by Cindy Gerard
It became real clear, real fast that the bond between Luke and Johnny Reed was tight and strong, as Reed gave Luke a concerned once-over. Only after he was satisfied that Luke was okay did his killer grin reappear.
“Welcome back, doctorman. Me and the boys were starting to think we’d never see that pretty face of yours again.”
Luke brushed popcorn off his chest. “Yeah, I missed you, too. So who’s our wheelman?”
Reed hitched his chin toward the front of the van. “That would be the Choirboy.”
Choirboy, Val learned as Luke helped her toward the front passenger seat, was Raphael Mendoza.
And holy mother of God. She’d always been a fan of the TV series “Rescue Me,” which featured the firefighters from New York City’s fictional Truck Company 62. Mendoza, with his caramel-colored skin, deep brown eyes, sensual mouth, and standout physique, could double for Daniel Sunjata, who played the role of firefighter Franco.
Nope, no ugly men, she thought as Mendoza welcomed her to Buenos Aires in a voice lightly laced with a Hispanic accent before he returned his concentration to the highway.
• • •
Val sat staring out the window as the van rolled on and the men talked in the background. She should be participating, but she’d hit the wall. She’d tuned them out. Just as she’d tried to tune out the reality that this was her life, not someone else’s.
Night had fallen like a curtain. Traffic was light in this part of the city, and very few people appeared on the streets as they drove deeper and deeper into a squalid neighborhood.
Mendoza turned off on a side street that didn’t exactly evoke images of corporate headquarters for a successful paramilitary operation. But after he circled a block twice, cruising past the same building, she wondered if they’d reached their destination.
“Home sweet home,” Reed said.
It probably should have surprised her that Black Ops., Inc. HQ was a rundown adobe cantina painted a rusty blood color, but after everything that had happened, nothing much shocked her now. Scared her a little, yes, but shocked her? No.
The dim glow from the streetlights did little to camouflage the building’s decay. The thick wooden door was scarred and barred, its peeling blue paint faded in spots to a chalky gray. It looked dark and dangerous—like the men of Black Ops, Inc.
Apparently satisfied that the coast was clear, Mendoza pulled the van into a back alley, then crept along until he came to a tall, banged-up metal garage door. He hit a remote clipped to the visor. When the overhead door silently slid open, he drove through it and down a steep driveway that took them to an underground garage.
Reed jumped out and opened Val’s door. “Mi casa es su casa,” he said, helping her out.
A wall of heat hit her, reminding her they’d descended from mountain cool to nearly sea level.
“So, Reed, how’s the wife?” Luke asked with a look that said “back off” as he maneuvered between her and the good-looking cowboy.
Reed just grinned. “Feisty as ever and anxious as hell about you.” As he led the way through the dark parking garage, Val spotted two black Suburbans, three black Jeeps, and a pair of motorcycles. “You know how Tink gets when one of her ducks swims out in the deep water.”
“Tink—aka Tinkerbelle, aka Crystal Debrowski Reed, is Johnny’s wife,” Luke explained as Mendoza headed up a set of dimly lit stairs. At the top, he pressed his palm against a scanner mounted on the wall.
“That’s new,” Luke said, checking out the device.
“Tink and B.J.,” Rafe supplied. “They’ve been updating security.”
The panel flashed green, then the heavy metal door opened. Mendoza walked through and held it open for the rest of them.
Inside they walked single file down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The mournful sound of a Spanish guitar bled through the smoke-stained adobe walls, as did the smell of cigarettes and marijuana.
When they passed by a series of small windows embedded in the thick, rough walls, Val caught glimpses of a smoky cantina. The room was half full of hard-eyed, shadowy men, none of whom she’d want to meet in the light of day, let alone in the dead of night. A pocked-face man with oily gray hair and tired eyes washed glasses behind a long, scarred wooden bar. Spanish tile covered the floor; a ceiling fan spun slowly overhead.
This was their headquarters?
“It’s okay,” Luke assured her as if reading her mind.
“The cantina’s a front, and those are one-way mirrors. They can’t see you.”
Reed planted his palm against the scanner by another door. Another flash of green and the door swung open. When Val followed him inside, she was instantly transported from seedy to state of the art.
Bright fluorescent lights lit a large, rectangular room that housed a bank of computer monitors, half a dozen printers, land lines, a fax, and an assortment of high-tech, big-ticket electronic equipment that blinked, hummed, beeped, and whirred. The floor was utilitarian gray tile, the walls, institution white. There were no windows. Clearly, this was the epicenter of the operation.
“About time you got back here.”
Val turned toward the sound of the feminine voice as a petite redhead rushed into the room. She wore camouflage pants tucked into combat boots, a snug tan T-shirt that showcased voluptuous breasts, and gold hoop earrings that a pair of canaries could have used as perches. Her hair was styled in short, spiky wisps around a stunning, pixie face; her eyes were snapping green and her arms were open wide.
“Hey, Tink.” Luke hugged her hard.
Reed firmed his mouth and crossed his arms over his chest while Luke made a big production of kissing her smack on the lips. “Missed you, sweetheart. When are you going to leave that overinflated ego of a husband and run away with me?”
Val was fascinated by the byplay as she watched Crystal Debrowski Reed pull back and search Luke’s face with concern before she was satisfied that he was okay.
“You do make a tempting offer,” she said, hugging him again.
“Far be it from me to break up this little lovefest, but if you value your balls,” Reed said with a grin that undercut his threat, “you’ll get your damn hands off my wife.”
Luke laughed, then let her go. “You are so predictable, Reed.”
Crystal chucked Reed on the chin on her way by and marched over to Val. “How you doing, darlin’? Don’t take this wrong, but you look like you’ve been through a war.”
In another tone, with a less sympathetic and kind look, Val might have taken offense to the redhead’s blunt remark. But there was too much warmth and compassion in her eyes to mistake her intentions as anything but friendly.
Val immediately liked her. Liked even more that another dose of estrogen had been added to the over-powering presence of testosterone that had permeated her life lately.
“I’m Crystal, by the way,” she added with a welcoming smile. “And I’d recognize you anywhere. Wow. What a thrill to meet you. Wish it could have been under different circumstances.”
She reached for Val’s hand. “You look dead on your feet. What sounds good? Coffee? Shower? Food?”
Suddenly, Val was famished. “Food sounds good,” she said, smiling her thanks.
“Then food it is.” Crystal linked her arm through Val’s and led her toward a door at the far side of the room. “Kitchen and mess hall—such as it is—are this way. And you’re lucky,” she added, tugging open the door. “Rafe and Johnny traded clean-up and kitchen duty tonight. Rafe made chicken enchiladas and there are plenty of leftovers for both of you.”
“What is this? Pull-Reed’s-chain night?” Reed, looking indignant, ambled lazily behind them. “I could swear you just implied that I can’t cook.”
“I’d never insult your cooking, darling,” Crystal assured him with a grin.
“We would, darling,” Rafe and Luke said without missing a beat.
“This is what they do,” Reed warned Val in a wounded tone. “They gang up on a guy. They’re ev
en trying to turn my wife against me.”
“Just hoping she’ll wise up,” Rafe said, opening the refrigerator and coming out with the pan of enchiladas in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. “Because you’re so not worthy.”
Val felt Luke’s hand on her shoulder and, finally relaxed in the midst of all the good-natured male trash talk, grinned up at him. “Is it always like this around here?”
His smile was long-suffering. “Welcome to my world. Oh, and by the way?” His voice was low as he steered her to a corner away from the activity by the fridge. “Let’s just keep that little incident with the mule between us, okay?”
It took a second, then she grinned. “You mean the part where you got bucked off.”
His expression was grave. “That cannot get out.”
She nodded, pretending to consider. “Because you have your cowboy reputation to uphold.”
“Because that information is a loaded gun in Reed’s hand. He will never let me hear the end of it.”
20
“Could I have a minute of your time, please, Senator?” a familiar voice asked.
Marcus Chamberlin silently cursed whoever was responsible for the guest list for tonight’s black-tie event. This was supposed to be a charity event for AIDS research, not an opportunity for the press to ferret out sound bites.
But he knew the drill. And he knew exactly how dangerous the veteran reporter from the Washington Post could be if he was pissed off.
“Excuse me for a minute, would you, Dex?” He smiled at the freshman senator from Illinois, nodded his apologies to the senator’s starstruck wife, who was attending her first big D.C. event, and turned.
“Hello, Cal.” He stopped a passing waiter and lifted two glasses of wine, then held one out to the reporter. A string quartet played softly in the background, and he focused on the lilting notes of the Mozart concerto to keep himself centered. “Thought they were going to keep the riffraff out tonight,” he said with an amiable grin.
“If I thought you really meant that, I’d be wounded.”
Cal Berger was seventy if he was a day. He was a newshound of the worst kind; his dogged determination to leave no stone unturned scared the living hell out of every politician who had skeletons in their closet. Since that encompassed 99.9 percent of the House and Senate, no one wanted Cal as an enemy.
“The social scene isn’t exactly your regular beat, Cal,” he said, giving the reporter his due. “What brings you out tonight?”
“You. You’ve been dodging me.”
Marcus flashed the smile that had opened checkbooks and stocked his war chest with a surplus of funds that had gotten him elected for his third term. “Now, you know I’d never do that.”
“Right.” Cal cut to the chase. “What’s the word on Valentina?”
Marcus barely managed to keep his smile in place. He was worried sick about Val; he kept hoping to hear word from her that she’d arrived back in the States safe and sound.
“You know that Val is off-limits, Cal. You also know that I have nothing but respect and admiration for her. Since when did you resort to tabloid journalism?”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You and Miss Beautiful parted as friends. You wish her all the best. And we all know she more or less dropped off the face of the earth a few months ago.”
“She’s taking a little time out of the public eye. I respect her need for privacy, so please don’t ask me where she is. Because even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.”
He hoped to hell she was safely aboard that plane by now, on her way back to the States where he could help protect her. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. Besides, damn it, he needed her back in time to make the trip to Sierra Leone.
A trickle of sweat ran down his spine. He wished to God he hadn’t placed Val or himself in this position. But what was done was done. Now he somehow had to figure out a way to make all parties involved happy without hurting Val.
“Can you tell me if she’s going to make the trip next week?”
Ah, this made sense. With the threat of another uprising by the Revolutionary United Front priming the newscasts on both network and cable stations, naturally Cal would want to cover his and Val’s involvement in their ongoing joint relief missions.
“What I can tell you is that Val and I are both committed to our cause. The next aid shipment will be delivered next week with or without her presence. Regardless, she will always be there in spirit.”
“But I thought she was your ticket past some tricky negotiating with government officials—specifically the minister of commerce, Siaka Bai M’boma, who’s reluctant to fall under the scrutiny of the international community.”
Ice suddenly flooded Marcus’s veins. “Where did you hear that?” he snapped before he could check himself.
“From you. Just now,” Cal said with a self-satisfied smile.
“You didn’t hear anything from me, Cal,” Marcus said calmly, even though he felt himself breaking out in a cold sweat. “And whoever you did hear it from doesn’t know what they’re talking about,” he continued. He would not let Berger see how shaken he was. “Yes, Val is our celebrity goodwill ambassador, and yes, she has a certain rapport with M’boma, but those supplies will arrive at their destination even if someone else makes the trip in her place.”
“So she’s not going.”
Marcus didn’t fall for the lure this time. “Look, Cal,” he said, his voice promising both sincerity and confidentiality. “I appreciate your interest in our cause and in Val’s well-being, but I really can’t help you. Now if you’ll excuse me, there are some very nice people who have generously paid some very big money for my attention tonight.”
He turned and walked away. He hadn’t made it ten paces when his BlackBerry vibrated in his pocket.
He fished it out, hoping for news from Val. A sick feeling filled his chest when the caller’s name appeared on the screen.
He hesitated, his heart hammering, then dropped the BlackBerry back into his pocket.
“Mrs. Fairchild,” he said, his smile firmly in place as he greeted the society maven from Cambridge. “So glad you could make it.”
He glad-handed and sweated through the rest of the evening, hoping to hell that with his political future and Val’s life hanging in the balance, he hadn’t made a tactical error by ignoring that call.
“It’s not much, but it’s home.” Luke felt self-conscious suddenly as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He reached around Valentina and flipped the light switch, then motioned for her to go on inside. After resetting the lock and the security system, he tossed his backpack on the floor inside the door.
His small two-bedroom apartment could be described as spartan at best. He spent very little time here, and since he rarely had company other than the BOIs, he hadn’t thought much about neatness or décor.
He thought about it now as Val looked around, seeing it through her eyes, wondering what she thought of the place.
Not much, he figured.
Tan leather sofa and matching chair. Utilitarian black coffee table with a pair of matching end tables. A rust-colored knit afghan was tossed over the arm of the sofa—a gift from his mother a few birthdays ago. A dog-eared paperback lay on the floor by the sofa where it had dropped out of his hand when he’d fallen asleep reading it. Hell, that must have been a month ago.
“Nice painting.” Her attention was focused on the large canvas he’d hung on the main wall opposite the big-screen TV.
The oil was the one good piece of art he owned—at least he thought it was good. He’d picked it up at a street fair a few years ago. He wasn’t much for abstract art, but this work had drawn him in.
The colors had reached out and grabbed him. But even more, he’d been fascinated by how the artist had slapped on paint in thick slabs with a palette knife and actually created an image. At first glance it appeared to be just a helter-skelter collision of colors, but upon closer look an image materialized of a wi
ld horse, neck arched, mane flying, hoofs thundering.
He liked the wildness of it. The surprise. The sense that the artist totally got that to get to the good stuff in life, sometimes you had to dig deeper.
“Glad you like it,” he said. “Among other things, it makes me think of home.”
“Right,” she said. “Montana.”
“Yeah.” He leaned down and switched on the lone table lamp by the sofa. “Near Billings.”
“Where you lived on a ranch.”
“Yeah, where I lived on a ranch,” he repeated slowly, wondering where the hint of cynicism in her tone was coming from. He was getting a sense that after all they’d been through, she still didn’t believe him.
He knew she was exhausted. Figured she’d absorbed about as much as she could for one day. It was late, and the team dynamic at BOI HQ could be overwhelming. That’s why he’d decided to take her someplace quiet and safe, where she could regain some sense of normalcy.
So he’d dumped all the intel he’d gathered with the team, and promised to have Val back in the morning for a complete debriefing.
Tonight was about her. About getting her balanced again.
“Val—what’s going on?” he asked softly.
She was quiet for a while, then reluctantly met his eyes. “Do you ever get the feeling that you don’t have any control? Of anything?” Her eyes looked a little wild and a lot defeated before she turned away and walked to the window.
“I mean, looking back . . . I never planned on being a model; it just sort of happened to me. Fame happened to me. I never planned on becoming a celebrity. Or a senator’s wife. Or a divorced woman. Never planned on running for my life, or being dependent on a virtual stranger to keep me alive.”
Luke held his silence, gave her the chance to work whatever was eating at her out of her system. She dipped a finger into the closed blinds, then peered out at the city lights ten stories below.
“I’ve just realized in a very big way,” she continued, “that my whole life has been one big delusion. It’s never really mattered what I think, what I do, who I believe.” She finally turned. “So you say you’re a cowboy from Montana? Fine. You’re a cowboy from Montana. Whether I believe you or not doesn’t matter because whatever’s going to happen to me is going to happen. I don’t have any say over it anyway.”