"That was so we could carry your suitcase." He started toward the cubicle she and Sarah shared. "We'll be meeting Vilyas at the embassy, so we're being highly visible in case anyone's watching."
She hurried to catch up. "I don't understand."
"This would have been the next logical step if Vilyas had contacted you himself. You'd be expected to meet him in person."
"Then wouldn't I be going there on my own?"
He held aside the canvas door and waited while she retrieved her jacket. "You're not going anywhere without me, Abbie. It's my duty to ensure your safety while you're on this mission. Until it's over, consider me your shadow."
She didn't like the tickle of pleasure she felt at his words. She frowned as she put on her jacket and followed him back across the tent. It was his duty to stay with her, nothing more.
"Do you have a problem with that?" he asked.
Of course she did. But this was about the child, not Flynn, she reminded herself yet again. "I don't have a problem as long as you understand our relationship isn't personal."
He stopped walking and faced her. "And by that you mean…?"
She might as well clear this up now. She should have cleared it up before they'd left her apartment. "I don't want to repeat what happened the other night."
"Check. No kissing or fooling around in bed. Got it."
The blunt comment startled her into meeting his gaze.
He was watching her intently, his eyes gleaming. "Did I misunderstand what you were referring to?"
"No, you understood perfectly."
"Too bad. I enjoyed kissing you and being in your bed. I think you enjoyed it, too."
"That's beside the point."
He smiled. "I disagree. Mutual pleasure would be the point. It's what men and women were made for."
"That's a cynical way of looking at it. There should be far more to a relationship than just a physical attraction."
"But think of how boring things would be without one." He stroked the pad of his thumb along her jaw. "You did like it, Abbie, didn't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"Are you involved with someone else?"
"No."
"No? How can a woman with so much passion and such…interesting dreams be alone?"
She tipped her head away from his touch. "Spare me the charm, Flynn. I'm immune."
His smile faded. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Let's just say you're not my type."
He looked startled.
She felt a stirring of resentment. Both at him and at her persistent reaction to him. "Why does that surprise you? Are you accustomed to having women swoon every time you flash your dimples?"
"I didn't think you'd noticed my dimples."
"Just because I'm not interested doesn't mean I'm blind."
"Then what kind of man is your type?"
Her reply was immediate. "A history buff who likes kids, drives a station wagon and lives in the suburbs."
"Sounds exciting. Have you picked out your china pattern and the names for your firstborn yet?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did that eight years ago, not that who I want or what I want or the details about my love life are any of your business." She paused, finally aware that her voice had risen. She glanced around. Sarah and several of the men had turned toward them and were regarding them with interest. She pressed her lips together. She was abashed. It wasn't like her to lose her temper.
Flynn scowled at the other soldiers and took Abbie's arm to guide her toward the entrance of the tent. He lifted the flap and led her into the warehouse.
A bird chirped and fluttered among the steel rafters that supported the roof. Sunshine poked through the windows under the eaves, making streaks through the dust motes that floated in the air. After the cramped quarters of the tent, the sudden spaciousness was a relief. Abbie took a few quick breaths to clear her head.
Flynn nodded to the man who was standing by the warehouse door, then helped Abbie over the bundle of electric cables on the floor and walked toward the relative privacy of the row of vehicles that were parked along one wall. He stopped beside his bike, let go of her arm and turned to face her. "You're right," he said.
"What?"
"It isn't any of my business. I'm sorry."
She rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry I snapped at you, Flynn. I shouldn't have."
He shrugged. "No problem. Many of my closest friends regularly tell me to shut up."
"We seem to have gotten off the topic."
"As I recall you were saying our relationship isn't personal."
"It isn't."
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and regarded her in silence for a while. "Fine, it won't be," he said. "Not as long as I'm on duty."
"What does that mean?"
"I won't pretend that I don't find you attractive, Abbie. I do. I enjoy looking at you and touching you."
What could she say? She'd wanted him to be honest, didn't she? "Flynn…"
"But that's beside the point. Whatever else you might think of me, I'm a soldier first and foremost. My priority is always the mission."
The mission. The innocent, seven-year-old boy named Matteo. Abbie sighed. "That's my priority, too."
"If you truly object to my presence, we can talk to the major and have someone else assigned to escort you." He paused as he continued to look at her. "But I hope you don't. When I'm given an order, I carry it out. I don't like to fail."
He was offering her an out. Yet considering what was at stake here, it would be petty to take it. What could she tell Major Redinger? That Flynn was too handsome and charming to work with? That he found her attractive, and she found him attractive, but ever since her affair with Stuart she'd had a serious hang-up about sex? "I won't object," she said. "I think we've got things straightened out."
"Good." He picked up a helmet from his bike and held it out to her. "Vilyas is expecting us."
She took the helmet and hesitated, looking down at the sweater and slacks she was wearing. "If I'm going to meet an ambassador, I'd like to change into something more formal."
"Vilyas won't be concerned about protocol. And besides, with your body, you'd look good even in a gunny sack."
Her gaze snapped up to his.
He turned away and swung his leg over his bike. "It was just a compliment, Abbie, not a kiss."
* * *
The Ladavian Embassy was tucked into a quiet, tree-lined street of restored Georgian houses. It had been constructed twenty years ago, when the small monarchy had first opened diplomatic relations with the United States. The architect had taken care to preserve the charm of the neighborhood—the red brick looked as if it had been mellowed over centuries rather than merely decades. High casement windows gleamed from the front of the first two stories, and neat gables graced the roof.
Yet while the embassy building might have blended with the Washington neighborhood, the grounds had an unmistakably European air. Cobblestones paved the courtyard, water sparkled from a stone fountain, and the wrought iron gates at the edge of the street were adorned by the crest of the Ladavian royal family, a falcon with its talons clutching a sword and a mace. A Ladavian flag, deep blue with the royal crest outlined in gold, snapped in the breeze. The guards at the entrance wore uniforms of the same deep blue, with polished brass buttons and plenty of ornamental gold braid. The overall effect might have been picturesque, even quaint…if not for the automatic rifles the men carried.
"The security at the embassy was stepped up by Vilyas," Flynn said as they walked toward the gates. "These men are members of the royal guard. They're the traditional protectors of the Ladavian monarchy."
Flynn was in what Abbie was coming to think of as his soldier mode. True to his word, he was all business, no charm or dimples in sight. He'd been that way since they'd left the command center. "Do they know that Matteo is missing?" she asked.
"There was no need for them to know. Vilyas used the recent attack on the
palace to justify the reinforcements. He put out the story that his son's in bed with the flu."
"There seems to be a lot of that going around," she murmured.
The guards checked Flynn's and Abbie's identification, then ushered them through a metal detector into a foyer tiled in black and white squares of marble. They were met there by a round gray-haired man with heavy, dark eyebrows that dragged his forehead into a perpetual frown.
"Miss Locke, Mr. O'Toole," he said, his voice as heavy as his brows. An accent tinged his words with extra stress on the consonants. "I'm Radomir Magone, assistant to the ambassador. His excellency is a busy man. He has agreed to see you in his private sitting room. Please follow me."
Abbie felt Flynn's palm settle on the small of her back as they crossed the foyer to a curving staircase. It was an easy gesture, not forceful or possessive. It was the kind of respectful touch that any man might give a woman in public.
Abbie felt like a hypocrite for enjoying it.
Two more men with the blue-and-gold uniforms of the royal guards scrutinized them as they reached the top of the stairs. The second floor of the embassy was divided into suites of rooms for visiting dignitaries and as living quarters for the Ladavian ambassador. Radomir Magone ushered Flynn and Abbie through an ornately carved set of dark wood doors and into a large sitting room.
Sunlight poured through a pair of long windows, spreading squares of gold on an intricately patterned carpet. Several antique chairs and a low sofa were richly upholstered in velvet of Ladavian blue. A sideboard decorated with carving as ornate as the doors held a huge silver samovar and a collection of small china cups. The air was redolent with the aroma of lemon polish and strong tea.
A man not much taller than Abbie stood beside one of the windows, his hands clenched behind his back. He turned to face them. His features were sharp, as harshly honed as the falcon on the embassy gates.
"Your Excellency," Magone announced. "Your visitors have arrived."
The man jerked his head in a quick nod. "Miss Locke, Mr. O'Toole, I am Anton Vilyas."
Abbie was shocked by the bleakness on his face. Before this, she'd only seen an expression like that in news reports of disasters. Her heart contracted with sympathy and she automatically started forward.
Flynn caught her elbow. "We're honored to meet you, Mr. Ambassador," he said smoothly. "We appreciate your interest in the social studies project of Miss Locke's students. It's very kind of you to take time from your busy schedule to speak with us."
Vilyas's gaze flickered briefly. "I believe education is vital to the future of both our countries." He turned to dismiss his assistant. "Thank you, Rad. That will be all."
Magone bowed and left the room. The moment the doors had closed, Vilyas strode forward to catch Abbie's hands. He looked into her eyes without speaking. His jaw was clenched so tightly his cheeks looked sunken.
Abbie felt a twinge of pain from the force of his grip on her hands. It communicated his emotion more clearly than words could have. She met his gaze steadily and gave his fingers an answering squeeze. "We'll bring Matteo home, Ambassador Vilyas."
His dark-brown eyes gleamed. "That is what I pray with every breath I draw."
"I'm sorry I interfered," she said. "If I'd known—"
"Please, Miss Locke, no apologies. I am in your debt for your agreement to help. This is why I wanted to meet you. I wish to express my appreciation in person. You are a very brave woman."
"No, I'm not. But I promise I'll do the best I can."
"That is the definition of bravery, Miss Locke. Continuing to do what you must, when inside your heart is crying to deny the horror." He stopped. His throat worked as he swallowed. He dropped his gaze and released her hands. "What kind of animals would do this to a child?"
"The fanatics of the LLA should know better than to harm your son, Ambassador Vilyas," Flynn said. "It wouldn't serve their purpose."
The ambassador spun to face him. "They claim to be patriots, but they are nothing but thugs. They do not deserve to call themselves Ladavians. If I were not a peaceful man—" His voice broke. He made a sharp, cutting motion with his hand. "My rage does no good," he said. "I am committed to peace and the orderly transfer of power." He returned his gaze to the window. "This is why my son suffers."
Vilyas wasn't looking outside, Abbie realized. He was looking at a framed photograph that rested on a table beneath the window. She moved toward it. "Is this Matteo?"
"Yes."
Abbie paused to study it. The picture had been taken in a garden, probably in the early morning or after a rain. Against a backdrop of glistening foliage, a blond, hazel-eyed boy grinned at the camera. His features hadn't begun to develop the sharpness of his father's, but the resemblance was there in his wide-set eyes and the shape of his face. "He looks like a wonderful child," she said softly.
"He wants to be an astronaut."
"Good for him."
"His dream would not be possible if our country does not change. But now because I try to change it, he might not have the chance to grow up and pursue his dream." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Forgive me. As I said, my rage does no good."
"We're hopeful that another ransom drop will be set up soon, sir," Flynn said. "We're prepared to go into action the second we get word."
Vilyas nodded, taking a few moments to compose himself. "Yes. This is why we insisted on Delta Force. We can trust you to fulfill your mission."
"Yes, sir. We will."
A door on the far side of the room opened. Abbie turned to look just as a small blond child peeked around the door frame. He appeared to be about three years old, a smaller version of the boy in the photo, but the worry in his hazel eyes seemed far older. "Papa?"
Vilyas's features instantly softened. "Sacha. What is it?"
The child launched himself into the room and ran to the ambassador, wrapping his arms around his knee. He hid his face against his father's pant leg and mumbled something in a language Abbie didn't understand.
"No, I haven't forgotten, Sacha." Vilyas laid his hand on the boy's head and ruffled his hair. "We will read your book, but right now we have guests."
The boy tightened his arms around his father's leg and refused to look up.
"My youngest son," Vilyas said to Abbie and Flynn. "He has become anxious about Matteo's…absence."
"Sacha?" a woman called. Her voice was high-pitched, on the edge of panic. "Sacha?"
"He's in here, Neda," Vilyas called.
A woman hurried through the open doorway. It was obvious to Abbie that she was Sacha's mother, not only because her hair was the same fine blond and her eyes the same hazel as the child's, but because of the relief on her face when she spotted him. "Thank God."
Vilyas detached the boy's hold on his pant legs and scooped him into his arms. He closed his eyes and pressed his nose to the top of the child's head for a moment, then settled him on his hip and walked over to the woman. "It's all right, Neda," he said quietly. "He could not have gotten past the doors. More reinforcements from the Royal Guard arrived this morning."
She rubbed the boy's back, then reached out to take him from his father. "I apologize for the interruption. Sacha woke early from his nap and slipped away from his nanny."
"No, it is fine. You will want to meet my guests." He put his arm around her shoulders. "This is Sergeant O'Toole and Miss Locke, the teacher who has agreed to help us."
Neda Vilyas tightened her hold on her child as she turned her gaze toward Abbie. Her lips trembled briefly before she spoke. "Miss Locke. I am sorry to draw you into our troubles, but I am grateful for your kindness."
Abbie remembered what she'd learned during her briefing yesterday. These were not ordinary people. Neda Vilyas was a princess, the niece of King Kristof IV, the ruler of Ladavia. Her older brother had become the heir to the crown after the king's wife had remained childless. The small blond Sacha who was snuggled in her arms was fifth in line for the throne after his brother, Matteo, and his mal
e cousins. The sharp-featured Anton Vilyas who draped his arm over his wife's shoulders was a diplomat influential enough to wield enormous power during his country's ongoing negotiations with the American president.
Yet whatever else they were, these people were still a family. They stood together, the father holding the mother who was cradling the child. Even though Neda and Anton were caught in the depths of every parent's worst nightmare, they drew their strength from each other and from the love that was glowing around them.
Abbie felt a lump swell in her throat. Maybe this was a reaction to the stress of the situation, too, like her awareness of Flynn, but the wave of longing that hit her was so intense it brought tears to her eyes. This was the essence of what she wanted. It's what her birthday wish was all about. Not just the trappings like the house in the suburbs and the sensible car, but this bond of love that transcended circumstance.
She sighed and glanced at Flynn.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't looking like a soldier, either. It was as if a chink had appeared in his handsome features and what seeped to the surface was pure pain.
Chapter 7
Flynn wasn't often blindsided. When he was in enemy territory, he relied on his teammates to watch his back. He had developed a sixth sense about trip wires. He could isolate the sound of a gun being cocked above the noise of a force-five gale. But he hadn't been ready for this.
It was supposed to have been a straightforward courtesy meeting. Instead, it had turned into a touching tableau that could have been made into a photo with blurred edges and put on the front of a greeting card. Devoted father, loving mother, innocent child, all united in their concern for the missing member of their team.
Flynn felt as out of place as a starving man staring through a window at a banquet table. And for the second time in two days he wanted to stay.
It hurt. Damn, it gnawed at the empty place inside him that he did his best not to acknowledge or analyze. Out of habit, he searched for something cynical or witty that would push these feelings away.
Why would he want to stay? Why would he want to be part of this? Family scenes gave him hives.
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