted the jackhammering in her heart for arousal. Lowering his head, he closed the distance.
Shea closed her eyes, lifted her purse, and—found herself jerked out of Carlson’s grasp and those perky Jessica Rabbit boobs banging into Murphy’s rock-solid chest.
“Damn it, woman. I leave you for one dance and the next thing I know, you’re kissing the biggest man-whore on the planet. Am I gonna have to spank your ass again?”
Heat flamed her face at the spectacle Murphy was making, but yeah. She’d settle for a spanking from him over a kiss from Carlson any day.
Carlson’s head went up as he snapped, “The day will come that she leaves you, Hollister, and I’ll be waiting for her.”
“Well, until it does, keep your hands off my wife. Capiche?”
Carlson stepped into Murphy’s comfort zone. His chest swelled as he pulled his right arm back, but before he had the chance to strike, Murphy hauled back and decked that mouthful of straight, white teeth with a mean right hook. Something flew when Carlson’s head dropped back on his spine. Could have been one of those perfect teeth.
“Murphy! Stop!” Shea shrieked, tugging Murphy’s forearm like any good, little wife would, when secretly, she wanted to slap Carlson herself.
His glittering eyes mirrored encouragement until she launched herself at him. “I told you I was married, but you had to keep pawing me. You think every woman’s your plaything, well, I’m not!” She stamped one six-inch stiletto to make certain she had everyone’s attention. The music had stopped. Why not give his adoring fans another show? “Keep your hands off me, Mr. Hugh Carlson!”
Turning to Murphy, she hooked her hand over his arm. “Come on, honey. Let’s never come back here again.” She would’ve torn her mask off and tossed it for the sake of drama if Murphy hadn’t squeezed her arm, signally her not to get too carried away. Shea turned to her husband. “I want to go home, honey,” she whined in her best spoiled-brat imitation.
He nodded in his fatherly way, offering one last spiked brow at the billionaire before they walked away. Once out of sight, they picked up their pace.
“How is he?” Shea asked, the beat of her heart matching the clip of her heels on the hardwood floor.
“He’s dazed, but he can walk. Kind of.”
The fear of being caught ran with them. Shea couldn’t get to their hotel room fast enough. Murphy passed the cardkey through the door lock and Shea ran inside, kicking her heels off and discarding the mask and purse on her way by the desk.
And there she froze. Tears flooded her eyes at the sight. “Eric!”
Eric gritted his teeth at the tender fingertips on his battered face. He honestly didn’t know which part of him hurt the worst, but those fingers weren’t helping. “Let me be.”
An angel fluttered overhead. He heard the wings. Had to be an angel, didn’t it? More fluttering mixed with muffled sobbing. Cool water graced his brow, and damn it. He could barely keep his bleary eyes open, much less make out what was going on.
But the fingers wouldn’t leave him alone. He growled a threat to leave him alone, but they stayed. Cupping his chin. Combing through his sweaty hair. Over his pounding head. The sweetest lips touched his, and it was raining. Tears. He peeled his eyelids open, and there she was. Floating above him, a vision in red and… wings? What the hell?
“Shea?” he rasped. “That you?”
“I’m here,” she answered, her sweet voice the best thing he’d heard in a while. “We have to move, Eric. Can you walk at all?”
“Sure,” he lied. To prove it, he barely lifted his head.
“I’ll take him,” Murphy said, firmly pulling Eric to the edge of the bed. He eased him into a bathrobe, then onto his feet and over his shoulder. “Get Jordan up. Let’s move.”
And move they did. Out the door and down the hall, then to an elevator. This wasn’t exactly how Eric saw himself leaving the grand estate, but he was humble enough to accept the rescue. He ended up in the rear of Murphy’s truck on the foam mattress. Damn. Even softness hurt. Shea climbed in beside him with a hurried, “Ready.”
“Rolling,” Murphy announced as he hit the ignition. The truck rumbled. Lights flickered past the windows, creating shadows and light that both did a number on Eric’s eyes. He closed them to the soothing touch of Shea’s fingers.
“I’m good,” he assured her, wishing he could prove it.
“Yes, you are,” breathed against his cheek.
While Murphy drove, Shea cleaned and bandaged what she could reach. Her touch almost made everything worthwhile. The scent of antiseptic filled the truck. The sound of Irish ballads as well. Eric drifted, safe in the knowledge that Murphy was one of the best covert operators the Vietnam War had produced. Damned if Aishling wasn’t there, too. He heard her; he just couldn’t see her. The truck swayed and hummed until it finally came to a halt. No lights. No sounds. Just Shea kneeling at his side.
“Where’s my cat?” Eric asked.
“She’s back at Murphy’s, remember?” Shea answered.
“Take it easy,” Murphy muttered, his voice more gentle than Eric had never heard. “I’m going to pull you out of the truck now. I’ve got a wheelchair, so we’ll go slow.”
Shit, I’m hurt that bad? Eric doubted it, but he went willingly. The wheelchair bumped along a dark concrete path and up to a small thatch-roofed cottage.
“Wait. Where are we?” he asked at the door he didn’t recognize. This wasn’t Murphy’s place. What was going on?
But over the threshold they went, into the soft golden glow of a kerosene lamp set on a sturdy wooden table. Had to be someone’s hunting cottage. Primitive. Almost rustic. A strange man stepped out of the shadows. “Is this the patient?”
“Yes,” Murphy replied. “Eric Reynolds, one of my agents.”
“Bring him this way,” the man waved them into the adjoining room where Jordan already sat on the edge of the bed, a blonde nurse at his side.
“Where’s Shea?” Eric asked.
“Right here,” Shea answered while Murphy lifted him out of the chair and got him situated on the bed. But Eric couldn’t sit, so Murphy leaned him back onto the pillow and lifted his feet off the floor. Eric bit his lip as his clothes were removed and the lights dimmed. This was so much bullshit. All he needed was a good night’s rest, and he’d be better.
Ah, ha. So he had seen an angel in red. Shea was wearing that dress. But wings? Those were new. He blinked to be sure his lying eyes were telling the truth. “Didn’t you have wings before?”
“I did, but I got Bagani,” she said, her pretty eyes dark blue with unshed tears.
“How?” He wanted to care more than he did.
“Like I said,” Murphy cut in. “This little woman has a few tricks up her sleeve. By the time she was through with Bagani and Carlson, they were damned glad to get away from her.”
“Hmm,” Eric breathed, his eyes closed once more. Where’s my cat? She was just here. I swear.
“Carlson will be hunting for us, though,” Murphy worried. “Not like I give a shit. I’ve got a round with his name on it if I ever see him again.”
“Me, too,” Eric whispered, wanting to hear more, but fading fast.
The last thing he felt was Shea’s tender lips on his swollen, mashed mouth. “I love you, Eric.”
He groaned his I love you back to her, hoping she could translate. A tiny sting hit his left bicep. The pain in his chest lessened as his lungs filled with air. The dark reached out and Eric drifted away to a land of talking blue-eyed cats and angels in sparkling red.
A man could get used to—breathing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Shea wiped her tears. Eric’s two broken ribs were now banded and the excess blood had been siphoned out of his lungs through an incision the doctor made between two of his ribs. The poor man would have more scars than he deserved, but Eric breathed easier now. The oxygen cannula strapped to his face made sure of that.
Eric’s physical fitness had served him well. For the most part, he needed rest and time to heal. The kindly Irish doctor, a close personal friend of Murphy’s, assured Shea that all would be well.
The nurse, Miss Day, was a godsend. Young and athletic, she seemed an efficient woman who expected people to do what they were told so she could do what she did best: Keeping these two men alive. She wore her hair in a short bob, the back cut high, the front longer. Tiny red freckles dotted her pixie nose. Blue eyes. Her nurse’s uniform was different than the ones Stateside. Tan slacks. Tan button-up shirt. Some kind of a gold pin on her collar.
Jordan said he’d passed out when Carlson’s thugs injected him with the truth serum. That explained why they hadn’t made the same mistake with Eric. But because he hadn’t talked like they’d wanted, they’d beat him. S
hea doubted those Legionnaires got anything useful, though. Eric could be stubborn when he set his mind to it.
She’d finally changed out of Moira’s gown and into the borrowed clothes Murphy had thoughtfully brought along. He’d proved the true mastermind behind the dubious success of this operation. Not only had he packed extra clothes, he’d also fed and watered Aishling before they’d left his home near Cashel. The man truly believed in being prepared.
The early morning sunlight filtered through the window. No sounds of busy traffic or other mechanical noises lifted to her ears, only the chatter of nosy jackdaws and the melodic whistles of finches.
Standing outside Eric and Jordan’s room, Shea stared at the lovely scene while her brain worked the never-ending puzzle of this operation. Bagani was the motorcycle rider who’d chased her and Eric. He wasn’t the money behind Abdul-Mutaal. Then who was? Surely not Carlson. Yes, he could certainly hire as many assassins as he wanted, but he had his Legionnaires, what was left of them, to do his dirty work for him.
Shea couldn’t shake the disquiet lurking in the back of her mind that she’d missed something important, that all was not as it seemed. Other than Bagani, she had no link to anyone from the Mideast, so why had Abdul-Mutaal killed Phoenix and Gordie to get at her? What was the link she wasn’t seeing?
The warm hand on her shoulder drew her back to the cottage. “Well, Mrs. Hollister, what do you think?”
Shea tipped the side of her head to Murphy’s broad shoulder. “I think it’d be nice to be Mrs. Reynolds again.”
“Don’t worry. Eric will be able to fly in a few days. Jordan can now, but I’m guessing you’d rather go home with the right man.”
“Yes, I’m ready.” She sighed, never so sure of anything in her life. She would still be inside with Eric and Jordan, but Miss Day had ushered her out to give both men a much-needed sponge bath.
Eric had yet to open his eyes after his surgery. Shea counted him lucky not to have suffered a collapsed lung. As it was, he should’ve been admitted to a hospital, but somehow, Murphy knew all the right people.
Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15) Page 22