by Jeanne Adams
"I wasn't going to say that," she protested.
"No? It was. She married a preacher. Became a missionary." Before he could brood over that failure, one of so many, Dana surprised him.
"Flush toilets," she blurted out.
"Beg pardon?" He was non-plussed.
"Missionary work. Very few flush toilets. Got a cousin," she said, draping both legs over the arm of the chair. "She joined the Peace Corps right out of college. Went to Botswana, way out in the country, digging wells or something. Camp toilets only." She shuddered as he laughed. "No thanks. For a few days camping, okay, but to live that way? Uh-uh."
Somehow, in spite of her probing questions, he was beginning to relax.
"Clean sheets. Chinese take out. People don't know how good they've got it, do they?" Caine said quietly, thinking once more of Tijuana. His partner had loved Chinese.
"No, in a lot of ways, people in general have no idea how sheltered their lives are." Her eyes were closed and she was smiling.
He felt himself responding to the look of her, the long smooth line of her throat, and her secretive smile. The tightness in his chest—and his groin—made him mad all over again. Who the hell was she, to connect with him so easily? Make him feel. .. whatever.
"Do you have brothers or sisters? Where are you from?" Dana asked.
In his mind, he could hear the same question, from a different woman. A different location. He was drawn back to that dusty hotel in Tijuana, waiting with Carly, his now-dead partner, for the quarry to move. Waiting for something to happen. They'd been bored, passing the time. They'd stupidly thought Walker didn't know they were there and on to him.
Something had happened. All too quickly, the door had flown open, and bullets tore through the room, killing her in an instant. He'd managed to kill all four gunmen, never realizing in his rage that he'd been hit seven times.
"Nevermind," she managed, looking over at him as the silence lengthened. "I didn't mean to get too personal." The bleak thoughts must have shown on his face, dammit. She unsettled him, caught him off guard. He tried a smile, but it must have looked . . . bad. She abruptly sat up.
"Is something wrong, Caine?"
"No. My family's off limits."
She cocked her head, her temper stiffening her posture and gaze. "Sorry if I offended you," she said, snapping out the words, "but since my family isn't off limits, and you probably even know what kind of underwear I buy, I hope you'll excuse me for being a little miffed."
"Miffed? Is that a word?" She distracted him. Everything about her distracted him. That was bad. But the images of Mexico faded, replaced with her snapping glance and instant retaliation. When she snarled and rose, probably to stomp off, he relented. "Sorry, sorry. Sit." She spun on her heel, about to blast him again, but he deflected it with one word. "Please?"
She sat, her back ramrod straight, and her arms crossed. Great. Now she was... what had she said? Miffed.
"What kind of word is that, miffed?"
"Are you making fun of me?"
"No."
She sighed. "It's a perfectly good word, proper English usage to indicate irritation."
"So, you're a chemistry and biology major who knows her English."
"I minored in literature."
"I didn't know that," he said, offering it as an apology. But for what, he wasn't sure.
Suddenly he pinpointed the problem. Trust. It was so simple, so dangerous. He stood up, went back to the window, and looked out into the black night.
Did he trust her? Crap. He didn't want to trust her. Not for the usual reasons. For him, trust rendered equality. You don't trust your protectees, he heard the instructor ranting inside his head. They're like two year olds. You protect them. You don't trust them. Protocol said, "Beware!" but his gut, the warning twitch he heeded most in life, said "she's legit."
He went with his gut. "Did you know that in the beginning The Agency thought you were in on it. Why else would Walker have married a chemist?"
"You're kidding, right?" He heard the genuine surprise in her voice. The non sequitur still hadn't headed off the last of the brewing anger.
He shook his head and made sure he met her eyes so she'd see the truth. "I need to make a sweep. You gonna hang here?"
"Yeah."
"I'll do a last check and then turn it over to you."
"Okay."
Damn. She was still pissed. That didn't help. So far, he was not scoring well on the witness protection part of the gig. And no matter his internal decisions about trust, she hadn't made up her mind to trust him. Oh, she'd still work with him, but not comfortably. He'd tarnished, if not permanently damaged, the easy camaraderie from earlier in the evening.
He left her sitting in the darkness. As he made his rounds, he wondered why the hell Dana Markham's trust mattered so much.
"Hey baby," Donovan crooned into the phone, soothing the ruffled feathers of his latest conquest. "Don't worry, I'll find a way to see you. You know I want you." He laughed at the sly proposition she offered. "Oh, yeah, baby. That's why I want you, baby. You know how to please me, like no one else. Mmmmm hmmmm," he murmured. He did enjoy her. She was so desperate for attention. She didn't care what he did to her—or with her—as long as he told her she was beautiful and the best.
Talk about easy.
"We have to be careful though, cara," he reminded her, using the Italian endearment to soften her further. He was thinking about how to deal with her. She was beginning to get on his nerves. She was also a dangerous toy, since she knew his true identity. Then again, he was using her for so many things, the least of which was sex.
"You have someone on the inside, a plant. I overheard the plan for catching you. Be careful, darling."
Her words snapped his attention back from the mental list he was drafting.
"What do you mean I have a fucking plant?" Crap, he'd yelled at her. She usually pouted when that happened, and it was impossible to deal with her. "I'm sorry, baby," he said, struggling to sound soft and contrite. "I was thinking about that last time ... yeah. Then you lay that on me. Didn't mean to yell, no. Of course not." He rolled his eyes. The bitch didn't put out that well. He wasn't going to be able to tolerate her too much longer. He'd have to wait though, until she could find out who in his organization was the plant.
God dammit. That was why he had failed to get Dana. Now it was clear. His wife had nearly unholy luck, but his plan had been flawless. Now he saw that if it had failed, it was because of the plant. His plan would have worked. It had been fucking genius and well executed. Fuck the FBI. Fuck the Goddamn US Government and their Goddamn undercover agents.
He let none of his rage spill over into his words. No hint of it escaped to warn the woman on the other end of the line. After all, no matter how low she was in the FBI, she still was getting him deeply buried information. No one else had managed to clue into a plant. In fact, he thought with renewed rage, his other sources had been sure his own organization was clean of any government taint.
"That's right, you luscious thing. I'm going to make you come so much," he told her, giving her a few suggestions of how and where he would fuck her. She liked the descriptions. Even if he never did it, it set her off. "Mmmm, you bet. You find out for me, you hear? Tell me who it is who's fucking up my plans, so I can deal with them, okay? Then we'll find a way. Yes, honey, a way to be together."
In her dreams, he thought. But when she mentioned Donny, Jr., he snapped back to attention. If she wanted him to listen, she'd figured out the key, he decided, actually managing to smile around the rage that threatened to choke him. Clever girl when she wasn't fuckin' talking so much.
"If you can do that, baby, I'll marry you," he declared flatly, with conviction. Her fondest wish. Hell, if she could get Donny, Jr., maybe he would marry her. Then, when he tired of her, she could be... disposed of. He was going to have to do that at some point anyway. She knew too much. He might as well enjoy her for a while first.
"Okay, baby, yo
u call me. This number."
He brooded for hours, running endlessly through the lists of names and discarding all but a few. It had to have been someone who knew about the raid. Spike was dead and so was Petey. Spike wasn't smart enough to follow orders. There was no way he was smart enough to live a double life. Petey was out too, because he was mental. That left the pilot Tappen, and Pollack.
Tappen was smart but...
Pollack. It had to be. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? Pollack was dangerously smart. There had always been that nearly unfathomable edge to Pollack, a darker heart than even he could penetrate.
Considering the others who had been on the team, he was the only likely candidate. Patrick was smart enough, but he hadn't gone on the raid, and he was tied to his wife and child, both of whom Donovan had given him. He wouldn't go back to the Agency. No. If it had to be either Patrick or Pollack, it was definitely Pollack. Pollack didn't do drugs and seldom took advantage of the women who congregated around the various compounds he commanded.
This changed everything.
Snatching up his phone, he scanned the numbers and dialed.
"Patrick, change of plans. Bring it back. Meet me at the house in Charleston."
He hung up and began packing. He needed to be there first, to plan and coordinate. This time, he would finish it. This time he would see Dana die for betraying him. And Pollack too.
Zipping the bag, he used the intercom to call one of his men. His blood was zinging with the adrenaline rush. This was it. He could feel it.
One more roll of the dice.
Chapter Nine
"All's quiet," Dana said to Caine when they switched places at two in the morning. She'd barely tapped on his door before he'd opened it, then followed her downstairs.
"Good."
She hoped he'd say more. She'd passed the hours of her watch wandering the quiet house, peering down the mountain and across the field to the side of the house, and seeking the sight or hint of movement on the driveway. Thinking.
With every step she'd grown more embarrassed about how she'd prodded him. When it came down to it, it was none of her business who he was. She'd realized she wanted to know for herself. Not because it mattered in how he protected them.
"Caine," she started, "I'm—"
"Don't say it. No apology. You're right. I know you from your dossier, from time of birth to now. You don't know me or have reason to trust me."
Okay, she hadn't expected him to capitulate. Not that easily. They stood, staring at one another for an endless, important moment.
"I have a sister," he said. "Two nieces. My dad's dead. My mom's still alive." He paused, rubbed his hands over his face. He stepped away, but only to get room so he could start stretching and bending to loosen his muscles.
It was obviously a long-held habit, but it was driving her crazy. How could she be annoyed when he was giving her what she wanted? How irritating that he'd given in and told her. If he hadn't, she could put him aside and dislike him to get some distance. How could she do that now?
Watching him move, so lithe and powerful, made her want to run her hands over his awesome ass. God, she needed sleep.
"I grew up in Iowa," he added, breaking the silence.
"A Hawkeye."
He grinned. "Yeah."
Oh God, that grin was devastating. Between that and sheer weariness, she staggered.
"What? What is it?"
Everything. Nothing. Oh, hell.
"It's okay. I'm all right. Just tired. You know how it is. You have too much time to think in the dark and the quiet," she managed. It was true, but she absolutely refused to tell him she'd been thinking about his smile. Or his ass.
"I won't let him get you, Dana," Caine said softly, misinterpreting her answer and surprising her with his intensity. It sounded like a vow. "I'll kill him first."
The quiet, powerful declaration was scary. To her horror, it was also a turn on. He walked with her into the kitchen and leaned on the island as she got a glass and filled it with water.
"You sure you want to say that to me, Caine?" she managed.
He laughed. "You gonna rat me out to Tervain? Tell Parlier I killed Walker with malice aforethought? I don't think so. Hell, they already figure I'm gunnin' for him for my own reasons."
Knowing he was right, she shifted under his piercing gaze. "No, I guess not."
"So, we'll keep each other's secrets. I won't tell Tervain you're thinking about ditching all of us." He moved in, taking the glass and sipping the water. He was standing so close. Her heartbeat skipped in irrational anticipation. But all he said was, "And if you happen to shoot Donovan first, hand me the gun. As a federal agent, I won't get rapped for it. You might."
She hadn't thought of possible repercussions. There were so many positives to Donovan's death, she decided, with macabre humor. "You're right. I hadn't considered prints or the investigation. Do you think he'll end up dead?"
"He won't surrender, not a second time. It'll go to the death, or he'll escape."
"Sounds like him. Macho idiot."
"His bullshit, yeah. He hasn't figured on being mortal," he said with his teeth gleaming once more in the shadows, but fiercely this time. "He needs reminding."
"From your mouth to God's ear," she said. Bringing them full circle, she took the glass back and sipped. He watched her, and she felt every nerve buzz.
The house creaked around them, while her blood sparked and itched. Should she touch him? Thank him?
"Well," Dana said bouncing on the balls of her feet, dispelling the disquieting thoughts and the giddy relief at sharing the load. "I should go to bed, so I'll be ready for the next watch."
"I'll wake you at five. Thanks for taking the first."
"I got some sleep last night, you didn't. You're healing, and you're on point in this venture, when it comes down to it."
He reached for the glass again and drained it "Thanks," he said, lifting it in salute.
"You're welcome," she managed, but when he moved in, she retreated, forgetting the counter was at her back.
"Oh," she said, feeling the hard edge clip her waist. He caught her, the corded steel of his arms bracing her, his hand caressing the spot as if to smooth away the pain.
"Thanks," she murmured, embarrassed, as she realized he'd just been putting the glass in the sink. "I'm okay, really," she continued, when he didn't let loose.
"I know," his voice was warm, intimate. "You're . . . good. Really."
He leaned down, and the breath caught in her throat. Was he going to kiss her? Now?
He was.
His lips caressed hers, lightly at first, then with a firmer press when she responded instinctively to his touch. They didn't cling. It was too soon, too dangerous for that.
Instead, the kiss said everything. I'm attracted. And I wish. . .
Then, like a hurricane, they came together. Tongues meshed, bodies entwined. She wanted to touch him everywhere. She wanted to feel his hands, his arms, against her bare skin. His hands, a hot presence on her rear, pressed her closer. She could feel every inch of him, every surprising inch of his response to her.
She wrapped one leg around his, locking them together as they continued the hot battle. His mouth was so enticing, so engrossing. She felt as if every inch of her body were on fire.
"Dana..."
Oh, God, what was she doing? She warred with herself. She wanted to go on, never stop. Never let him stop. But the smoky groan of her name grounded her, brought her back to sanity.
When they broke apart, he steadied her. "Better let go," she said, huskily. "Your grabbing me is what got us in trouble in the first place."
"Interesting definition of trouble," he managed, his breathing still uneven.
"Not really," she said. "This is totally is not a good idea." Please, let me convince myself.
"No," he said, a fire still lurking in his gaze. "Then again, neither of us takes the easy path, do we?"
She stared beyond him into th
e shadows. It was as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for her answer.
The melodramatic imagery brought her back to the moment.
"No, but there's always hope that once, just once, it could be simple. This," she made a motion to indicate the two of them, the wild embrace. "Would not be simple."
"No, it wouldn't." He agreed. Suddenly, he laughed. "I don't think simple and Dana Markham should ever be used in the same sentence."
"What does that mean?" Now she was indignant, probably more so than was warranted. She was reeling from the kiss and trying to cover it. She had to find her balance. Now. Especially since he seemed so... unaffected.
"It's not bad," he protested. "It's that you're ..."
"What? A pain?"
"No, complex. Fascinating." He drew a gentle finger down her cheek. "Interesting. On so many levels."
Oh, boy. Maybe not so unaffected. Enjoying the warmth of his hand on her cheek, Dana wished she could invite him into her world. But it wasn't possible. They came from different places, were going different places.
If they made it through the next few days alive.
"No smart remark?" he asked, cupping her cheek.
"No. But... thank you, I guess."
"You're welcome. And now," he said, as he pressed another, less powerful kiss to her lips, then shot her a quirky smile. "I bid you good night, fair princess."
"Interesting words, from a dragon."
"Remind me to roar for you tomorrow," he said lightly, giving her room, but taking the warmth with him.
"That'll be impressive."
"You bet."
She stopped on the stairs and looked back. He was an inky silhouette in the gloom as they silently appraised one another. Neither spoke.
Turning away, she heard the thud of Shadow's weight as he left the bed to monitor her progress up to her room. It was the only marker that anyone else existed in the house.
Her feelings tumbled over one another. Regret? She didn't regret kissing him.
Despair? Tomorrow was another day. They would make it or they wouldn't. In fact, they might even have the day to themselves, in peace. Who could predict? That would be a miracle, but miracles did happen. She had to believe that, or she'd go mad.