by Meryl Sawyer
Chad shrugged as if to say: No big deal. But his help had been very important. She didn’t want anyone to realize she had no experience planning weddings. After tonight, people would believe she was an expert.
“Let’s dance.”
She imagined herself in his arms and almost shivered. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to—”
He’d taken her hand and was leading her toward the dance floor that had been put down in the middle of the yard. Bite Me, the band well-known for its rock tunes, was beginning to play a slow song.
She wanted an excuse to get out of dancing—she honestly did—but nothing came to mind. He swept her into his arms. Chad pulled her close and deftly spun her into the center of the crowd. It was almost impossible to move much on the tightly packed dance floor.
Devon looked across his shoulder at the other dancers and told herself this would be over in a matter of minutes. She could make it through one waltz. She kept herself rigid in his arms, only moving slightly to the beat of the music.
His warm hand was on the small of her back. His thumb slowly rubbed her bare skin. The motion forced her to relax even while it sent prickles of awareness up her spine.
She could feel each separate beat of her heart against her breastbone. Every one was louder, stronger. Time for a joke, she thought. Defuse the sexual tension.
“Did you hear about the blonde who had two dogs?”
He angled his head down, his compelling eyes gazing into hers.
“They were named Rolex and Timex.”
“Why?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Hul-lo! They’re watchdogs.”
A charged silence arced between them, then Chad commented, “You tell jokes at odd times.”
“They just pop into my head.”
Chad decided Devon was nervous, and he wondered what had happened with the man she was hiding from. Had he physically abused her? It was possible, but given Devon’s assertive personality, he didn’t think that was the case. He intended to find out what had gone on, but first he had to get close to her.
He pressed the hard contours of his chest against the lush fullness of hers. The softness of her body against his sent a surge of desire mingled with tenderness through him. When he caught the bastard who’d turned Devon into such a wary woman, he would make the jerk sorry he’d ever been born.
He moved his hand up her bare back, fluffed her hair aside and caressed her nape. Devon’s eyelashes fluttered, a golden fringe against her green eyes. He smiled down at her, and something approaching a genuine smile curved her lips.
A shaft of light from the DJ’s ongoing light show lit up Devon’s eyes. She blinked, and in that instant Chad saw a slice of blue iris. Then her contact settled into place again.
I’ll be damned, he thought. She’s wearing colored contact lenses. Why?
The last strains of the waltz ended, but Chad didn’t release Devon. He wanted to shake the truth out of her but knew that wouldn’t get him the answers he wanted. An old boyfriend could be after her, but why would colored contacts be necessary?
Maybe it was a fashion thing. Growing up with sisters had taught him how far women would go to be fashionable. But his gut instinct told him something more was wrong than Devon was admitting.
Devon groaned inwardly as the band began to play another slow tune. She tried to casually pull away from Chad, but he tightened his grip and moved to the music. She had no choice except to dance with him.
His hand slowly roved up and down her bare back, stroking her skin with his bare fingertips. The seemingly casual movement left her breathless.
The couple next to them bumped into Devon and stepped on her foot. “Ouch!”
“You okay?” Chad asked.
“Yes. It’s too crowded to dance.” Devon thought this was a great excuse to get away from Chad. “Remind me to order a bigger dance floor the next time we have a wedding this large.” She hobbled away, limping slightly even though her foot was fine.
Chad caught up with her in the side yard just off the kitchen. “Is your foot hurt?” he asked, although he was pretty sure she was using it as an excuse to get away from him.
“It’s a little sore. That’s all.”
He stepped in front of her, and she stopped. He took her arms and pulled her against him. Suddenly he was acutely aware of the enveloping darkness of the side yard, the chatter of guests in the distance, the diffused light filtering through the palms. But he had her alone.
“Please don’t do this,” she whispered.
“Shh! It’s nothing but a kiss.”
“Last night was a mistake.”
Chad shook his head. “It was a beginning. You know it. Admit it.”
She shook her head, sending her floss of golden hair fluttering across her bare shoulders.
“If Rory hadn’t come out with Zach—”
“I would have slapped you.”
Chad threw back his head and laughed. “Yeah, right.”
He lowered his mouth to hers. She went rigid in his arms for just a second, then with a sigh almost lost in the night air, she brushed her lips against his. Chad almost lost it.
He’d thought all day about that kiss last night. He’d been waiting to kiss her again, to see if he’d imagined the intense chemistry between them. He hadn’t. It was tangible, potent.
Devon meant to push him away, but before she realized what she was doing, she was kissing him. He returned the kiss as he tunneled his fingers through her hair. The feel of his tongue mating with hers, his strong fingers on the back of her head, distracted her.
All she could think about was this moment, this kiss.
She rose up on tiptoe, mesmerized by the slow, sure way his tongue filled her mouth, then retreated, only to return again. It was a languid, deliberate kiss meant to arouse, and her body responded. Her loins contracted in anticipation.
She slipped her hands under the panels of his jacket and caressed the ripped bod beneath. He was rock-hard—all leashed power. She’d wanted to touch his magnificent chest from the first moment she’d seen him.
Last night she’d had a taste of what making love to him would be like. She’d never been kissed with such focused intensity. Now, running her hands over his powerful back muscles, she knew it would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
He moved his hips against hers, his erection pressing into her belly. Oh, my. How fantastic it would be to make love to him. Her insides seemed to melt, the heat centered between her thighs.
A warning bell rang somewhere in the back of her brain. How easy it would be to surrender to passion. If she didn’t stop right now, there would be no turning back. She would have another man involved in her life. She couldn’t do this to him.
Somehow she managed to break the kiss. “I have work to do before the bride and groom get in the limo.” She sounded as if she’d been running a marathon.
She brushed past him, her skirt slapping his knees. She sprinted through the darkness into the kitchen where a horde of caterers were cleaning up. She looked back, but Chad hadn’t followed her.
She didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT by the time Devon had taken Zach out of the service area of Chad’s home and had driven back to her apartment. At this time of night, it would be easy to let down her guard, but she remained hyper-vigilant. Nothing on the street seemed threatening. No one loitering, pretending to be waiting for a bus. No one walking a dog. No suspicious vehicles.
There was a van way down the street. She decided to drive by it rather than head for her parking space behind her building. No one was in the van as she passed it. Aloha Flowers and Leis was painted on the side. It didn’t appear to be the type of van Derek had warned her about.
She drove around the block and went into the apartment building’s parking lot. Her assigned space was vacant. She parked and carefully surveyed the shadows before getting out with Zach.
Her studio faced the courtyard where a lone palm was surrounded by scarlet bougainvillea that prevented her door from being seen from the street. There was only one entrance to her apartment, but a window at the rear could be used as an exit in an emergency.
She’d checked to make certain she hadn’t been followed home. Now she stopped and casually looked over her shoulder to double-check. No one was around. Even the kid in the apartment opposite hers had turned off his boom box.
She slipped the key into the lock. With a click that echoed across the courtyard, the door opened. The lamp on the table had a cell that automatically switched on the light when the sun went down. From the door she could see no one was in the room.
That left the bathroom and the closet.
She pulled the Sig Saur 225 that she’d bought on the street out of her straw bag as she walked into her studio apartment. It held nine bullets—eight in the magazine and one in the chamber. She would have liked more firepower, but that would have meant a bigger weapon and it would be obvious she was carrying a gun.
A quick look assured her that no one was inside the bathroom. The closet couldn’t conceal anything more than her meager wardrobe, but she checked it anyway—just in case.
“We’re safe,” she told Zach, “for now.”
He wagged his tail, seeming to understand. Devon slipped off her shoes and inspected the blister on her instep. It was puffy and filled with fluid. She hadn’t wanted to waste money, so she hadn’t purchased Band-Aids or Neosporin. Instead she’d splurged on the lavender dress.
“The blister can wait until tomorrow,” she said to Zach as she bent down to pull off the sofa’s cushions to make it into a bed.
A firm knock hit her like a jolt of electricity. She tiptoed to the door and peered out the peephole, thankful she’d replaced the outside light with a higher watt bulb. Warren was standing there, a box under each arm.
She opened the door, saying in a low voice, “What’s going on?”
“Your things from Santa Fe arrived.” He walked inside and set both boxes on the kitchen counter.
“It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“No. I’m off to DC for a WITSEC field training exercise. A continuing ed thing.”
“How’d you know I was home?”
“I was down the street watching.”
She cursed her own stupidity. When she’d driven along the street, she’d checked for occupied cars, but she hadn’t noticed any. “I should have—”
“I’m in the van parked halfway down the block.”
“Aloha Leis and Flowers?”
“Good. At least you spotted it.”
“There wasn’t anyone inside.”
“You’ve got to look for magnetic mat signs that can easily be changed or removed. Tricked out vans with extended wheel bases. Windows on the sides that are so black you can’t see into them and find the video equipment.”
“They trained me to check for those things, but I didn’t notice—”
“Come with me to get the rest of your stuff, and I’ll show you what you missed.”
She slipped into flip-flops, followed him out of the studio, and down the dark street, Zach at her heels.
Warren pointed to the spotlights on the roof of the van. “See those spotlights on the roof and the extra lights on this van?”
“Yes. More lights than usual.”
“Except for expensive tricked-out vans, it’s not normal. It’s a red flag. The spots on the roof are really microwave transceivers linked to the computer in the back. The other lights are collection dishes for directional microphones.”
Devon looked more closely at the van. Back in Santa Fe, Derek had warned her about special surveillance vans like this, but she’d never seen one until now.
“If they—somehow—track you here, they may have doubts about your identity, since you look different. They’ll observe you until they’re positive.”
A frission of alarm prickled the fine hairs across the back of her neck. Despite his reassurances, Warren wasn’t certain she was safe.
“All they have to do is lift a fingerprint,” she said.
“Your fingerprints have been removed from every database.”
“I was fingerprinted at PowerTec.”
“Those were altered.”
“Before Rutherford and Ames could make a copy?”
“That’s what I’m told.” Warren’s voice sounded strained. He opened the front door of the van. “Take the two smaller boxes. I’ll carry the larger one.”
End of discussion, she thought. I’m on my own. Once the idea would have frightened her, but not now. It was much better not to rely on anyone except herself.
“When are you coming back?” she asked.
“In a week. Any problems call the 800 number or contact the FBI field office here. You’ve memorized the numbers, right?”
“Of course.” She didn’t want to remember what had happened the last time she’d called the 800 number, then tried to contact the FBI. If it happened again, she was running—not calling. She had cash and phony ID hidden and ready to use.
They walked in silence the rest of the way to her apartment, stopping once to let Zach lift his leg on a hibiscus bush. Inside they placed the boxes in the corner near the closet.
“Are you positive Chad Langston bought your story?” Warren asked.
She prayed her eyes didn’t reveal what had happened tonight. “Absolutely.”
“I’ll take your word for it, but I’ll discuss the situation with Masterson. He may want to move you anyway.”
“Please discourage him. You don’t know how hard it is to start over. I won’t be able to call my sister again for months.”
“I realize it’s difficult.” His voice, usually flint against steel, now seemed sympathetic. “I’ll do my best. Just promise me you can handle Langston.”
“I can handle him as long as you’ve backstopped my story.”
“Don’t worry. I fixed everything.”
Without another word, Warren walked out and closed the door.
“How am I going to get rid of Chad?” she asked herself.
The hot kiss in the side yard proved how vulnerable she was. She’d ached with need and had almost given in to it. She’d been kissed by a fair number of men over the years, but none of them did it with the same intensity, the same passion. If she responded to a couple of kisses, what would a night in his bed be like?
Don’t even think about it.
BROCK WAITED two long days until his contact at the DoD came back from vacation and called him.
“You idiot! You had me send a kick-ass agent after a worthless gadget that’s still in the developmental stages.”
“No way!” His source sounded genuinely shocked. “DARPA’s about to put it into production just as soon as these final tests are complete.”
“I’m telling you the thing isn’t worth shit!”
“Th-there’s got to be some mistake. Archer Danson himself is heading up the project.”
“You’ve been snowballed.”
Two beats of silence. “Maybe something went wrong with the one you have. Your agent could have damaged it in transit.”
Brock snorted his disgust.
“There’s got to be one, maybe two, more. Danson wouldn’t leave all the testing to just one person. I’ll check on it and get back to you.”
Brock slammed down the receiver. He stared at the liquid plasma TV screen. Solar flares had wreaked havoc with the satellites. Several were out. Electricity was down in Sweden.
“Who cares?” he asked out loud.
He picked up the telephone again and dialed Jordan’s number. He’d tracked her home address to a condo complex in McLean, Virginia. He’d left several messages on her machine, but she hadn’t returned his calls.
After the seventh ring, Jordan’s sultry voice came on the line, delivering the same message he’d heard before. “Hi, there. It’s Jordan. I’m out having fun or working hard so I can afford to
have fun. After the beep, leave a message. I’ll get right back to you.”
“Where is the bitch?”
Could she be deliberately not returning his calls? It was possible, he silently conceded. He didn’t remember all of what had happened between them. Maybe he’d done something…or she’d done something embarrassing.
Perhaps he should leave a less formal message. Something romantic like “thinking about you.” No. “Missing you” would be more romantic. Women went for that bullshit.
Line seven rang, the number his operatives used. The only call he was expecting was from 251. The operative hadn’t used the uplink to the satellites in two days. The way his luck was going, 251 had been murdered by the drug lords.
“Numero Uno.”
“Operative 251 here.” The rasp in his voice reminded Brock of a chain smoker. He hated smokers because the habit owned them. They left their posts to smoke, jeopardizing missions.
“Do you smoke?”
“No. It’s not allowed. You should know that.”
Jesus! The guy had some nerve. He didn’t sound the least bit impressed to have Brock call him.
“We need to meet in person,” Brock told him.
251 didn’t hesitate. “San Pedro, Belize. The Mayan Princess on Ambergis Caye this Friday.”
“Wait a minute.” Brock didn’t like someone else calling the shots. “Costa Rica.”
“No. Belize. I’ll register under the name of Scott Andrews.”
Brock weighed his alternatives. He was tempted to tell him to fuck off and die. But no one was as good as this guy, and Brock needed the best for his plan to succeed.
“Why Belize?” Brock asked.
“I’ve got business there.”
“Gottcha.” That explained a lot. Central America was a haven for drug smugglers. No doubt 251 needed to be there as part of his project.
Obelisk was a rigidly compartmentalized operation. Members of some teams didn’t know other teams existed—or what they were doing. Checks and balances. Even Brock, who knew more than anyone, wasn’t sure what 251 was actually doing in Colombia. He assumed the kid was selling military equipment diverted from military projects to drug lords.