She didn’t want to get him started on another one of those rants. “So what do you want me to do now? I can’t very well gather information on a comatose officer. Seems pointless.”
“You can, and you will. Wait around the hospital. See who tries to contact him. Guard him from the KGB. We want him alive so he can pay for his crimes when the time comes. I’m going to arrange it with the director for you to remain in West Berlin and follow our target wherever he ends up after he recovers—if he recovers. My guess is they’ll bring him back to Washington as soon as they can. Keep your secrets close to your vest. We don’t want to chance him knowing we’re so close to the truth.”
Elizabeth snorted in frustration. She was tired of this—tired of Darcy and tired of Wickham’s tunnel-vision vengeance. There was a real secret war out here, and instead of helping win it, she had spent the last eight months babysitting William Darcy, an egotistical, demoted station chief, and nursing the bitter spirit of George Wickham, a demoted case officer.
But Wickham—and the director—had plucked her out of a whole class of recruits for this counterintelligence mission, one that any new graduate would be thrilled to get. She owed it to them to finish the job, and finish it she would.
“I guess this means I’m going back to the States.”
“I’ll keep you posted. For now, just relax. You’re safe and sound in West Berlin.”
“You’re the boss.”
“I thought we were a team.”
“Sure.” But she was starting to have her doubts.
“Lizzy?”
“Yes?”
“Stay alert. Keep your eyes peeled. Keep those reports coming. I know it’s a lot of watching and waiting, but it will be worth it in the end. You’re serving the agency well. We need people with their heads on straight, and that’s you in a nutshell. Good luck.”
“Yes, sir.” Elizabeth hung up.
Exiting the phone booth, she crossed the street and entered a quiet pub. It was raining when she emerged from the hospital, and even though it had stopped, the street was dotted with puddles that reflected the streetlights like mirrors. As the cars went through them, the sound of water being displaced hissed into the cool dark.
Sitting alone at the window, she watched the evening traffic drift by. If Wickham was right about Darcy, they were closer to finally snagging an agency mole, someone who threatened the lives of every officer in the European division. So why couldn’t she dismiss this nagging apprehension in the back of her mind?
Sure, Darcy rubbed her the wrong way from the start. Like she’d told Fitz that day in Volkspark Friedrichshain, Elizabeth first laid eyes on him when he gave the lecture at The Farm. If she were honest, she’d admit she let her eyes linger on him too. She would have been dead not to notice the tall man with the rangy build, the brooding expression, and a rich baritone that rumbled in a girl’s ears. Then he insulted her and the entire class. Strike One against the London Fog.
Months later, when Elizabeth arrived in Budapest, she was determined to show him she had the right stuff to be a field officer. Oh, she remembered him from that day at The Farm, but when they met again at the Hungarian ambassador’s party, he hadn’t even recognized her. It annoyed her even more. Strike Two.
The first night in Hungary was memorable, an exercise in personal and professional embarrassment. She was in her first grown-up cocktail dress. Darcy wore a tuxedo and ordered a martini, like an overused spy novel trope. The beautiful ambassador’s wife at his elbow made the stereotype complete.
Just out of training, Elizabeth’s head was filled with her new orders from the director. Part of the cover story included Darcy “meeting” her at this party and striking up a conversation. That meant he’d have to publicly ditch the stunner with the flaxen hair and svelte figure, which was a stretch in Elizabeth’s opinion. Even though she never thought of herself as ugly or even just plain, men didn’t turn away blonde bombshells for cute, little Elizabeth Bennet with her ski jump nose dusted in freckles, and her average bust size and height.
Darcy played his part well, however, doing a double take when he saw her at the other end of the bar. She played her part too, pulling out a cigarette and turning expectantly to the portly bearded fellow beside her. The poor man blushed a bright shade of red and dug frantically in his pockets for a light, but it was Darcy, aka Darby Kent, who gallantly stepped between them and offered a burst of flame, both from his sterling silver lighter and his bedroom eyes. The small-town girl hidden inside the newly minted officer giddily accepted the light, the conversation he initiated, and the invitation to dance a few minutes later. She felt extremely proud of her undercover expertise so far.
But he ruined her spy-girl buzz when he tugged her close against him, leaned down and murmured low in her ear, “If you’re going to pretend to smoke one of those cheap, foul-smelling cancer-sticks, you’ll have to do more than sit there holding it while it stinks up the air around the entire table. For God’s sake, take a drag off the thing every once in a while.”
Strike Three.
Her look of shock must have been priceless, because he grinned at her and pulled her back against him, whispering, “Masterful expression of ‘shocked, yet intrigued.’ You look like I just proposed you do something salaciously scandalous.” He trailed his fingers down her bare back and flattened his palm against her spine just above her derriere, making her blood simmer.
Jerk.
After the dance, he led her off the floor, gave a flick of a gesture to his host, and hustled her out the door and into his car.
That was Elizabeth Bennet’s first up close encounter with “the London Fog.”
From that moment on, the tone of their interactions was set. He lorded his knowledge and experience over her head with all his stupid-ass “Spy Rule Number 8000 whatever.” She, in turn, needled him like an annoying insect every chance she got.
The first month had been rough, but over time, she thought he’d started to depend on her. He needed her to communicate with Hungarian assets and enemies, and he’d come to rely on her pithy wit for his amusement. At least, that was her impression because he appeared to enjoy goading her.
During the ensuing months they worked together in Budapest, and later in East Berlin, she had developed a grudging respect for Darcy’s skill as an officer, even if he might be a double agent. Most of the time, she didn’t know what to think. He often seemed on the up and up, but that would be the mark of a good mole, would it not?
And then there was the way he changed his entire appearance between assignments. That lean, dangerous, intellectual persona he cultivated in East Berlin fascinated her. She caught herself watching him as he talked to Anneliese outside the theater, or when he appeared suddenly to “walk her home” after rehearsals. Seeing him interact with Fitz brought out glimmers of a complex man underneath all the subterfuge. Darcy was arrogant, blunt, and dismissive, but he could also be kind, sympathetic, and complimentary. Who could blame her if she found all those contradictions sexy as hell?
Of course, Wickham always gave her a good dose of reality whenever she checked in. William Darcy played the espionage game better than almost anyone, and Wickham wouldn’t let her forget it. She was grateful for that reminder. It helped keep her priorities in line—and her naughty dreams at bay.
Darcy had almost gotten himself, and quite possibly her own self, killed today. “Stupid, arrogant jerk,” she muttered again, all her resentment bubbling back up to the surface like the sticky foam on her dark German beer.
Elizabeth finished her meal, paid her check, and made her way back to the hospital waiting room.
The doctor was speaking with Fitzwilliam—in a mixture of English and German—about Darcy’s condition. Fitz turned to her as she approached, and he nodded toward the double doors at the end of the hall.
“He’s still in recovery, b
ut if you identify yourself to the nurse and the guard outside the door, they’ll let you in to see him.”
When she entered the room, the beeping of the monitors and machines filled the air. She approached him, taking in the long, lean form stretched out on a white hospital bed. Tubes came out of his mouth. An IV flowed from his wrist. Bandages covered his right side just below the rib cage, and his right arm was immobilized. He was deathly pale, his dark hair matted against his head, stubble just beginning to appear on his jaw.
A nurse came in and fed something into the IV tube.
“Your husband?” she asked Elizabeth in German.
“No.”
“Brother?”
“No.” She chuckled. “He’s my ‘colleague’ for lack of a better word. How is he?”
“Critical but stable. Very lucky man. Two gunshot wounds—the one in the upper arm will give him more trouble in the long run. The one in his side just grazed the skin.”
“It sure bled a lot.”
The nurse came over and patted her shoulder. “He will recover with medical attention and with time.”
“What did you just give him?”
“Antibiotic. We want no infections.”
“No, we don’t.”
The nurse wrote some notes on the chart at the foot of his bed. “I’ll be back to check on him.”
Elizabeth stepped up to stand beside Darcy’s left side and gently touched his uninjured arm. As she looked at him now, so ill and helpless, it was hard to imagine him ever selling government secrets or shooting a woman who was trying to flee to the West.
But earlier that day, with ruthless efficiency, he had likely killed the woman he himself had code-named Stonewall—a woman with whom he had been intimate.
Elizabeth shivered and left the room.
Chapter 15
Darcy’s eyes popped open, the rush of blood pumping through his veins as he gasped himself awake. His eyes darted to and fro, trying to figure out where in the hell he was. Room, hospital room. He smelled the antiseptic and heard the beeping of a heart rate monitor. He turned his head and thought the motion would make him sick to his stomach. The staccato sound of the monitor began to accelerate. The young woman sitting in the hospital chair by the window looked up at the change in speed.
She, he thought with relief. She had made it out of East Berlin. Wait, surely we’re out of East Berlin, right? His eyes darted around the room again, processing. The facilities certainly seemed better kept than the local hospitals in the GDR.
His eyes connected with hers, and the monitor betrayed him as his heart sped up even further. Not only had she made it out, she had made it out unscathed and sat before him bathed in glorious sunlight that gave her a halo of reds and golds surrounding unruly auburn hair. He couldn’t drown himself in her fine eyes from across the room, but he remembered them. So many times over the last few months, he’d caught himself staring at her, and then he’d yanked back his self-control—quickly, before she could read the fascination in his expression.
She set her newspaper aside and shot him a brisk, business-like smile. “Welcome back.” She rose from her chair and approached the bed. “Wide awake and raring to go, if your heart rate’s any indication.” She eyed the monitor. “Really raring to go. Maybe that’s just a result of waking up. I’ll call the nurse.”
He protested, or tried to, but his throat was raw and his voice came out in a hoarse moan.
“Don’t try to talk. You were intubated until last night.”
He tried to shift in the bed.
“Be careful moving around too. They just changed those bandages this morning.”
“Where’m I?” he croaked.
“Bethesda. Walter Reed hospital.”
“States?”
“Yes, genius, the States.”
He tried to work up a smirk, but it surfaced as a grimace instead. “You?”
“I’m in the States too.” She grinned at his wobbly attempt at an eye roll. “I’m fine— no thanks to you and your unscheduled trip from East to West.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“But…why?” he whispered.
“Why am I here?”
He nodded.
“I still work with you, so I go where you do. Apparently. Lucky me.”
No, lucky me. Or unlucky, depending on how one looked at it. He was in for another battle in this continuous war with himself, fighting his attraction to her. At the moment, however, it seemed like a blissful kind of torture.
She picked up the call bell. “Time to get the nurse. They said to buzz the minute you became conscious.”
He stayed her hand by grasping her wrist. “You got me out.”
“Fitz was mostly responsible.” She stared at his hand.
“You treated my wound.” His voice was getting stronger, so he tried to pull himself upright.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Her tone was patient but firm while she reached over to help ease his struggle. “Maybe you shouldn’t sit up yet.”
He sank back into the bed. With eyes closed against the fluorescent light, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you.”
When he opened them, he saw the surprise and confusion in hers. He saw her blush. She pulled her hand away. “No problem. You’d have done the same for me.”
“I would,” he replied in a solemn voice. Behind the barrier he kept in place to protect himself, he silently admitted the truth.
I would do anything for you.
***
“Damnation, Bennet! Are you trying to kill me?”
“It’s tempting!” Elizabeth expelled a growl and let go of Darcy’s arm. “The physical therapist says you need range of motion on that shoulder.”
“She’s trying to kill me too.” He mumbled under his breath. “All the pretty women are trying to kill me.”
She fought the urge to smile and ignored his griping. “Three times a day.” She punctuated the order by holding up three fingers in front of his face. “No excuses. Isn’t that what you’d tell me if the situation were reversed?”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, wincing as he did so. His bottom lip stuck out a fraction, the perfect imitation of a pouting toddler.
“I want to laugh and shake you at the same time.”
“I wish the powers that be would tell me what in the hell they’re doing. I’m sick and tired of this place,” he snarled, gesturing around inside their CIA safe house near Langley.
“I can’t imagine you’re going anywhere, banged up as you are.”
“Anything’s better than this sitting around, doing nothing.” And staring at your ass all day—that is, when I’m not sneaking looks down your blouse.
“It’s only been two weeks. You’re rehabilitating, not ‘doing nothing’.”
“So why don’t they let me go home? I’ve a nice house in Georgetown. It has an office. I could rehabilitate there.”
Elizabeth sighed in resignation. “I don’t know, Darcy. They won’t let me go home either.”
He stopped. “Where is home for you, anyway? I’m not sure I ever knew.”
“I thought you said good agents don’t talk about their personal lives. That was Spy Rule Number Twenty-two or some such nonsense.”
“I’m just making conversation. You don’t have to tell me exactly, just give me an idea: small Southern town, big noisy city, California suburbs, Midwest farming community.”
She reached for his arm and began the range of motion exercises again. “Illinois. My father was a foreman on one of those big commercial farms.”
“What did they grow?”
“Corn mostly. Soybeans sometimes.”
“Farmer’s daughter? Yeah, you look like one of those.”
; “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know, you look—”
“Yes?”
“Oh, what’s the word? Ah, wholesome, I guess.”
The phone interrupted them, and Elizabeth glared at him while she picked it up. “Bennet.” Her face drained of color. “Yes.” More silence on her end, voices on the other. “Tell him we’re on our way. Thank you.”
“What was that all about?” he asked as she put the phone back in its cradle. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“Deputy director’s office. He wants us there in an hour.”
“What for?”
She looked at him and they locked gazes. “The secretary didn’t say, but I think we finally might be getting out of here.”
***
A car was waiting downstairs to take them to Langley. They rode in silence, Darcy brooding as he gazed out the window, and Elizabeth chewing on her thumb and trying to remember not to chew on her thumb.
The Suit-of-the-Day, as Elizabeth had begun calling their security detail, drove through the gate, showing credentials to the guard before he dropped them off outside the front door.
“You need help, Mr. Darcy?” The Suit asked.
“No,” he snapped. He hoisted himself and his bandaged arm out of the car, slamming the door. Elizabeth hurried out the passenger side and up the stairs ahead of him. She turned to see him white-faced and drawn.
“You’re still not a hundred percent.” She laid a hand on his arm. “And you shouldn’t expect to be.”
“You’re not my wife, and you’re not my doctor. No need to dish out the warm, fuzzy sympathy.”
She drew her lips into a thin line, paused as if she were about to say something but thought better of it, and turned back to the door. She yanked it open and walked through, forcing Darcy to let himself in with his good arm.
The deputy director’s seventh-floor office was opulent but messy. Elizabeth had never met the man, but Darcy told her they had been co-workers back in the day, and the two men were still friends. She didn’t know how Darcy’s former colleague could be so completely opposite of him in work habits—Darcy’s surroundings were Spartan—but the space seemed functional for the unknown officer-turned-administrator who was only a year or so into this position.
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