by Misty Evans
He latched on to her breasts with no further encouragement. “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a perfect-sounding military response. “I’m at your mercy.”
Having power over Michael Stone was a Disney kind of fantasy for her. Pretend you love me, she wanted to command. Instead, she rode him harder. “Kiss me,” she said.
He reached up and pulled her head down. “Whatever you want, Doctor.”
Hot and sweet, his lips took her, and Brigit gave herself up to the power.
Morning dawned too early for Michael, even though the bubbling clouds outside hid the sun. The bed was far too small for both him and Brigit to sleep comfortably, but then they hadn’t slept much anyway. Brigit had recovered relatively quickly after their first lovemaking session, sleeping for less than an hour before slipping under the covers to bring him to full attention again with her mouth. He’d found himself completely under her control and loving every minute of it.
At some point, she’d gotten up and used the tiny bathroom. When she’d returned, she’d snuggled back into his body, only to place her lips next to his ear and give him instructions on what she wanted him to do to her. Very explicit instructions. Teasing her about her language, even as he forced her onto her back, he’d laughed when she blamed her Irish roots.
Lying on his side now, facing her, he memorized the minuscule freckles on her nose, counted the lashes on her cheeks, timed the rise and fall of her chest.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d faced the morning after with a woman he hadn’t already established a relationship with. One-night stands had disappeared from his routine by the time he hit thirty, and casual affairs had followed shortly after. Always, he blamed it on the job. In reality, he just wasn’t interested in anything quick, casual or meaningless.
He had one more night with her, two tops, unless their plan to snatch Donovan from the memorial service failed. If they succeeded, the exchange in Bolivia would take place in twenty-four hours.
His gut tightened as if Brad had just landed one hell of a kick to his solar plexus. Outside of that, and the fact he’d had a total of three hours of sleep, he was totally juiced.
Brigit’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing her sexy, beautiful eyes. She stretched, arching her back, and smiled lazily at him. “Tell me I wasn’t talking in my sleep.”
Her voice, husky from sleep and the night’s depravity, made him instantly hard. Hello, morning after. “You might have admitted a couple of scandalous things.”
She studied him for sincerity as she stifled a yawn. “What did I say?”
Stealing the muscles in his mouth so he wouldn’t grin, he pushed the sheet down to reveal her breasts. Oh, yeah, they were exactly as lush and erotic as he remembered. “You said, ‘Michael, take me home with you. I want to be your sex slave.’”
The sleepy look left her face as if he’d shocked with her ten volts of juice. Embarrassed horror took its place, and she glanced away. And oh, hell, his solar plexus took another hit.
She didn’t want a relationship. Not even an ongoing sexual one after this. Surprised he’d read her so wrong, he mentally cursed himself, and then he mentally chastised her too. Didn’t she realize it was okay to have a relationship? Didn’t she just once want someone to take care of her? Love her?
Love? Whoa. He was not going down that road again any time soon.
Touching her chin with his finger, he tipped it up to make her meet his eyes. “I was kidding. The most you did while I was watching was sigh.”
She looked at him now, seeing him again as he was, naked and honest. He turned on the charm and added a flirtatious smile. After a heartbeat, she took his hand in hers and held it. “I’m a loner, Michael. I’m used to being on my own, relying on myself for everything. Relationships are a challenge for me.”
Her honesty took him by pleasant surprise. As long as she was telling him what she thought, he could work with it. “Hell, Brigit, they’re a challenge for me too, but your independence is a strength, not a weakness. I respect it.”
She ran her fingers over the healing skin of his knuckles, then stroked his index finger between hers and her thumb. Such a simple touch and yet he could hardly stand not to jump on her, spread her thighs and go for the gold. “From the look in your eyes, I think I could say just about anything at this moment and you’d swear you respect me.”
Ding, ding, ding. The lady was a winner.
Her fingers tickled over his wrist at the spot of his compass tattoo. “Did you get this in the Marines?”
“No, just a few months ago.”
“The intricate design must have taken hours.”
Several hours and multiple visits to the tat parlor. Pain he’d embraced. “A compass, the North Star and wits were all a sailor ever needed to find his way in the world. I lifted the design from an old navigational chart that belonged to my father.”
She went back to stroking his fingers. “Does it help you find your way?”
The N at the top of the compass pointed at her while her fingers slipped over his again. His breath came faster. “Yes.”
She stroked his middle finger. “Cards on the table, okay?”
He couldn’t do more than nod.
She took a deep breath. “We need to talk about Ruth.”
The gears in his head strained to shift. They were both naked and mere inches from each other and she wanted to do a family intervention. His voice sounded weird as he spoke. “Now?”
“Yes.” She moved to his ring finger. “I need to get this off my chest.”
He’d move mountains to get anything she wanted off her chest. “Okay, but you better make it fast because I have the attention span of a gnat on Red Bull at the moment.”
“When Ruth was in London on her Rhodes scholarship, she took weekend trips with a friend to Belfast. While there, she and Kelly met a member of the Real IRA. At first, the two simply hung out with the man and his friends, enjoying the attention. They were American girls after all. But at one point, Kelly stopped going on these weekend trips and only Ruth continued to meet with the man. They spent hours together, like lovers do, down by the wharfs, in pool halls and at his place.”
She took a breath and continued full-throttle. Whether to please him or to get it over with as fast as possible, he wasn’t sure. “During the following months, one of the professors at her university was killed. Shot on his way home from his last class on Friday night. A liberal group on campus promoting birth control was targeted at a fundraiser. Half a dozen students were seriously injured. A fire burnt the political science hall to the ground and the cause was ruled arson.”
She paused, as if to give Michael time to catch up with what she was insinuating. He didn’t need any time. “You think Ruth was involved?”
“I was watching Peter and his group. Ruth showed up on too many occasions directly before these terrorist activities to dismiss her involvement. She fed him information about the campus, the professor, the student body.”
His chest hurt, and he had to take several deep breaths to slow his hyper heart rate. “Peter? The man was Peter?”
She shook her head. “One of his younger followers.”
Michael pulled his hand away. “Ruth would never hurt anyone. If she did give him information, she didn’t realize what she was doing.”
“Maybe the first time she didn’t. I certainly gave her the benefit of the doubt in the beginning. But your sister is a Rhodes Scholar, Michael. After the second and third incidents, you really think she didn’t put two and two together?”
Michael sat up, scrubbed his face with his hands. He bent his knees and dropped his forearms on them. “There could have been dozens of college-aged people running information for Donovan.”
“There were a few students during that time interested in antisocial movements, but Ruth was the only one coming from Cambridge and meeting with one of his compatriots.”
“But she…she…” He couldn’t finish.
“Wouldn’t do such a thin
g? I told myself the same thing about Tory for years after I discovered she’d joined Peter’s organization too. Peter, Cormac and many others are—were—very persuasive and charming men. Passionate men who are difficult to say no to.”
Ruth and a member of the IRA. Michael could not picture his sister hooking up with a terrorist much less helping him. “Proof?”
Sitting up beside him, she tapped the side of her head. “Most of it’s in here, but I have documentation of her trips and their relevant timing with each incident. I’ve asked Truman to make sure it goes directly to you if anything happens to me.”
He stared at the far wall, not seeing it. “You never gave it to Jeffries.”
“After Ella was kidnapped and I met you, I stalled him. I just couldn’t do it. Ruth means everything to you and I…I couldn’t follow through and give it to Jeffries, even to save my father.”
Her gift touched him. Deeply. So deeply, he couldn’t find the right words to say. “Thank you.”
“Now the election’s over,” she said, tipping her head in that familiar movement that let her hair screen her face. “My timely death saved Ruth and Thad from public humiliation and quite probably from losing the White House, but the truth is still there. It could come out someday.”
There was nothing coercive implied in the tone of her voice. However her words still made Michael stiffen. “Blackmail again?”
Her face jerked up, her eyes wide, hurt and indignation clear even in the soft morning light. “I have no intention of blackmailing you or your sister. I just thought you should know so you could talk to her. She and Thad will have even more enemies now they’re the First Family. And I’m not one to preach, but right is right. You need to talk to her about what she did and why.”
Right was right, of course, and he owed her. Big time. He reached up and pushed a piece of her tousled hair behind her ears. “I’m sorry. It’s a lot to take in.”
She grabbed his hand and held it. “Yeah, I know.” Her eyes filled with sadness. “Been there.”
His gut twisted and he pulled her into his arms, hugging her for all he was worth. She’d survived far worse than he had and by God he wanted to fix it all. Make her happy. “You’re not alone anymore, Brigit. I’m here, and we’ll get your dad back, I swear it on my honor.”
Her arms went around him, and she crawled into his lap. A second later he noticed the ragged hitch of her breathing. Warm tears fell on his shoulder. Easing them both back, he held her until she stopped crying. For the first time, she melted, small and fragile, against his chest.
He would have held her like that forever, but she finally pushed away and went to the bathroom, avoiding his eyes, but picking up his shirt on the way.
Listening to the sounds of the faucet running, his brain worked on a backup plan in case Donovan eluded them at the memorial service. No matter what happened, Michael was going to reunite Brigit with her dad. And then he was going to bury his foot in her dad’s backside for being such a horse’s ass.
Brigit reappeared from the bathroom, Michael’s shirt on but unbuttoned. His groin tightened. She had a thing about his clothes and he was damn happy she did. The sight of her in them never failed to satisfy his deep male urge to protect her.
As she reached the bed, a teasing smile on her lips, a noise by the door caught Michael’s attention. A white piece of paper slipped through the crack at the bottom. Before he could blink, Brigit was moving to pick it up. “Wait,” he whispered.
She froze, half bent. He grabbed his Glock off the nightstand as he rolled out of bed. Moving cautiously, he flipped the safety off and motioned her away from the door.
“It’s Tory’s handwriting,” she said, matching his whisper as she started to pick up the paper again.
He snapped his fingers, and she glanced up. Shaking his head, he again motioned at her to move away from the door. She straightened, crossed her arms over her chest and raised one brow.
At the door, he listened for movement outside. Nothing. He checked the peephole. What he could see of the hallway was clear. With deliberate slowness, he undid the bolt and lock. With once glance back at Brigit, who was still eyeing him like he’d lost his mind, he turned the knob and pulled the door open.
Cold, empty hallway greeted him as he stepped out. Until, at least, while he leaned over the wooden railing to view the lower staircase, the renters in the room next door came out with umbrellas and guidebooks in hand.
“Oh,” one said, raising her guidebook to shield her eyes.
The other openly gawked at him. “Gonna be hard to top this on our sightseeing trip.”
Michael smiled and beat retreat into Brigit’s room, slamming the door behind him.
An amused grin crooked her lips. “Naked and brandishing a gun. That’s so hot.”
She was holding the paper and now handed it to him. Michael took it and read the small printed address. A time was also noted, one hour before O’Bern’s memorial service.
“Crumlin Road Courthouse and Jail,” she said. “A historic symbol of the Troubles. Closed in 1996. Donovan and his group have secretly used it off and on as a meeting place.”
And this was an invitation for her to join them. Donovan was herding her into a bucket, where he could take aim and be sure to kill her. Michael’s knees lost their ability to lock, and he leaned against the door to keep himself upright.
Brigit eyed the paper. “Tory’s on my side now. She’s setting Peter up.”
Michael shook his head and tapped the spot next to his right eye with the barrel end of the gun. “Blinders, Brigit. You’re wearing blinders if you think Tory is helping you. She’s helping Donovan. It’s a trap.”
“You may be right, but if he knew I was here, in this rented room, why not kill me last night? Why have Tory write and deliver the note?”
He crumpled the note in his hand and replaced the safety on the gun. He wondered the same thing. “Get dressed. We’re out of here.”
“But Peter doesn’t know where I am. I’m sure of it.”
Grabbing Brigit, he hugged her close, frustration burning in his veins. Then he steered her toward the pile of clothes on the chair. “We’re not taking chances.”
Her brows collided over her eyes. “You should be happy. Now we won’t waste our time at the memorial service.”
Michael wasn’t happy at all. Donovan wanted Brigit and was probably laughing his ass off at the idea that he could have killed her in her sleep. He was toying with her, drawing her into a no-win situation. “You’re not going inside that courthouse.”
“Then who is?”
He pulled on his pants and stuck the gun in his waistband. Grabbing his cell phone, he called the one man who knew how to handle an Irish terrorist.
“Flynn,” the best ex-spy in the business answered on the first ring.
“I need you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Crumlin Road Courthouse
By noon, Conrad had the whole group locked and loaded for a look at the crumbling stone courthouse and jail. Ryan Smith had ferried over from London with Truman Gunn to join the party, and Titus Allen had left his baby jet to get in on the action too.
From Conrad’s lookout point on the roof of the nearby hospital, he could see the entrance to the courthouse across the street and the jail’s four story, six-hundred-and-forty cell wings next door.
Even with the peeling paint and broken windows, it was easy to imagine how stunning the grand Victorian building had once been. Behind the beauty of the architecture, the horrors forced on those who passed through its courts, however, was staggering. One hundred and fifty years of Belfast’s bloody political history haunted the Crum. Gerry Adams, Ian Paisley, Paddy Devlin and David Ervine had all been convicted here and marched across the street to the gaol via the underground connecting tunnel. Inside the prison, inmates were subjected to squalor, beatings, mice and cockroaches. Seventeen men had been executed and many more had died from the deplorable, primitive living conditions.
Conrad had to hand it to Donovan. The place was a decent spot for a terrorist meeting. Avoiding the occasional afternoon tours must have put a cramp in his Day-Timer but he probably held his meetings at night. The wrought-iron gates with their barbed-wire tops were a deterrent to kids and vagrants, but they would hardly keep out an experienced criminal like Donovan and his group. Once past the gates, accessing the buildings through the many broken windows and busted walls was easy. The tunnel system probably offered another simple means of access.
Certain sections of the buildings were in such bad repair, tourists were blocked from entering them. And while there were no pool tables, bars or big-screen TVs, Conrad had spotted a small satellite dish on the south edge of one of the guard towers.
If he were a criminal hiding out, he’d pick a warmer, drier place, say Caracas, but Irish criminals were an interesting lot. Bullheaded to a fault and martyrs to the last drop of whiskey. Home and the Church were never far in spirit or physical proximity.
Besides, Donovan could spit on the ground where so many of his IRA compatriots had been trapped and rouse his followers into a frenzy just by pointing out the chairs still chained to the floor, the heavy metal locks, and the names carved into seats and tables. The modern day martyrs would embrace the connection to their ancestors here, caring little about the falling plaster, rotting wood and subhuman comforts.
There was only one scheduled tour today and Conrad had pulled a Hail Mary and gotten a single ticket. An hour before O’Bern’s memorial service, when the tour group entered the grounds, Michael Stone was going in with them.
Reconnaissance was a valuable skill. One Conrad had used many times in the field. However, Stone had flipped the boss card to take Conrad’s fun away. Hell, it wasn’t even about that. The last time Stone had been in the field in any kind of recon capacity, the first Jurassic Park movie was number one at the box office.
On the rooftop, Conrad wasn’t the only one upset about Stone going in. Brigit paced along the far edge, fidgeting with her hair and biting her nails. Every couple of seconds, she’d glance at Stone from the corner of her eye. At least she was trying to be cool about it. If it had been him going in and Julia staying behind, well…he would have been getting an earful.