“Stop thinking about it.” Brody, who’d apparently had one eye on her—would he not, from now on?—came over and sat on the coffee table. He took her hands from her face and held them between his. She’d forgotten how warm they were. “It’ll get easier. Right now, you’ll think about it every five seconds. But in a week or two, it’ll go down to once or twice an hour. The key is to take control of your thoughts. Think of happy moments to replace the horrific ones.”
Happy moments. Like the moment when he’d sung I love you? Even if it had been against his will?
She’d avoided that moment until now, but as he looked at her, compassion in his beautiful eyes, she let herself return to the club. Let herself hear the words come out of his mouth, almost like a question.
But he didn’t love her. He’d loved another woman and lost her. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“Is that what you did? You know, to forget…?”
He drew in a breath and looked at their hands. “I’ll never forget.”
No. Probably he wouldn’t.
“Listen.” He hooked a finger under her chin and tipped her face up to his. “Did you really mean you’d behave if we went to Amsterdam? Because I don’t think I can take another night like tonight. Speaking of things I’ll never forget, I’ll always have imprinted in my head the visual of you diving to the pavement while glass rained down over you, believing in my heart I’d find you shredded and bleeding out.” He stared at her hands, rubbing his thumbs over them. “Please don’t do that to me again.”
“I won’t.” Really? Oh, she hoped so, at least. But what about Kafara?
“You don’t always have to save the world,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. She opened her mouth to speak but he stopped her. “It’s not your fault that your sister died, and it’s not your responsibility to somehow make up for it, or try to take her place.”
She frowned at him.
“I saw pictures of Savannah. I know she liked to dress up, play a part. I have a feeling Vonya is more Sav—”
“Ronie, do you have a listing of your concert dates over the past year?” Artyom looked up from where he sat at the kitchen bar, the minicomputer connected to his laptop with a cable. He’d broken into the computer with a few keystrokes. Of course.
Brody kept his eyes glued to hers, but she broke away. No, her crazy life didn’t have anything to do with Savannah’s lost dreams.
“Why?”
“I’m tracking Damu’s email correspondence. There are a number in his trash file, all to the same person. I can’t read the actual text, but a couple of weeks ago, when I was looking for possible threats to you, I was matching ticket recipients to venues and dates, and it seems that a number of these email dates correspond to your concerts. Do you know anyone called SAM613?”
“Seriously?” She looked at Brody. He met her gaze as if yes, she had the answer. “Of course not.”
“And, hey, there are a couple here to that same address when you were at that CWA event in Paris last fall.”
What didn’t he know about?
Artyom turned around. She considered him the quiet one, with his knowing, dark eyes and a rare smile, his intellectual air. “Just think about this for a second. You’ve seen Damu a number of times this past year.”
“Yes.”
“And isn’t it interesting that he happens to be in the same places you are?”
“He’s a playboy. He travels. Has big parties. And a few times, he had his events scheduled long before I did. Like his birthday party. He didn’t know I’d be in Berlin.”
“Didn’t he? Couldn’t someone have sent him the information?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know…Tommy?”
“Are you kidding me? Tommy doesn’t even like Damu. He always tells me to stay away from him.” She found her feet.
“That’s true,” Brody said. “Besides, you vetted him, right, Artyom?”
“Okay, how about Leah? She’s your assistant, she knows your concert dates long in advance. She could send them to Damu—”
“Are you saying that Leah is a diamond smuggler?”
Artyom made a face. “I’ll keep looking.” He turned back to the computer. But Brody got up. “How about a member of the band? Or her road manager?”
“What if it’s a coincidence?”
“There is no such thing as coincidence in the security world.” Chet looked over at her from where he sat at the table, reading the security reports. “You were there. Damu was there. He was communicating with someone—the same someone—during every one of your dates. You took something off him, and a week later, someone takes a shot at you and kills your contact.”
She flinched.
“Nothing is coincidental. You’re in trouble, and if we hope to keep you alive, then we have to suspect everyone. We draw the line at no one. Not even your best friend.”
The room went quiet.
She swallowed.
Artyom turned around again. “Her next stop is Amsterdam. Now that I have Damu’s email, I can nose around, find his itinerary. I’ll bet Damu is headed there. This doesn’t have to be hard. We find Damu and stick to him until he passes off the diamonds to the smuggler. Make sure he doesn’t get near Ronie.” He glanced at Brody as he said it, and followed with, “And Brody will keep her alive.”
He squeezed her hand.
Again, silence.
“Please.” She met Brody’s eyes. “Please? If we catch the smuggler, then Bishop can focus on rescuing Kafara, right?”
Chet got up, walked to the window and stared out into the pinking sky. “Okay, we’ll go to Amsterdam.” Yes, yes!
Chet turned his dark eyes on her. “Ronie, you’ll do your final concert. But there’s no we here—Ronie, you will do everything Brody says, and he won’t be more than a foot away from you for the rest of the tour. You’ll get back to the States in one piece, and if we’re lucky, we’ll also figure out who might be smuggling diamonds into America.” Okay, so there was something to the boss thing—he exuded an aura of don’t-mess-with-me. “But this thing goes south at all, and you’re on the first plane to the States. You’re the number one priority, got it?”
She drew in a breath. No, Kafara was.
And when Brody met her eyes, he knew it, too.
TWELVE
Brody lay down on his bed like a normal person might, staring at his ceiling, listening to his heartbeat in his ears.
How was he supposed to trust her when she looked at him with that hollowed-out longing in her eyes? Her lips may have agreed to Chet’s terms but Brody had no illusions that if she had to sacrifice herself to help Kafara…
Yes, this assignment had pain written all over it. And he had begun to realize that it wasn’t just hers.
How he wanted to get his hands on Bishop, or just lock Ronie up in a hotel room and go after Kafara himself. And what guarantee did he have that Kafara even wanted saving? He’d seen those kids, the determination in their eyes—
They’d been brainwashed into a mind-set of violence. She might discover that Kafara had turned into a murderer.
A smart security agent, one who listened to his gut, would put her on the first plane home. But then again, he had never followed his gut well.
And it didn’t help that she’d looked so pitifully hopeful when he said that he’d help her get Kafara back. What was he supposed to do with that?
You have feelings for this girl, don’t you?
Chet’s voice burrowed into his thoughts. No. Of course not. So, she’d gotten inside a little…and yes, it had been a mistake to kiss her, and maybe they should talk about that…
He kept hoping that moment might just fade away…but being with her in Prague, seeing it through her eyes, had helped him see it also—the fairy tale of the castles, the hanging roses, the linden trees. He heard the music of the city, and the food—it even tasted better with her around.
It had to be you…
Stop. He needed sleep. And with R
onie tucked onto the sofa for a nap and the doors bolted, surely he could allow himself to nod off…
Except that every time he closed his eyes, he saw her standing in the shadows, heard her scream ripping through the midnight hour, followed by the shatter of the glass window onto the sidewalk. Then more screaming, filling the chambers of his chest, his heart—
Screaming.
“No! No! Stop!”
Brody sat straight up, opening his eyes. He had nodded off. And the screaming emanated not from his nightmares but the next room, where Ronie napped on the sofa.
Or was being torn limb from limb.
He hit the ground running, flew through the doorway and saw her thrashing with a blanket he’d given her after Chet and Mae and the rest of the Stryker team left, leaving behind Luke who’d crashed in the other bedroom.
She had the blanket wound around her arm, the other arm up around her head.
“No!”
“Ronie, wake up!” He sat on the sofa next to her, grabbing her shoulders. “Ronie!”
She opened her eyes, unseeing. He caught her arm as it nearly sideswiped him. “Ronie, it’s just a dream!”
Her eyes focused then and she began to shake. “Oh, Brody. I’m sorry. Oh…”
What was he supposed to do? He pulled her to him, putting his arms around her. “Shh. It’s over.”
Still she trembled as she laced her arms around his waist. She seemed cold, shivering as she buried her face into his chest.
The sun filled the room with golden light. Yes, he’d most definitely nodded off.
He ran a hand down her hair, soft and smooth, breathing in her scent. Oops. Didn’t mean to do that. She smelled of soap, with the faintest hint of her herbal shampoo. Like roses, maybe. “Is it that dream again, the one you had in Germany?”
She nodded and sank into him. Well, if she just wanted to let him hold her, he wouldn’t argue. She was alone, after all, and just needed a friend.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She said nothing as she shuddered. Finally, she pushed away. “The dream…it’s so real. And horrible.”
He touched her face, running his thumb down her sodden cheek. “Is it the same one you had before? The pineapple dream?”
One side of her mouth quirked up, as if she found a sort of humor in his question. “Yes. The pineapple dream. Although it’s not really about pineapples. See, when I visited Kafara, a woman would come every day, carrying this burlap bag on her head, filled with pineapples. I’d give him money and he’d buy me a pineapple. Then—he loved to show me this trick—he’d take her machete and cut it apart, right in his hand. I loved the fresh pineapples—I ate one every day.” She looked up at him. Her smile fell. “In my dream, when Kafara slices the pineapple, it bleeds.”
“Bleeds?”
“Yes. Like he’s chopping up…I don’t know, maybe something living. It’s horrific. And I just know it’s because he’s being forced to…” She shook her head and hid her face in her hands.
He wrapped his arms around her again. She let herself be molded against him, and she fit like she’d always belonged there.
A spurt of fresh panic filled his chest. Do you have feelings for this woman?
He couldn’t, could he? Feelings for Vonya?
No, not Vonya.
Ronie. The woman who cared so deeply about a little boy she’d only met briefly three years ago that she would risk her life for him. Be tortured with nightmares about him. She gave the best of herself to her career, her family.
Her friends.
Perhaps she deserved the best of him.
He rested his chin on her head and couldn’t believe the words forming in his mind. “You have to swear to me that you’ll keep your word to Chet, Ronie. We both know that if you want to, you can sneak away again, try to contact Bishop, or even track down this smuggler, and so help me, if you do that…”
“You’ll send me back to America?” She lifted her head to look at him.
No, he’d lose his mind with worry. But he wouldn’t tell her that. He pursed his lips and looked away. “Just, please—trust me.” He hated how much pleading filtered through his voice.
Her palm on the center of his chest, warm and solid, made him look back at her. The morning sun caressed her face and for a moment, she appeared so…well, he had her in his arms already, didn’t he?
He leaned close, everything inside him aching to kiss her. He heard the warnings in the back of his mind even as he cupped her face. But he didn’t care. Not when she smiled so sweetly. “I do trust you,” she said softly. “I won’t make you watch me die.”
He closed his eyes and leaned away. That was right. See, she could die if he didn’t stay on his game, didn’t do his job right, let her talk him into her crazy, secret, dangerous side trips.
Just like Shelby.
He knew that this thing had hurt written all over it. But he understood the nightmares, too. He had his own moments where he awoke, nearly screaming, in a cold sweat.
Perhaps, in fact, no one really understood her quite like he did.
She touched his face, her fingers soft and cool. “Please forgive me for betraying you.”
He opened his eyes and found her gaze almost too much to bear. Somehow, he nodded. “I do. But you could have told me.”
Her eyes narrowed and after a moment, she shook her head.
“Okay, maybe not. But I do understand. And I’ll do whatever I can to make sure Kafara is freed.”
She bit her lip, turned away. “Thank you.”
“But promise me no more tricks. Every word I say, you hear me?”
“Yes, boss.”
He couldn’t shake the desire to kiss that nose. And that mouth. And what would that do for them? His job would end with her last gig—and she’d go back to America, while he’d stay in Prague.
Only he’d never again be able to enter his apartment without thinking of her in it.
“I know you’re tired. And the flight doesn’t leave for a few more hours. I think you should try to get more shut-eye.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid to sleep. It’ll come back.”
“What if I stay here?”
“You’re going to protect me from my nightmares, too?”
“If I have to.”
She sighed, straightening her blanket. “Brody Wickham, you’re much too good at your job.” Then she took his hand, wove her fingers into his and closed her eyes. “What am I going to do without you?”
What am I going to do without you? Ronie hated the words even as they came out of her mouth. What was she going to do without him?
She didn’t have to think about that now, did she? Not when every time she closed her eyes she saw that poor boy’s face as he crumpled to the ground. Or worse, when she did fall asleep, Kafara and his bloody machete.
Stop. Clearly, she’d come to rely—way too much—on Brody’s hand in hers.
Probably a gal needed to remember that he was paid to hold her hand.
Paid.
Paid.
I love you…
No, he didn’t. She’d practically forced him to sing those words, and so what if he’d turned to her not two minutes later and kissed her like he’d meant it, like she might be more than…
A client. Which apparently he’d come to his senses about shortly thereafter, because he’d pushed her away with a look of horror on his face.
She let his hand go. He withdrew it, of course. Because he was paid to hold it. Because she was his client.
She pulled the covers up to her shoulder and rolled over, listening to the beat of her heart—idiot, idiot, idiot. Vonya, even Veronica, was smarter than this.
And she’d promised to obey him. What was she thinking?
“Are you okay? Because you seem—”
“I’m fine.” She closed her eyes and felt him start to move.
“Brody?” Wow, she’d turned into a glutton for punishment. But she didn’t want him to leave. Not just yet
. She rolled back to face him. “Why don’t you work in America?”
He settled beside her, bracing his arm on the back of the sofa. He seemed to search her face for a moment. “Because there are a lot of people who need our help here. And America hardly feels like home anymore. Too many people living lives that feel out of touch with mine.”
“Out of touch?”
“Families. Mortgages. Their lives feel so big. Complicated, even. This is enough for me.”
This? His bare, simple two-bedroom flat, the stainless-steel kitchen, the leather sofa—a look at his life told her that Brody was exactly the guy he presented himself to be. Simple. Bold. Strong.
He didn’t play games.
Which meant that whatever feelings he might have expressed for her—at the club, or even tonight when he’d woken her from the dream and held her…
No, Ronie. His job—he was just doing his job.
“This is enough?” She didn’t meet his eyes, not sure why she’d even asked that.
“Sometimes.”
Sometimes.
But that was it, wasn’t it? Sometimes was all people like him could ask for. People who carried around wounds and kept scrambling just to keep up. People who were terrified to reach out for more.
You think you don’t deserve to fall in love. Leah’s voice reached out to her and took hold in her heart. Maybe. Yes.
Still, if Ronie did ever fall in love, she might consider a man who didn’t play games. Who made her feel…safe. A man who made her believe that she didn’t have to try so hard.
Yes, she wanted more than sometimes. She wanted a world of always.
THIRTEEN
“The Dutch have a saying, you know. God created the world but the Dutch created the Netherlands.” Ronie slid open the drapes in her hotel window overlooking Dam Square.
“I think you might be Dutch. You have to be in charge of everything,” Leah said.
“Funny.” Brody sure knew how to pick hotels—this one had a view of the palace, with its neoclassical façade, and beyond that, the National Diamond Exchange.
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