“Billie, I’m afraid we need to get going,” he said quietly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “I didn’t mean to keep you. I was just so surprised to see you, is all. And it was nice to see you again after so long. Eddie talked a lot about you in his letters and phone calls. Said you were like another sister and that he wished you hadn’t bugged out for a spook job, because he and the guys missed having you around.”
“I…I’m actually not in the CIA anymore, either,” Billie managed to say. “I’m just here paying a visit to a general.” One she would return in due time—and next time around she’d have a hell of a lot more to say.
Insulting the general would probably be the nicest thing she would do…
EIGHT
Once they had left Rebecca they were shown to the security station by Malone, where they checked out and then exited the building.
John could tell that it had taken a great deal of strength for Billie to maintain her self-control, and for that he was rather proud of her. But he was also suddenly very worried about her, as he knew what she’d just learned had her close to blowing what little fuse she had left.
“Give me your hand,” she said as they stepped into the parking lot.
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Please,” Billie stressed tightly, and he became aware then that she was literally vibrating with rage. “A strapping lad like you can handle the pain—give me your hand. I need something to squeeze or I’m going to start smashing car windows.”
Immediately relieved he’d made her leave her guns in the car, John nonetheless complied, knowing she’d use her bare fists to break glass if he didn’t. Anyone would assume that her extensive military and covert ops training had given her greater strength and thus a mightier grip than most women; she proved that true with the powerful hold she took of his digits. Good God she was pissed, he mused sourly, balling his other hand into a fist in reflex to his discomfort. Her breathing was visibly labored at first, but then he noted she was performing standard breathing exercises, inhaling deeply through her nose and exhaling slowly through her mouth. And much to his surprise, she appeared to be placing a great deal of trust in him not to let her walk into anything, as her eyes were closed tight.
The warmth of her skin against his, the fact that she had asked for his hand to hold, meant nothing compared to how she was feeling—so why the hell was he happy about it in spite of how much his hand hurt?
John stopped walking when they reached the Charger, at which time he asked softly, “Billie? Honey, are you all right?”
When she opened her eyes, John saw in them a well-spring of emotion—pain and anger and sorrow and empathy. Anger was winning at this point, and he could understand why.
Billie released his hand, and he flexed his aching fingers as she said, “I want my guns. Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you. For the first time since we’ve met, I’m not mad at you.”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half-hearted grin, nodding and moving around to the trunk. After unlocking it and lifting the lid, he watched as Billie lifted the harness out and strapped it back on before he reached for his own weapon to return it to his belt. After she’d finished, her shaking subsided and she appeared to calm down, though he knew her ire was far from dissipated. Although he imagined Wainright would want them to start looking for her team right away, the woman clearly needed to blow off some steam before she could even remotely begin to think clearly.
His initial idea for doing so he dismissed immediately. She liked her guns a little too much, and had threatened him with one too many times in the past two days for him to feel completely comfortable with her using one in her present state of mind. So the shooting range was out. Knowing that the endorphin release physical exertion would cause was something she sorely needed, there was really only one other thing he could think of, so it looked like he’d be visiting the gym twice today.
Sex is a form of physical exertion too, flitted a welcome but ill-timed thought through his consciousness.
Okay, there were two other things. But one of them made him an asshole and the other did not.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
She scowled as she moved for the passenger door. “Gladly.”
For a while the drive was silent. Out of the corner of his eye, John watched Billie brood beside him, her arm braced on the car door with her chin in her hand. He wondered what was going on in that head of hers, though he had a sneaking suspicion she was cursing Wainright up a blue streak.
And for good reason—he couldn’t fathom why Eddie Lamacek’s family hadn’t been informed of his death, either. It made no sense. Even if he was going to be denied a military burial for killing the doctor and the orderly at the AFB hospital, you’d think they’d have at least been told he was dead. What was the point of withholding the information? Had the general not yet figured out how to explain that Eddie wasn’t coming home again because he’d had a psychotic breakdown, and MPs had been forced to pump a small arsenal of lead into his body?
John shook his head minutely. He didn’t have any more answers than Billie did, and though he lived the cloak-and-dagger lifestyle on a daily basis most of the time, even he was feeling irritated by the nonsensicalness of keeping Eddie’s family in the dark.
“Did he think I wouldn’t find out?” Billie spoke up suddenly, voicing aloud the thought he’d just been having himself.
John shrugged, knowing that there really wasn’t anything he could say to that.
“I can only assume that he wanted me to believe Eddie’s family knew, but did he not think that I would talk to them at some point?” she went on. “Even if I hadn’t run into Rebecca, I would have spoken to them. And it’s not like Wainright doesn’t know she works there—there’s no way he doesn’t know 1st Lt. Rebecca Stevens is Eddie Lamacek’s half sister.”
“I agree,” he said. “I mean, sure, the Pentagon’s a big place, but he’s a pretty high-ranking official. They’re both Marines. It seems highly unlikely that he’s unaware of either her presence or her relationship to Eddie.”
Billie blinked suddenly and looked around, as if just noticing they were moving. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace where you can blow off a little steam.”
Her expression perked up a little. “The shooting range?”
John laughed. “Sorry, but no. Try not to take this the wrong way, but you’ve had your gun pointed at me more times than I care to count, so I’m not entirely certain I trust you not to put a slug in my shoulder.”
She shook her head and laughed a little, and he felt a rush of relief at hearing it. “I wouldn’t hit your shoulder unless I was aiming for it,” she said.
“Somehow that’s not very reassuring,” he replied, and she laughed again. John smiled in return, pleased that her dark mood already seemed to be lifting. Suddenly he wondered if the two of them might be on the road to becoming friends, and thought that if nothing else, being Billie Ryan’s friend was something he could get used to.
After a 20-minute drive they arrived at Declan’s Gym, his favorite place to work out—the same place where just a couple of hours ago, a leggy brunette had propositioned him for sex. But John only thought of her in passing, as his mind was focused on the blonde at his side. Billie looked up at the sign over the door and smiled appreciatively at the Celtic lettering and the three-leaf clover that served as an apostrophe.
“You know, some time on a punching bag just might help me feel a little better,” she said as he held the door open for her. “But what am I going to wear? I only do MMA in denim when the situation is life or death.”
“The locker rooms have a share pile made of stuff people have left behind,” he replied as he followed her inside. “Just go through it and find something that fits you.”
She turned back with one eyebrow raised. “You want me to wear some other woman’s dirty sweats?”
John laughed. “Of course not
. Mary K keeps that stuff clean.”
“Who’s Mary K?”
“Mary Katherine Galloway, Declan’s wife.” Leading her over to the entrance to the locker rooms, he pointed to the ladies’ door. “Go on in, I’ll meet you on the other side.”
With a sigh and a shake of her head, Billie pushed the door open. John hurried into the men’s locker room and headed over to the share pile to find something for himself, since his own were already soaked with sweat and stuffed in the bag in the Charger’s trunk. He changed quickly and threw his clothes and weapon into a locker, taking the key and slinging its chain over his head as he exited into the main workout room. It was no real surprise to find Billie already waiting for him, leaning against the wall and playing with the key dangling from a chain around her own neck.
“Nice of the owners to provide these keys,” she said, pushing off the wall and padding over to him barefoot.
John glanced down her body quickly, taking in the black tank top and grey sweatpants she’d donned for her workout. He was only mildly surprised that she hadn’t put her weapon harness back on. “I knew you’d appreciate the security. It might not seem like much, but you don’t have to worry about someone breaking into the locker. The people that come here are pretty honest folks. Declan and Mary K won’t tolerate anything less.”
“Of course not, they’re Irish,” she said with a grin. “Can’t believe I never knew this place was here. I’ve lived in Langley all my life.”
He led her over to where the weighted bags were hanging from chains attaching them to the ceiling. “Another good thing about Declan’s is how off the beaten path it is. There are the usual regulars who come here, but even the walk-ins are mostly down-to-earth types who don’t like the atmosphere of larger gyms.”
“Then how the hell did you find it?” Billie asked, eyeing her chosen bag as though it really were an opponent.
“The owners are family friends. Mary K and my mother grew up together,” he replied, moving to the next bag.
“It’s nice to have friends in out-of-the-way places,” she said casually, then suddenly threw a forceful punch at the bag, followed by a jab from the opposite hand and a high kick.
Though he’d changed into a t-shirt and sweats with the thought that he’d get in a second workout, John found he could only watch as Billie went at the bag. Though her movements were clearly violent, shaking the bag with a great deal of force that made the chain it hung from rattle, the punches and kicks were in their own way graceful, the switch from one to the other fluid and without hesitation. Her face was scrunched up in concentration; little wisps of her blonde hair had escaped her ponytail and were clinging in clumps darkened with sweat around her face.
He then noticed he wasn’t the only one watching. A few of the other men and at least one of the women had stopped to observe as well. They were all gazing at her appreciatively, gesturing as they discussed her technique—or her—in hushed tones. John felt himself frown and forced his features to relax even as he recognized the surge of adrenaline for what it was: jealousy. He was actually getting pissed about the way the men were staring, practically leering at her ass, her breasts.
Of course, so was he—or he had been until he realized others were as well. Now he was staring at them and fighting a losing battle with his anger. It annoyed him that they were ogling her like a piece of fresh meat just waiting to be devoured, when clearly she had come in with him. Clearly, she was his.
And there was the rub: Billie wasn’t his at all. He barely knew her and couldn’t even say they were friends. John knew he’d forced himself into her life and that she had tolerated his presence thus far because he was a source of information. She could very well have taken off to the Pentagon by herself this morning and could still disappear to look for her former teammates without him. She’d been absolutely right when she’d said that his services were no longer required, but he’d insisted on going with her because he wanted to see this thing through. He wanted to ensure that through whatever dangers she might face, she would escape unharmed.
Because ever since he had lain on that floor with her body perfectly fit under his, ever since he had touched her lips with his own and tasted her sweetness with his tongue, he’d wanted her. And damn it, he didn’t feel like sharing.
“Why don’t you take a picture, Johnny B. Goode, it’ll last longer.”
Blinking, he shook his head and looked at her. Billie—her breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath, her hands fisted on her hips—was staring at him with a bemused expression. “Uh, sorry,” he stuttered, desperately tamping down the flush of embarrassment he felt creeping up his neck.
She snorted. “Sure you are. Hey, I’m feeling pretty limbered up now. Wanna spar?”
His eyes widened. Was she serious? Did she really think he hadn’t read her file? No way was he crazy enough to take her on, even in an exhibition match. There was also the whole thing with his really liking her physical assets, and as such he didn’t think he had it in him to risk leaving bruises anywhere on her.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” she teased.
John scoffed. “I am not afraid of you,” he lied. Partially lied, that is—he’d overpowered her in St. Thomas and knew he was capable of taking her down, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware that she was still equally capable of doing the same. She was, after all, credited with more kills than any other female military officer in history, and she was known as the She-Devil.
So no, he wasn’t taking any chances.
Her eyes told him plainly what she thought of those words. “Oh, come on, John. You said you were bringing me here to blow off some steam. I admit I was picturing Wainright’s face on the bag, but it’s not the same as fighting a real person.”
“Oh, so you want to picture his face over mine? No thank you,” he retorted.
Billie snickered. “You’re such a chicken. Are you sure you’re a real agent?”
John looked around at the spectators. Some had drifted off back to their workouts. Others were watching them both now, waiting to see if he would take up her challenge. A man off to his left, clearly a bodybuilder and way too interested in Billie for his comfort, muttered “Pussy,” under his breath. It rankled more than it should have because he couldn’t say for sure whether the man was calling him a coward or talking about how much he wanted what Billie had under the gray sweats. Neither was an option he liked.
He stepped closer to her, into her personal space as he had earlier, and watched with pleasure as her breath hitched and her eyes widened. His own drifted down to her glistening cleavage, at which he smiled appreciatively before looking back at her face and saying, “Oh, I assure you that I am, Miss Ryan.”
Billie took a step forward, pressing her breasts into his chest. “Prove it,” she challenged with a flick of her eyebrow.
John realized that there really was no backing down. He could only hope that beating the hell out of the long bag had worn her out to the point that she wouldn’t have too much power left to pack into her punches—which meant that he would have the advantage.
Grinning, he took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest, saying, “All right. You’re going to get what you asked for, Billie. But you should ask yourself if you really want what you’re going to get.”
John turned and headed for the boxing ring that took up much of the floor space on the end of the gym opposite the weight machines, stair masters, rowers and treadmills. He heard Billie following and it occurred to him that she was in a position to sucker punch him like she had in his hotel room, but as there were going to be witnesses this time around, maybe she’d do the honorable thing and wait until they were in the ring before she laid into him.
Grabbing the bottom rope, John hauled himself into the squared circle, rolling quickly to his feet and turning to watch as Billie did the same. He rolled his neck to the sides as she jumped in place, a foolish, shit-eating grin on her face. She hadn’t been this jazzed up since the
night they met, when apparently she’d known all along he was a fed and had just been flirting with him to try and get a handle on who he was and what he wanted. This time, he felt he had something of an advantage—he was taller, had a longer reach, and would definitely see her coming.
But then, dynamite did come in small packages…
Billie stopped jumping and stood still. “Let’s do this right, shall we?” she said, placing her palms flat on the sides of her legs and bowing. John mimicked the gesture, and then almost before he was straight she came at him.
He blocked the first punch she threw and landed one on her right shoulder. Billie rolled with the impact and performed a sweeping back kick with her right leg. John jumped to avoid it, but she caught him on the way down with a gut punch. Air rushed from his lungs, and he knew instantly that while she wasn’t trying to kill him (so he hoped) she definitely wasn’t pulling her punches.
Very well then, he thought. If she wasn’t going to hold back, neither would he.
His next move was a jab to the jaw. Billie’s head snapped back, and before she could retaliate John hit her in the stomach. She stumbled back as she doubled over, then suddenly threw herself forward, her head aimed for his midsection. The two of them collided and her arms came around his waist in a vise grip; he was forced to step back as her weight was thrown into his center of gravity. From this position he had a clear view of her shapely ass, and could not resist the impulse to give it a sharp smack.
Cheers rang out from the onlookers. Billie growled, hooking her leg around his and yanking hard. John lost his balance and slammed to the mat with her on top of him. She sprang up to straddle his waist as she had before, though before she could sit upright enough to land a blow, he hooked his arms around her legs and used her momentum against her, sitting up and then throwing her down to the mat as he had been.
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