Hard To Tame

by Kylie Brant

  “Yes.” His voice was clipped. “I feel guilty.” He rose abruptly, turned away. “But there’s a difference between your situation and mine. You didn’t cause your predicament, it rose up and enveloped you. People died on my watch because I made a mistake.”

  It was telling that in that brief exchange she learned more about Nick Doucet than in all the days she’d known him. She recognized the ghosts in his eyes, knew how cruelly the demons could haunt. The tiny chink in his armor opened a corresponding crack in her own. Curiosity, and something more, had her asking, “What happened?”

  There was no reason for him to tell her, so she didn’t know which of them was more surprised when he started to speak. “I was still in the Green Berets, on assignment in Bosnia. I was wounded, and some villagers hid me from the faction hunting me, nursed me back to health.” His voice was all the more compelling for its complete lack of expression. “They lived in terrible conditions. No sanitation, no medicine, no money. I wanted to repay them, so when I was well enough to leave, I made sure regular shipments of supplies got back to them. Medicine, food, clothes.”

  Her throat dried. She could already imagine the rest. His next words confirmed her fears.

  “The rebels discovered the regular line of supplies and got suspicious. They tortured one of the village elders until he confessed they’d helped me. Then they torched the village.”

  A small gasp escaped her, but Nick didn’t appear to hear it. He was lost in a hellish past from which there was no escape. “Sixty-six people died in the fire.”

  She searched for some way to comfort him. “You were trying to help them. You couldn’t know—”

  He turned to look at her then, and his face was fierce. “You’re wrong, it was my job to know. And I learned the lesson well. Emotion, no matter how noble, has no place in an assignment. It only clouds thoughts, dulls instincts. It’s a lesson I’ll never forget.”

  His words, the message behind them, silenced her. He couldn’t have made it any clearer that feelings wouldn’t be allowed to sway him on this mission. There was no reason for the realization to wound her, since she harbored the same vow. It had been a long, long time since anyone had been allowed to get close to her. There was no reason for the fact to pick this moment to hurt.

  Suddenly sorry she’d ever introduced the topic, she ran a hand through her hair, a bit disconcerted at the tactile reminder of its new length. “It’s been a long day,” she said abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

  He rose, put out a hand to help her from the chair. “The bathrooms should all be stocked with whatever supplies you might need. Help yourself.”

  It was a relief when he let himself out of the room, as quietly as he’d entered it. A relief to be alone and to focus on rituals that were soothing in their routine.

  Returning to the adjoining room, she dug through the small pile of clothes Claire had left and found a thin satiny shift. She was unable to tell if it was an undergarment or sleepwear, but it would serve as the latter tonight. She put it on, then crossed to the sliding glass door to the balcony. Opening it wide, she turned and slipped into bed, settled her head on the pillow. The door to the bedroom was pushed open and she could make out Nick’s form moving toward her, the bandage on his side standing out starkly in the shadows.

  She sat up, yanking the covers to her chest. “I don’t want to discuss anything else tonight.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Disbelief leadened her limbs, left her incapable of movement when he lifted the other side of the bedcovers and slid in beside her.

  “You can’t believe—”

  “That I trust you? No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.” He reached over, clasped one of her hands, laced their fingers. “But I thought you might find this method preferable to being handcuffed every night to the bed frame.”

  He was, she noted, wearing some sort of low-riding boxers. She made the observation with a sense of relief, but the thought of lying next to him all night wasn’t a way to guarantee restfulness. “What are you afraid of?” Desperation made her voice caustic. “We’re thirteen stories in the air. Do you think I’m going to jump or attach myself to the outside of the building and climb down?”

  Her sarcasm had no effect on him. “All I’m sure of is that you’ll be looking for some way out, and this is the only way I can keep track of you and sleep, too.”

  Unceremoniously he reached over, grasped her waist and slid her down into the bed. Ignoring her rigid limbs and sputtered protests, he lay close beside her and threw his free arm across her middle, anchoring her in place.

  “I don’t…I can’t sleep with any…with you here.”

  His response failed to reassure her. “You’d better get used to it. For the rest of our time together, this is the way it has to be.”

  Sara lay there, tense and all too aware of the heat emanating from the man lying too close beside her. The situation got more intolerable by the minute, and increasingly perilous. Nick was still, his breathing growing steadily deeper. While she…she was having difficulty drawing in a breath at all.

  The only person she’d ever slept with—really slept with—was Sean. They’d been children, snuggled up like puppies as much for warmth and comfort as anything else.

  There was nothing in the least bit childlike in the feelings induced by Nick Doucet.

  Her lips parted; she couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen. He wasn’t pressed against her, was only touching her with his arm, and its position was far from loverlike. But that didn’t stop her from imagining the tiny amount of space between them, didn’t prevent her from thinking about the test to her willpower if his touch turned more intimate.

  She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and willed her wayward imagination to halt. As if realizing the silent struggle going on inside her, Nick spoke, his breath stirring her hair. “You’ve been awake eighteen hours. Sleep, mon ange.”

  And despite the turmoil of events that had transpired in the last few days, miraculously, she did just that.

  “You need to affect a Southern accent for your new identity, but don’t worry. We’ll practice until you master it.” He’d had breakfast served on the small terrace outside the living room. Sara looked up, shot him a cool glance across the table.

  “Well, if that’s not just the kindest offah Ah’ve evah had.”

  He lifted a brow, impressed despite himself at the deliberately accurate drawl. “Good job. I forgot about your stint in Atlanta.”

  “And Biloxi before that. Picking up a drawl when you’re surrounded by Southerners isn’t all that difficult.”

  He gave a nod. “You’ll need to tone it down a bit so it’s more subtle. As Raeanne Backstrom, you’ve had the benefit of finishing schools that would eliminate all but the Southern belle flavor of the dialect.” His smile was slight. “As a matter of fact, right now you’re on a trip across Europe, compliments of your parents, after just completing your second year at Wellesley.”

  Abruptly her face smoothed, became that impassive mask he was becoming all too familiar with. “The drawl is child’s play. But don’t you think it’s a bit much to expect a tenth-grade dropout to play the part of a college student?”

  It was the emotion behind the question that he was most interested in, and so his answer was absent as he considered it. “You’ll be well rehearsed in every aspect of the identity before we leave here.” Something was clearly bothering her, but she didn’t respond, and he felt a flicker of impatience. It was becoming more and more difficult to watch her don that blank expression. Although it would be an effective tool in the charade they were about to embark in, he was all too aware that she used it with him as a way to keep him at a distance.

  It shouldn’t matter. He’d waited patiently for days in rotting jungles halfway across the world, or under the searing desert sun, to complete a mission. He’d taught his body how to ignore pain and hunger until an assignment was concluded, his quarry terminated. So it was both humbling and infuriating to constan
tly fight to control other, more primal physical responses when it came to Sara.

  He could, he supposed, blame part of his tension on the night he’d spent beside her, listening to her breathing. Inhaling her scent. And yet not touching her in any way that mattered. His gaze narrowed as he watched her move her breakfast around on her plate without tasting much of it. Too many hours of the night had been spent reminding himself of all the reasons for not making love to her the way his body had demanded.

  With effort, he forced his mind back to the task at hand. “We’ll have to shave four years off your age to make the identity fit, but I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  Pushing her chair back, she rose, went to the wrought-iron railing surrounding the terrace. “What will happen if Mannen starts looking into my background? Won’t he be able to discover that this Raeanne person shouldn’t be in America?”

  Nick didn’t think it was a question of whether Mannen would check her background; he was counting on the man doing just that. “The identity will hold up to scrutiny. You and I will have met while you traveled across Europe. In order to be with me, you made an excuse to switch tour groups and paid someone who bears a resemblance to you to take your place, thus keeping your parents unaware of your real whereabouts.”

  “I went to a lot of trouble to be with you,” Sara said, her tone openly mocking.

  “Yes, and your parents wouldn’t approve of your new lover.” He saw her spine stiffen, but she didn’t turn to look at him. He wondered for a moment if his words had managed to pierce her stoic demeanor. Certainly they’d infused him with a warmth that was as immediate as it was undeniable. “It’s the most believable story, and one that will allow us to appear together in public while we’re in Chicago.”

  Although the morning air was balmy, she hugged her middle, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “And that’s important—why?”

  “Mannen hasn’t stayed out of prison this long by being careless. He’ll have checked me out thoroughly, and I expect him to do a run on you, too. When he finds exactly what he’s supposed to, his suspicions will be allayed.”

  The last place the man would expect her to show up would be on his doorstep. By providing Sara with a new look, a drawl and a foolproof identity, Nick would assure her the boldest, most impenetrable cover imaginable. He couldn’t blame her for the nerves, but he didn’t like to think of her being afraid. Didn’t like to consider the very real fear she’d experienced because of him already.

  He rose and crossed to her, caging her body by propping his hands on the railing beside hers. She tensed against him, and her delicate profile could have been etched from marble. “I know it’s frightening to contemplate, but I really do think this is the best way to keep you safe. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you.” The words were no less than the truth. She wouldn’t be the first innocent placed in his safekeeping. He’d learned in the most tragic way the importance of maintaining his objectivity in a job like this. But objectivity faded the moment she turned to look at him, her expression uncertain.

  It was the most natural thing in the world to lower his head toward hers, to brush his lips over the curve of her cheek. When he heard the tiny explosion of her breath he felt a savage desire to do even more. To turn her around fully in his arms and crush her mouth under his, to force her, finally and completely, to acknowledge the primal sexual awareness that burned between them.

  The pretense they’d be engaged in would be dangerous on more than just the obvious level. Pretending to be Sara’s lover would be a charade that would be only too easy to play, only too easy to imagine. He’d quickly become fascinated by her, and fascination could ignite all too easily to more. Much more.

  He was too well versed in control to allow that to happen. He took a step back, and then another.

  “If we were supposed to have met in Paris, I should probably know more about it,” she said.

  The slight unsteadiness in her voice pleased him. “We have three days before we leave for Chicago. Between now and then I should have some time to show you around the city.” He’d have to steal time away from days already filled with handling last minute details, but already he was planning on how to do just that. The thought of spending a few stolen hours with Sara in the city of lovers was just too tempting to pass up.

  Victor Mannen waited for Franklin to leave his office before tearing open the long-awaited package. He skimmed the dossier inside quickly, then, pleased, read it again more thoroughly.

  His new contact at Justice was earning his keep. He’d been able to access international law enforcement databases, and the resulting information was interesting indeed.

  Interpol had a file on Michel Falcol. So did Scotland Yard and the FBI. Pieced together with the information he’d already compiled, it provided Mannen with a better picture of his new business associate.

  Picking up his gold pen, he circled some facts as he read. Escaped custody for arms smuggling in Italy, 1994. Wanted for questioning in relation to a hijacked munitions truck near Fort Bragg. Known associate of DELGAN, an international band of mercenary terrorists with no known allegiances.

  A man with no loyalty except to the highest bidder. Given his deep pockets, it was a quality Mannen could appreciate.

  In all, Falcol was wanted for questioning in relation to a dozen separate incidents. And it was clear from the interest he’d generated in the different agencies that he hadn’t overestimated his abilities when he’d spoken to Victor.

  He flipped a page. There wasn’t a picture included, and the physical information was sketchy at best. Michel Falcol: birthplace unknown. First identified in Belfast, 1992. Dark hair, dark eyes. Identifying marks: a one-inch scar below left eye. Wound believed to be received in a knife fight with a Turkish colonel involved in the black market. It was interesting to note that Falcol was wanted for questioning in that man’s disappearance, along with his other crimes.

  Satisfied, Mannen closed the file folder and rose, walked across to the Renoir on his wall. Moving it aside, he opened the wall safe behind it, set the file inside. Locking the safe and replacing the picture, he strolled across the plush carpeting to the cut crystal decanter of ice water he kept there.

  It was soothing to the ego to find he’d chosen wisely when he’d settled upon Falcol. He was comfortable with men without scruples. Most could be easily controlled by money, but this man might prove to be a cut above the brainless robots he usually employed.

  Raising the glass to his lips, Victor smiled. He found he was quite looking forward to the experience.

  “I still can’t get over how different you look,” Sara murmured.

  Nick and she were walking down a narrow sidewalk after their dinner. He held her hand, the gesture making them blend in with the young lovers and honeymooners strolling nearby. If he were a less wary man, it would be easy to forget at times like these that the contact was primarily for security.

  He looked down into her eyes, and had an instant’s regret that he’d taken the precaution of having her wear the new brown contacts. “My coloring is too dark to change easily. I’ve found it more convenient to use subtle alterations to modify my appearance.” Altering his hairline was one such measure; the addition of the half-moon scar beneath his eye was another. Small rolls of padding inside his jaw changed the shape of his face. Taken separately, they were inconsequential details, but together they gave him a totally different look.

  He wouldn’t be using the Falcol identity after this assignment. It would be too risky after playing it publicly in Chicago. No, when that job was over, Michel Falcol would cease to exist, and Nick would become somebody else, with yet another manufactured background to match his new identity. The fact reminded him, not for the first time, of the similarity between Sara and him.

  “What did you enjoy the most today?” He wasn’t making idle conversation; he was genuinely interested.

  “I think…Place de la Bastille.” She must have read his surprise, b
ecause she gave a self-conscious shrug. “So much suffering went on there. It’s inspiring to consider the bravery it took for the people to storm the place, and bring liberty in the process. It’s hard to imagine that kind of courage.”

  He guided her closer to the storefront to avoid a group of giggling young girls headed their way. “I wouldn’t think it would be so difficult for you to understand that kind of bravery. Not after what you’ve been through.”

  Her laugh was devoid of humor. “Believe me, courage is the last quality I can claim.”

  Frowning, he halted her when she would have started walking again, and crooked a finger beneath her chin, forced her to look at him. “Why do you say that?” He was honestly puzzled. He knew hardened soldiers who wouldn’t have survived what she had. Who would have lacked the will and the cunning to elude Mannen for half a dozen years.

  “Given my history, if I’d been in Paris in 1789 I wouldn’t have been part of the group storming the Bastille, I’d have been running in the opposite direction.” Her gaze clashed with his. Self-mockery made her voice sound brittle. “Because that’s what I do, Nick. Hardly the stuff heroes are made of.”

  He thought there was a warning in her words for him, one he’d be wise to heed. Sara had made a habit of running from Mannen, and there was no reason to believe that had changed. She wouldn’t willingly confront the murderer who’d ordered her own death more than once. Getting her to cooperate might turn out to be one of the toughest tasks Nick had ever undertaken. A cautious man would be prepared.

  There was a nightclub nearby he thought she’d enjoy, and he was about to suggest that they head that way when his cell phone rang. He answered it as they waited to cross at a corner, and heard Luc’s voice on the line.

  “Wanted to let you know, I got the documents this afternoon. Everything looks in order.”

  Their new passports and identification had arrived. The light changed and Nick led Sara across the street, keeping an eye on the oncoming traffic. Pedestrians definitely did not have the right of way in Paris. “I assume they’re satisfactory?”