by Dana Marton
Samantha had something special about her that made her stand out from the others, however, and it wouldn’t let him rest, had grabbed him from the beginning. She had such an abundance of nervous energy humming through her. She was forever in motion.
Cavanaugh sat behind his desk and pictured harnessing Samantha Hanley’s energies for his own purposes. He didn’t care about the guy she’d been with. If anything, he added to the challenge. Rivals didn’t scare him, inside or outside of business.
Moretti was her lover at the moment, he was pretty sure. He’d picked up on some odd vibes between the two. They had that look of the guilty, especially Samantha, of people caught at something they shouldn’t have been doing.
He was an attorney. A crooked one if he was close to the women. Cavanaugh would bet a kilo of the best cheese he had flown in from Paris that morning that Moretti was in on the money laundering.
Everyone could always use another shady lawyer. Moretti could come in handy yet. He didn’t need to know if Samantha made a few detours to the party host’s bed.
And she would, Cavanaugh was pretty sure of that. Women always gravitated to the most powerful man in any group. It was part of their genetic conditioning, part of the primal program that ran in their DNA. A splendid bit of biology he regularly took advantage of.
“Last van just left,” Roberto said as he came through the door. Without knocking.
Cavanaugh shrugged off the moment of annoyance. The man was all brawn but little social sensibility. Any attempt to teach him the finer points of polite behavior and manners were a waste of energy. “Good. Make sure the place is cleaned up. We have visitors coming.”
“Sure, boss.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
“I’m ready for my lunch to be sent up,” he said and the man disappeared the next second—miracle of miracles, closing the door behind him.
He signed into one of his many bank accounts he kept under assumed names and filled out the online form to wire money to one of the many front businesses that, in a convoluted way, belonged to Tsernyakov. That one could be dangerous if he didn’t get his full cut of the business and on time. People in his organization who didn’t perform to expectations tended to disappear.
A few clicks on the keyboard concluded that business.
Cavanaugh leaned back in his chair, his lips pressed together. Having to give away his money always left a bad taste in his mouth. He shrugged it off and went back to thinking about Samantha Hanley in his bed, a much more pleasant topic.
SAM STOOD by her dresser and listened to the noises in the living room. Reese Moretti was making up the couch for himself. She’d never had a man in her apartment before. Up until a few weeks ago, she’d never had an apartment.
She took a deep breath and walked out with the pillow and blanket she was holding. Better do it before she lost her nerve.
“Here.” She held out the bedding and gestured toward the couch. “Sorry, it’s the best I can do.”
All the women on the team got one-bedroom apartments. It hadn’t seemed necessary to spring for more. They spent most of their time at the office or snooping around at the various business functions the island’s elite hosted, trying to figure out who else might be doing business with Tsernyakov. The man had money coming to the island through a maze of channels. They couldn’t just sit back now that they had Cavanaugh. With a guy like Tsernyakov, one needed many backup plans.
“The powder room is all yours,” she said, not mentioning the obvious, that to shower he would need to use her bathroom. She’d spent an hour that morning cleaning it.
She hadn’t grown up in an orderly environment and at times had trouble remembering to put things away. She was improving, though. And she had paid special attention for Reese Moretti’s sake.
The idea was for the two of them to spend as much time together as possible, since, in twenty-four hours, they would have to sell Cavanaugh on the idea that they were romantically linked. That made her more nervous than the rest of the mission put together. They needed to get to know each other and become comfortable with the situation in a hurry.
“Thanks.” He glanced up, looking just like David, and yet different in so many ways. He tested the couch, wearing the same grim expression as he had since his arrival a couple of hours ago—one of the many differences between the twins. David didn’t do grim.
The azure-blue Naugahyde monster that came with the apartment was hard as a chunk of sidewalk. “Sorry,” she said again.
“Don’t sweat it. I just spent a month sleeping in the bush in Africa.”
She couldn’t picture David, always dressed in some sleek silk suit, say anything like that. “Under a bush?” She’d spent plenty of nights on the street; she could sympathize.
But he shook his head with a semiamused look. “In the bush. It’s an expression. Just means out in the wild, wherever you find a convenient piece of ground when night falls.”
Reese dropped the bedding at the end of the couch. His movements weren’t as elegant as David’s. He was more soldierlike, watchful and alert, his dark gray eyes penetrating. There was effortless strength to everything he did, his posture, his gaze; it even came through in his voice. He was clearly used to giving orders, had grilled her for a good hour after the briefing he had received from Nick Tarasov and Brant Law.
After spending most of the evening with him, skirting him warily in the small apartment, she hadn’t gotten a handle on him yet.
He sat and kicked off his safari boots, then leaned back on the couch, rubbed a hand over his face as he looked around once again, his mouth set in a tight line of disapproval.
David Moretti’s smooth and easygoing ways made her frazzled, but it took Reese’s brusque manner to get her really nervous. David had that benign, gentlemanly air about him. Reese didn’t.
“You can have the bedroom if you want.” The words came out of her mouth without thought or intention.
“Sofa’s fine.”
“Is something wrong?” Now, why would she ask that? She should have just walked away. Her nerves made her mouth run.
He watched her carefully for a long moment before he responded. “I spent the last four months in Uganda between two rebel factions, risking my team for a man who turned out to have been dead the whole time. We came back with seven gunshot injuries between the four of us.”
Clearly, he didn’t want to be here. She wondered how Brant and Nick had managed to talk him into it. From the look on his face, he wasn’t going to be a lot of fun to be around.
A single week, that was all. She could handle that standing on one foot. She’d been forced to put up with worse company in the past. The years she had spent at Brighton Federal Correctional Institute came to mind.
“Okay, I’ll leave you to get some rest.” She backed toward her bedroom.
“We don’t have much time. We’d better get to work,” he said, and when she looked at him blankly, added, “We are supposed to get to know each other.”
What did he call the hour-long interrogation he’d put her through earlier in the kitchen? Or was he going to finally reveal more about himself? She drew a deep breath and walked back, sat gingerly in the armchair opposite him.
“Nick Tarasov tells me you’re good with a gun,” he said with some undisguised doubt in his voice. “He seemed confident that you could handle yourself in a hand-to-hand tussle, too, in your own weight group.” He looked her over as if he was measuring her ounce by ounce and ended up with an expression that said she wasn’t quite up to snuff.
She resisted the urge to pull herself taller. “I went through the training” was all she said.
He raised a dark eyebrow. “So you think you can handle whatever comes your way?”
“I’m not stupid.”
The eyebrow went back down. There might have been a shadow of approval that crossed his face before he put forward his next question. “How long have we supposedly known each other?”
“How much nudity are you comfortable with?” His gaze was sharp on her face, unflinching.
The question brought her up short. What did that have to do with anything? And yet, after a second, she had to admit that the question was relevant. Cavanaugh thought Reese—pretending to be David—was her lover. She swallowed, her already frazzled nerves buzzing as if she were undergoing electroshock therapy. “Very little.”
When you spent your teenage years on the streets, you strove to cover as much as possible, look as un-appealing as possible, as scary as possible. It had been part of her defense mechanism. She’d hidden behind the darkest of Goth looks, complete with chains and studded chokers, and complemented it all with a tongue and gaze as sharp as razors.
Prison had taken away most of her props. Anita had been working on her to make her see the lack of necessity for the rest. She wasn’t quite there yet, but even Sam had to admit that she had mellowed. She was no longer frightened of everything, so in turn she no longer wanted to frighten anyone who so much as looked at her.
The concept of nudity, however, especially in the same context with Reese, scared her. She searched for a cutting remark to disguise that fact.
“We are going to a beach party,” he said dryly before she could come up with one.
She had an image of topless cover models frolicking in the surf. Knowing Cavanaugh, it wasn’t impossible.
“How far are you willing to go for this mission of yours?” Reese laid down the challenge.
Putting it that way got her back up. “I’ll do what I have to.”
“Good.” He nodded and extended his arm toward her. “Then come and sit on my lap.”
It was the wrong thing to say. She was on her feet the next second. “Touch me and lose the hand.” The warning tore from her throat, hoarse and hard as a fist.
He tilted his head and waited a beat. “For the next three days, we are supposed to pretend that we are madly in lust. How do you think we’ll pull that off when you look like you’re ready to jump out of your skin even with three feet between us?”
She drew some air and let a couple of seconds tick by, straightened her back. Okay, so she’d overreacted. He wasn’t about to jump her. And he was right, once they got to Cavanaugh’s mansion, it would look suspicious if they never touched.
She had to make herself get over it.
She fisted then relaxed her hands, trying to swallow the memories in vain. She knew her face was getting whiter with every inch she moved toward him. Her muscles tensed. She stopped in front of him and fought to shrug off the temporary paralysis that clutched her.
Stop it.
This was stupid. He was Reese Moretti, the man who was going to keep her safe. He wasn’t Buck. He wasn’t like Buck at all.
Pretend, she told herself. Pretend it doesn’t freak you out so bad that you can barely breathe.
She looked into his face and could no longer find the disdain he’d shown since his arrival. He was watching her with a darkening expression.
“Who was it?” he asked quietly, through clenched teeth.
She could have pretended not to understand what he was asking, but she didn’t have the energy. All the starch had gone out of her, leaving her feeling weak.
“My stepfather,” she said, and couldn’t stop the images in her head.
Buck Cossner drank. When her mother wasn’t home, he drank a lot. And when he was drunk, he got mad. When he got mad, he hit her. Then he would feel bad and want to console her, no matter how hard she tried to tell him she was okay, no matter that she never cried. She’d been more afraid of his consoling than the beating. It’d always started with, I’m sorry, honey. Come sit on my lap.
Chapter Two
Reese stood, and she cringed, even though there was nothing threatening in his movements. If anything, he seemed an island of calm and strength. Even the bad-tempered look that she’d thought permanent was replaced by a softer expression.
“Take it easy.”
A part of her was staring at the transformation, at how handsome he was without the drawn-together brows and his mouth set in a flat, displeased line, how even the gray of his eyes changed. But the rest of her couldn’t help backing away a step. In a moment of conflicting emotions, instinct honed by years of bad experiences trumped everything. Goose bumps she couldn’t control rose on the bare skin of her arms.
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Is that why you ran away from home?” Then, when she didn’t respond, he said, “I read your file.”
She nodded and they stood there like that, a foot or so between them. He wouldn’t take his eyes off her.
And God, that felt good. Because when you lived on the streets and became one of the “undesirables” of society, the first thing everyone did was avert their eyes. Nobody wanted to see the filth or desperation, nobody wanted to risk a pang of guilt, that they should feel uncomfortable. She had spent years without ever being acknowledged by anyone except those who sought to use or abuse her. She’d been a “problem,” and all people wanted was for problems to go away.
But there was no pity in Reese Moretti’s gaze, nor anything remotely judgmental.
She took a breath, feeling her lungs open up. “What are we supposed to do?”
His shoulders were relaxed, as well as his commando stance. The earlier bluster seemed to disappear from his body language, but some indelible hardness remained. He considered her for a moment. “Nothing if you’re not comfortable with this. We’ll find a way around it.”
And maybe arouse Cavanaugh’s suspicion and mess up the whole operation. No way she was going to be the reason this mission failed.
The very fact that Reese gave her a way out made it possible for her to consider letting him closer.
“I’m going to have to get used to human contact.” It was the healthy thing to do. She needed to get over the past in order to move into a better future. Anita had told her that during one of the woman’s numerous pep talks, and Sam could see now that Anita had been right.
She took a deep breath. “Maybe we could start with…” She hesitated, and he waited. “Maybe you could just put your hands on me.”
He raised a hand to her arm, keeping his gaze on her face the whole time. “I can’t promise not to do anything you don’t like in the next few days, but I promise I’m not ever going to do anything that would hurt you.”
She nodded, nervous enough from his touch to jump all the way to the moon.
His other hand reached up to her other arm, and he rubbed the goose bumps away with his thumb. “Everything is different now. Back then, you did what you had to. You got yourself out of a bad situation. You survived. You are a hundred percent stronger now.” He gave her an encouraging smile.
An actual smile. On Reese Moretti.
She was so startled, she almost believed him. She had always thought herself weak for running away instead of staying and fighting. Weak and stupid. Smart people didn’t end up on the street.
A survivor. After knowing the worst of the filth about her, how could he see her like that? How could he still touch her?
She expected the cursory squeeze of polite support, then for him to let go. Instead, he drew her closer, his demeanor nonthreatening, non-sexual. And yet she felt stiff, couldn’t relax, not even in response to the comfort he was offering.
Then, through the acute sense of discomfort, another feeling seeped through slowly. Surprise. His solid strength seemed like a bulwark against the world rather than suffocating restraints as it had with other men. If only she could accept it.
It’s crazy. Her defenses rose. She knew next to nothing about the man.
But that inner voice that had shouted “run, run, run” for the last decade, now stayed curiously silent. After a second or two, she leaned against his shoulder and let him tighten his arms around her. Not because she was beginning to feel comfortable, but because she knew that was w
hat a normal person would do. As long as she was aware of the normal responses and could fake them, they would be okay.
“How are you doing?” His voice was surprisingly gentle.
“Fine,” she lied.
Truth was, she was unable to accept physical comfort from another person.
Anita had tried, Anita Caballo, with her over-developed sense for mothering and saving all who were around her. But Sam had always resisted even the simplest hug. She didn’t trust women any more than men. Her own mother had taken off and left her with Buck at the end.
“I’m here to help you,” Reese said.
“I know.” She drew a deep breath and suddenly felt her eyes burning. What was wrong with her?
“You’re nervous about tomorrow?” He pulled back a little. “What if I kissed your forehead?” But he didn’t move.
A second or two passed before she realized he was waiting for permission.
“Okay.”
His eyes were full of encouragement as he leaned over and pressed his lips above her eyebrow. He stayed there for a second before pulling away.
“See? It’s not that difficult. You just have to trust me.”
He was asking the impossible.
“I’ll try,” she said anyway. “Don’t take it personally. It’s—”
“Don’t worry about it. I know,” he said.
And from the look on his face she got a feeling that he really did. “How?”
“My job is to bring people back. Go up against rebels, bandits, whomever. I’ve done a few pseudo religious sects and gangs, too, over the years. I’ve seen both men and women who’d gone through hell before we got to them.”
They stood in silence for a while as she tried to picture the kind of work he did, the danger of it. The idea that he would do that for strangers was stunning. When she’d lived on the streets, every day she prayed for safety. She’d done dangerous things, but only out of necessity. At the end, prison had been a relief.
And look where she’d ended up now.
What if joining this mission was the worst decision she’d made yet? What if she messed up and let them all down? What if all she ended up proving, to herself and the others, was that she was a lost cause?