by Gayle Wilson
“A couple of years ago he was a middleman for the Colombians,” Griff said. “Now he’s a major supplier to the States. Mostly heroin.”
“So...who would want to assassinate him?”
She was thinking that this might be someone official. Some government agency. Perhaps even the CIA themselves. Or the DEA. But surely the government wouldn’t have used Gardner as a means to accomplish that.
“Someone who wants control of the network he’s built. Someone who wants to run his show,” Griff suggested. “Or maybe someone out for revenge. Who knows?”
“And their reasons don’t really matter to you?” she asked.
Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t. That sounded too much like the things she had said to him before. The arguments she had made. Too much like an accusation.
“Not in this situation,” he said, his voice almost as cold as it had been upstairs.
“Why would they want you?” she asked. “How would they even know about you? About the team?”
“They want us because we can do it. Given the security Diaz surrounds himself with, there aren’t many people who could. Apparently they were smart enough to realize that. And as to how they know about the team...” He shrugged. “We’re in the process right now of trying to figure that out. But we’re still trying to figure out a lot of things. And we don’t have much time to do it in.”
Claire didn’t like the sound of that. Not when she thought about Gardner.
“What does that mean? The not-much-time part?” she asked.
“Diaz is coming to the States for a meeting with his major buyers. As soon as it’s over, he goes back to his stronghold in the mountains of central Mexico. Once he’s there, it becomes much harder to get to him.”
“But...you could?” she asked, fighting the fear that even they might not be able to pull this off.
“Maybe,” Griff said. “But it would be more dangerous. Dangerous for those involved, so we’d rather hit him here. Before he leaves.”
“When will that be?”
“Two or three days,” Griff said.
Gardner had already been gone for three, and they had seemed endless. And endlessly painful. The thought that Griff might be able to bring this off and get her back in two or three more seemed overwhelming.
“And then...when you’ve done that, they’ll give Gardner back?” she asked, hoping this was what they had promised him.
“As soon as they have verification of the hit.”
Those words were like a foreign language in her safe, narrow world. A language she had never wanted to learn. Things she had never been able to think about without feeling sick. At least not in conjunction with her own life. Not in conjunction with the man she loved.
Now her daughter’s life depended on the skills Griff Cabot and those hard men in the room downstairs had honed by doing the very acts for which she had once rejected him. The same things for which she had told him she never wanted to see him again. His past, on which she had blamed Gardner’s kidnapping.
“I want to be with you,” she said. “While you do this.”
“Why?” Griff asked.
It was, she supposed, a simple enough question, but there wasn’t a simple answer. Not that she had been able to come up with. Not one that would make sense to anyone else.
“Because if I go along with this... If I allow you to do this for Gardner,” she amended, “then I should be part of it. Otherwise...” She hesitated again, but he kept his eyes steady on her face, waiting to hear whatever conclusion she had come to. And after two days of thinking about it, this was the decision she had made. “Otherwise, I’m a moral coward.”
She wondered if he would even remember what he had said. He had accused her of moral arrogance. She certainly had none now. She wanted her baby back, and if the price was the death of a drug lord, then she would be able to face that. If Griff, who didn’t even know his daughter, could deal with that guilt, then surely she could. If it was the price of her daughter’s life.
“You don’t have to prove anything, Claire,” he said. “Not to me. Not even to the others. This isn’t about morality. There’s nothing moral about what they’re demanding. Nothing honorable. You don’t have to be involved.”
“You’ll ask Jordan or Hawk or Jake to help you. But not me.”
“They all had a choice. You didn’t. The people who took Gardner didn’t give you any.”
“And she’s not their child,” she said softly. “She doesn’t belong to Hawk. Jordan didn’t struggle to give her birth. None of them, including you, have held her when she cried all night. Or saw her first smile. None of you. So I don’t need to hear about choices. Or about right and wrong. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one who made all those arguments before.”
She hesitated again, and then she went on with what she had come here to tell him. “But right or wrong, I can’t make them now. Not when Gardner’s life is at stake. And if I’m not willing to tell you no, don’t do this, then...” She hesitated, still holding his eyes, before she made her demand. “I have a right to be here, Griff. To be involved in this. I have more of a right to that than any of the rest of you.”
She waited for him to deny her reasoning. She waited for him to turn the old arguments against her. Or to remind her of what she had once said. And of what she had done. Of what she’d accused him of. But of course, being Griff, he didn’t do any of those things.
“Jake will show you what you can do to help,” he said. Without another word, he turned and limped back toward the hallway. She stood in the darkness watching until he disappeared. Then, after she had heard the door to the basement stairs close behind him and she was again alone in the dark, upstairs emptiness of the house, she walked over to the desk and picked up the photograph in the silver frame. Her photograph.
Given the coldness in Griff’s voice when she’d arrived, she needed the hope this provided. Maybe the fact that he still had her picture on his desk didn’t mean a thing. Maybe it had simply been forgotten in the turmoil of what had happened to him. After all, this house had been closed for more than a year, the same year during which she had thought Griff was dead.
But despite the fact that, several months before the attack at Langley, she had told him she never wanted to see him again, her picture was still on Griff Cabot’s desk. And despite the terrible accusation she had made that morning in her kitchen, he hadn’t made her leave.
Chapter Seven
Beyond the blue-green expanse of Biscayne Bay and in front of a backdrop of violet sky, the lights of Miami shimmered into life through the deepening twilight. The cruiser swayed gently on the swells, and except for the soft slap of water against the hull, it was surprisingly quiet. Surprisingly peaceful.
The unmoving figure at the rail added to the serenity. Claire had stood behind Griff for several minutes now, studying the broad shoulders and muscled back, both clearly delineated by the black cotton knit shirt. It was obvious, too, that under the tightly stretched material of the faded jeans he wore, his waist and hips were as narrow as before he’d been hurt.
It had been hard for her during the last two days to remember what had happened to Griff, especially when he was standing, unmoving, as he was now. At moments like this, he seemed unchanged. He hadn’t used the cane at all during the two days they’d been on the boat. Claire assumed that was because they had traded the cold, wet climate of the D.C. area for the heat of the tropics.
In the two days she had been with the team, she hadn’t sought Griff out. They had been together, of course, but always in the company of the others. Never alone. And they hadn’t talked. Not about anything.
She wondered why he was up here, looking at the city. Was he thinking about what would happen tomorrow? Worrying about it, just as she had been all day?
“Do you really believe this will work?” she asked.
As she spoke, she moved up to stand beside him at the rail, her soft-soled shoes making no sound on the gleaming mahogany of t
he deck. Seeming to become aware of her presence for the first time, Griff turned his head, looking down into her eyes.
The bridge of his nose was sunburned from the long days they had spent on the boat. Even the high cheekbones were touched with color, despite the darkness of his skin. His blue-black hair, its natural curl enhanced by the humidity, moved slightly in the breeze.
In this forgiving light, the changes the past year had wrought in his face were less obvious. Right now, he looked exactly like the Griff she remembered. So much like that Griff.
Her breathing faltered with that realization, and she felt her pulse rate increase. A whisper of need brushed through her lower body, triggered by the memories of his lovemaking. Memories she couldn’t afford to indulge in right now.
“If I didn’t believe it would work,” Griff said simply, “we wouldn’t be out here.” He turned his eyes back to the lights across the water, to the city where Hawk and Jordan had already begun to carry out the plan he had devised.
His hands were resting on the rail, and her eyes examined them now instead of his face. And found that contemplation no better for her peace of mind. Almost worse, in fact, because she could remember exactly how they had felt moving over her skin. Tantalizing and then satisfying.
Griff had almost been able to anticipate her needs. And certainly to read her responses. He had known everything about her. Things no one else had ever guessed. And, of course, there had never before been anyone who could evoke the feelings he had.
Before she met Griff Cabot, Claire had never considered herself to be sensual. Or sensuous. When she was with him, however, she was both. And she relished that. It was an incredible freedom, which he had first created within her mind and body and had then invited her to explore.
She pulled her eyes away from the temptation of remembering those long, dark fingers against her skin and looked out instead, as he was doing, across the panorama of sky and water. The lights of the city, glittering in the darkness like diamonds, rimmed the edge where the two met. She lifted her chin, closing her eyes and letting the breeze bathe her face. Enjoying its touch. Savoring the smell of the sea it brought with it.
“Don’t worry,” Griff said.
Surprised by the quiet command, she opened her eyes and turned to face him. He was looking at her again. Looking at her, and not through her, almost for the first time since she’d come to the summer house to find him.
“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” he said, his deep voice softer than it had been before. More intimate.
“Is that a promise?” she asked, smiling at him.
The question had been almost idly asked. Something to say besides “Do you remember...?”
“At least, nothing we can control will go wrong,” he amended. “Nothing the team is responsible for will be left undone. Or left to chance. I can promise you that, Claire.”
He had never broken a promise to her. He hadn’t been the one who had broken the vow she had forced him to make. She had done that. Her arrival at his door that night had certainly been something out of his control. And just as much out of hers.
She nodded, turning back to the darkening sky. She knew the bare bones of the plan, although she hadn’t really been in on its conception. Jordan and Hawk had left early today to carry out their part of it. And by this time tomorrow, it would all be over. Nothing we can control will go wrong. But there were, of course, so many things that couldn’t be controlled.
She drew another breath, deep and slow. She supposed she was only borrowing trouble, and she had more than enough of that already, but today, as she had watched Hawk and Jordan’s departure, she had felt a prickle of apprehension.
A premonition, perhaps, that there were elements about all this that none of them understood. Things that moved beneath the surface of what was happening, as unseen and unknown as whatever swam below them in the depths of the tranquil waters on which the yacht bobbed and dipped.
She looked down at the waves lapping against the hull. There was nothing there but the gentle rise and swell of the ocean. Nothing was visible under the surface of the water, which she knew teemed with life. Despite the humid warmth of the surrounding night, so thick it was almost palpable, she shivered.
“I told you not to worry,” Griff said again.
She looked up, away from the hypnotizing rise and fall of the ocean, and straight into his eyes. They were as dark as the shadows behind the lights of Miami, and yet tonight they seemed to have lost the bitterness she had put there.
She wondered if he had forgiven her for the accusation she’d made. And she wondered if she had completely forgiven him for involving her daughter in the violence of his world.
But if there was any lesson she had learned from losing Griff, it was that there was never a guarantee of tomorrow. There might not be a second chance to make things right. And regret was something she had lived with a long time.
Despite the fact that Griff wouldn’t be physically involved in what would happen tomorrow, and shouldn’t be in the kind of danger that Hawk and Jordan seemed so willing to face, there were still things she needed to say to him.
“Griff,” she said softly.
Suddenly, she shivered again, feeling the same chill of foreboding that had touched her before glide again along her spine. When she spoke his name, he turned to face her, propping his elbow on the railing and leaning against it.
“I should have told you,” she whispered. “As soon as I knew about the baby, I should have called you.”
She waited for some response, but his face was unchanging. No longer cold, but...something. Some emotion was reflected there that made her afraid again.
“You should have told me,” he said finally.
Simple agreement. But in his tone was much more, a regret that almost matched that which had crushed her spirit during those months when she had guarded his child beneath her broken heart. Hearing it, she grieved anew that he had never known his daughter. Had not even known of her existence. And that loss had been Claire’s choice. Something that had been within her control.
It had taken her these last two days to realize that if she had told him about Gardner at the beginning, everything might have been different. Griff would never have let her believe he was dead if he had known she was carrying his child. He would never have left her alone with that responsibility.
And he would never have left his daughter unprotected—if he had only known about her existence. And he hadn’t, because Claire had chosen not to tell him. So if anyone was to blame for what had happened to Gardner...
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Sorry for not telling you I was pregnant. And...sorry for what I said. It’s not your fault these people exist. I shouldn’t have blamed you for what happened to Gardner.”
I’m sorry. The words seemed pitifully inadequate, but they were all she had. All anyone ever had.
His left hand lifted, and he touched her bare shoulder, exposed by the sleeveless tank top she was wearing. Offering comfort? she wondered. Or forgiveness.
He ran his thumb slowly down and back up, caressing the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. And the unhurried movement was seductive.
What was in his eyes was just as evocative, reminding her of all they had once been to each other. Almost unconsciously, reacting to the touch of his hand and to what was in his eyes, she moved closer, drawn to him as she had been in the dream. Suddenly, his fingers closed hard around the soft flesh of her upper arms, pulling her to him. Her left hand found his cheek, cupping the pleasantly rough texture of his skin with her palm. And that, too, was a sensation she remembered.
His mouth lowered, opening slightly, aligning itself to fit over hers. She watched his eyes close, the thick fan of lashes dropping to hide their darkness. Then her own fell, surrendering to her need as a relieved and exhausted child finally gives in to the sleep it has mindlessly fought.
This was part of why she had demanded he let her come. Not only because she knew he was th
e only one who could rescue Gardner, but for this. For Griff. For his touch. His kiss. For all they had once shared. And could share again.
His mouth fastened over hers, moving with the same unquestioning surety. The same possession. And briefly, before her consciousness was overwhelmed by sensation, she remembered the hesitant movement of John Amerson’s lips. This was why that kiss had been meaningless. Why anything else was unimportant. Anyone else. And why anyone else always would be.
Her hand found the back of Griff’s head, and her fingers slipped into his hair, longer than it had been before, but warm and alive, as fine as silk. She pulled his head down, straining on tiptoe, pressing her breasts against the hard wall of his chest.
Trying to deepen the kiss. To prolong. To tell him again, this time without words, that she had been wrong. And that she knew and regretted her mistake. It had been such a long, aching emptiness of regret.
His hands found her shoulders instead. Gripping them, he pushed her away from him. The contact of the kiss was broken, of course, but his fingers still held her prisoner, and he was looking down again into her eyes.
Slowly, too lost in the sensations he had created to react immediately, she closed her mouth, still hungry for his. His eyes followed the movement and came back to hers.
“Whatever happens...” he began, and hesitated. His lips tightened, denying whatever he had intended to tell her. Thinking better of it, perhaps?
“Whatever happens?” she questioned. “Tomorrow?”
Had Griff, too, felt that cold undercurrent of fear that had run through her veins all day? A dread of the unknown? Terror of something they couldn’t control?
“We’ll get her back,” he said.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know you will.”
For some reason their roles had reversed. She was comforting him. And she had never known Griff Cabot to be afraid before. Or in need of comfort. In need of anything.
His hands released her shoulders as suddenly as he had broken the kiss. Then he turned and, without looking back, limped across the deck to the stairwell and disappeared through it into the darkness below.