The Choice

by Jean Brashear

  He answered the man he’d never seen, one of their many cut-outs designed to keep anyone from knowing the whole operation. “References checked?”

  “Clean as a whistle.”

  “We’ll get you word of the rendezvous point.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  A big one. Hafner had been unusually close-mouthed about this transaction. The elaborate system they’d devised meant that only Hafner and he knew the whole set-up. They always utilized a series of cut-outs, so that the links in the chain only knew the links above and below them, thereby eliminating the chances for any one individual to bring the whole operation down.

  It had taken a long time for Cullinane to become the other man who knew everything. The habits of a lifetime were hard for Hafner to break. The swift, eager kick in Cullinane’s pulse came from the knowledge that Hafner wasn’t telling him everything about this one.

  If this was the usual order of arms and munitions, Hafner wouldn’t hedge. Apparently the task force would get a bonus. Hafner and his old terrorist buddies must have an unusual one planned. The wheels were already in motion to take them all down, and now the ante would be higher. He’d make sure everyone was ready.

  Bile rose again in his throat as he thought of his first exposure to Hafner, years before. Humble beginnings as a go-fer for various fringe elements had escalated into Hafner’s being allowed to plant bombs, once he’d proven his worth.

  It was one of those bombs that had killed the children who still haunted Cullinane’s nights. Young and inexperienced, he’d missed a vital clue that had allowed it to happen.

  Hafner had moved up swiftly in the ranks. Shortly after that episode, he’d gotten his first line of credit. He’d bought his first consignment of arms, unloading them with panache upon some of his former terrorist colleagues at a tidy profit.

  “Just a simple man of business,” Hafner always said.

  The business of cold-blooded murder.

  Fortunately for Cullinane, colleagues in this business liked to murder one another, as well. Job advancement. Competition in the marketplace.

  Whatever you called it, the higher Hafner rose, the more he needed protection from his friends. Cullinane filled the bill nicely, with his cover of defrocked national security agent. Hafner loved having an ex-fed on his payroll, relished knowing that someone who’d been on the other side had fallen from grace.

  He compared it to having an ex-priest on your side. “Know how to say all the right words, don’t you, Cullinane?” he’d smirk. “Just can’t get God to listen.” He always broke into uproarious laughter at his own cleverness with that remark.

  Ah, but Klaus, God will listen...when I decide the time is right.

  And then you will pay for your sins.

  Cullinane rubbed his temples slowly, trying to tamp down his hope that this was that time. Then he didn’t allow himself to think anymore about how much he wanted out.

  * * *

  Jillian tried not to goggle at the ambiance of Chez Nous. The stunning sight of crystal chandeliers showering the diners with teardrops of light and dressed-to-the-nines clientele took her breath away.

  The orphaned street kid had never experienced anything like this. She tucked her dignity around her like a cloak, held her head high and tried to concentrate on surveillance of the surroundings.

  Right now, Hafner’s hand was tucked around her arm, his fingers uncurling to brush the curve of her breast at every opportunity.

  She had to learn to ignore it. The point of the whole exercise was to make him comfortable with her, to make him careless. She had to quit tensing at every touch, every look.

  And the small talk... Hafner and his business associates had spoken of nothing but inconsequential matters since they’d sat down to dinner. Coffee was being served now, and so far they’d covered the Saints’ season, plans for Mardi Gras, and fishing.

  Stifling her impatience, Jillian looked toward Cullinane, who’d fallen silent during the last course. She resisted a frown, seeing that his thoughts were elsewhere. Where are you, Cullinane? So sure that nothing can happen in Chez Nous?

  Feeling Hafner’s gaze upon her, she plastered on a Barbie smile as she faced him.

  “Ah, gentlemen, I think we’ve bored my lady here.”

  “Why, no, Klaus, I’m utterly riveted.” She batted her eyelashes for effect.

  Hafner grinned. “Just as I thought. Sorry, dear heart,” he stroked her neck in apology. “I think it’s time we adjourned and went dancing.” He didn’t wait for assent before rising and pulling her up with him.

  When he wrapped one arm around her waist, Jillian choked down the urge to recoil.

  “Come along, beautiful. The night is young.”

  Jillian clicked her mind into neutral, refusing to feel how he tugged her body against his before releasing her to place her wrap around her shoulders. She glanced up to see Cullinane’s eyes smoldering.

  Why was he mad? She was the one getting mauled.

  She managed to lag just behind Hafner as he strolled to the door, one arm around the shoulders of an associate. She stayed close to Hafner as she should, but relished the break from being manhandled.

  This was going to be more difficult than she’d imagined. Somehow, she hadn’t envisioned being a sexual object for him. She’d expected to be thought of as one of the guys, simply a bodyguard. Not smart, Jillian. But it’s too late. You just have to deal with it until the time is right.

  When they reached the club, the sound of blues throbbed in the air, erotic and lonely. Magically, tables cleared for them, and drinks were ordered. Just as at Chez Nous, it was clear that Hafner was a valued customer.

  Sipping her ginger ale slowly, Jillian looked around and wished to God Hafner would stop running his fingers across the bare skin at her back. This bronze dress was the least revealing of the ones Cullinane had forced upon her—not that that was saying much—but nothing forestalled Hafner’s advances.

  “Why don’t you and Cullinane dance, dear girl?” Hafner suggested.

  Jillian wondered who was more startled, herself or the man in black. Why would Hafner want that, when he couldn’t keep his hands off her? Questioning it, though, chanced revealing that she was a bodyguard to these people. The two of them dancing didn’t really matter, from a safety standpoint; Cullinane had other guards scattered around them. Still she hoped Cullinane would quash the idea, only to see him rounding the table toward her. No light reflected from his black garb; he looked more than a little daunting.

  “Very well,” she demurred. “I suppose I can do that.”

  Hafner chuckled. “My watchdog doesn’t bite, I promise.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “But has he been tested for rabies?”

  The few near them who could hear over the music tittered. Cullinane’s face never changed expression. Not your average sensitive guy.

  When she hesitated, he grasped her hand in his, drawing her onto the dance floor. When they reached the center, he took her into his arms.

  Jillian stepped back, protesting. “Shouldn’t we be where we can see him?”

  “My men can handle it.” He drew her back.

  “Cullinane, I don’t want to do this. Can’t we just go back and say I hurt my foot?”

  His jaw clenched. “It’s not my choice, either, but Klaus obviously wants to talk without either of us listening. He knows the other guards can’t get that close.”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “But why would he not want you to hear?”

  “Klaus doesn’t really trust anyone. Everyone will betray him at some point, to his way of thinking.”

  “But you’re his closest—” She stopped, confused.

  “Closest what? Surely you weren’t going to say friend. The man has no friends, MacGregor. That’s how he’s stayed alive this long. He merely mistrusts me less than the others. And he loves to play mind games.”

  “But...”

  “But nothing, MacGregor. Be quiet and dance.” He held her
loosely, but she was deeply aware of his powerful body so close to hers. The slow, hypnotic music seeped into her bones, heated her blood.

  “I don’t want to dance with you.”

  “Tough.” On the crowded dance floor, he swayed slowly, one warm hand against her exposed skin. “You wanted the job.”

  “Cullinane...” The slight nubby feel of his silk blazer stroked her cheek as he moved. She held herself stiffly, but fighting his draw was a challenge. The air was choked with a moody magic that had too much to do with this dark, brooding man who practically oozed pheromones, and resisting from this proximity was all but impossible. She tried again to pull back before she succumbed, but his hold made that impossible. His warm breath ruffled the hair at her temple, and the slow, sexy music worked its magic, relaxing her by inches. She breathed in the scent of him, an intriguing combination of sandalwood, citrus...and man.

  For just a moment, she imagined that he wasn’t her enemy, that they were free to respond to the chemistry that had been there from the first meeting, the crackle in the air every time they were near. No question he was ungodly sexy, a powerful male in his prime. Male called to female as they swayed together, just on the fringes of reality. He twirled her in a tight turn, and she let her body relax. His muscled thigh slid between hers as the sultry beat washed over them.

  She shivered, and desire pooled deep within. He pulled her closer still, and she couldn’t miss his body’s response.

  The song ended. For one breathless second, their gazes met, the smoke from his gray eyes curling deep inside her. Then gray hardened to steel as he tensed. She jerked back, remembering who he was, what he represented. Loathing filled her that for even one moment she could have forgotten why she was here.

  Giving him her back, she headed off the dance floor. He didn’t follow. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw him standing very still, his mask firmly in place.

  It never happened, she told herself. Catching Hafner’s curious look, she squared her shoulders. There lay her goal. Nothing and no one would stop her, not even though Cullinane made her mouth go dry.

  He reacted to her, too—she’d felt it. The thought cheered her. Hope you hurt, Cullinane. Hope you suffer. Maybe you’ll slip up and give me the chance to hurt Hafner.

  Now there was a thought. Could she play Cullinane well enough to compromise him?

  Jillian shook her head. Not in this lifetime. Hafner was enough of a handful. Cullinane ate girls like her for breakfast. Better not play that game.

  She turned her thoughts to surviving the evening. Hafner’s pawing.

  And Cullinane’s stony stare.

  * * *

  At five-thirty, as always, Cullinane began his workout, pushing himself harder than usual to punish himself for last night’s lapse.

  Christ, was he out of his mind? It had been years since he’d been led around by his cock. With a muttered curse, he focused on the weights he was bench-pressing. The last thing he needed was an injury, if his opportunity was really at hand.

  His gut told him it was.

  Even though he hadn’t been able to listen to Hafner’s conversation once they reached the club, he still knew. Something about Hafner’s suppressed excitement conveyed the message. His eyes had gleamed from more than the hots he had for Jillian.

  MacGregor, damn it. Don’t think about her as a woman. He wouldn’t think about her silky skin, her curves which fit so perfectly against him...the cradle between her thighs that he—

  Damn. If he was going to be an idiot and lift this much weight without a spotter, the least he could do was not get distracted. He’d gone too long between women, that was all. He had little taste anymore for meaningless encounters, and a relationship was out of the question for a shadow man. He had women he could call, women for whom casual was perfect. He’d better take the edge off before he did something stupid.

  Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on his technique. Sweat broke out on his forehead when he added one more lift to his second set as a reminder. Two hundred twenty-five pounds had never felt heavier.

  You’re not twenty anymore, Drake. You’d better be more careful with your body. He put everything he had into one more lift, muscles screaming for release.

  Do it. Go for it.

  Satisfaction surged as he rested the bar safely on the rack above him, and he relished the burn that told him he’d pushed his limits.

  Suddenly, though he hadn’t heard the door open, he sensed that he wasn’t alone in the gym. It sat at the far end of the house from the bedroom wings, and he usually had it to himself at this early hour. He wondered who dared disturb him in his present mood.

  He should have known.

  In the mirrored wall beside him, he saw the indecision on Jillian’s face firm into resolve. Turning her back on him, she began to stretch.

  He stifled a groan. Couldn’t a man even work out in peace?

  Cullinane rose from the bench and moved over to the stair stepper. Climbing two hundred flights of stairs at level eight would cure him of watching her behind when she bent over to stretch or those long, smooth legs—

  Hell.

  Cullinane closed his eyes and started climbing.

  * * *

  Jillian wished there weren’t so many mirrors in this place. His reflection was everywhere, each cut muscle, every drop of sweat that plastered his sleeveless top against that broad chest, the way his knit gym shorts molded and cupped—

  Stop it, Jillian. Get to work. This might be the only free time she could claim in a day, so she hoped that this was a unique event, that Cullinane didn’t usually work out at this hour. Could she afford to let her conditioning slide just to avoid being near him?

  He was just a guy, for Pete’s sake. She’d worked out with guys before.

  None of them had made her throat close up like him, though. No matter how good he’d looked in his clothes, seeing him sweaty and near-naked...

  She sighed and resolved to add twenty crunches for punishment. No more wayward thoughts. The man could barely stand to have her around.

  He’d been different last night, though.

  This was the same man who’d sicced two big toughs on her when she was sound asleep, however. Last night had to be an anomaly.

  Had to be. He protected her enemy—that was all she needed to know. Last night had been simple hormones. Hormones could be ignored.

  Jillian squeezed her eyes closed and added ten more crunches.

  * * *

  “Spot me?”

  The husky voice startled Cullinane, so intent was he upon climbing the last two flights of stairs.

  “What?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Pretty impressive. Not just a lazy supervisor, are you? You’ve been climbing for thirty minutes. How many flights is that?”

  “Two hundred.” He climbed off and reached for his towel.

  She whistled in appreciation. For a moment, they shared a grin.

  “I was asking for a spot.” She walked toward the bench press. “Not all of us are so foolhardy as to lift that kind of weight with no backup.”

  Cullinane frowned. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Her glance swept his body. “Oh, I don’t doubt that for a minute.” She began adjusting weights on the bar, handing the excess plates to him. “But it’s still a bad idea.”

  Of course she was right. But this morning he’d had some frustrations to burn off.

  Most of them caused by the woman standing next to him.

  “So how much you want to lift?” He indicated the bar with a nod of his head.

  “A hundred.”

  He issued his own whistle. “Pretty impressive...”

  Jillian shot a glance his way. “For a girl, you mean?”

  “For anyone who weighs at least a hundred pounds less than I do.”

  She seemed appeased. “Size isn’t everything.” Mischief glimmered in her gaze.

  He moved toward the racks holding the plates. “Sometimes size matters a lot.” />
  They exchanged grins.

  Then inwardly he cursed. He didn’t want to know she had a sense of humor, too.

  When she settled on the bench, he moved to stand behind her head. His gaze drifted across her supple body, taking in the breasts beneath her black sports bra...the bare creamy skin at her taut midriff...the skin-tight black shorts hugging well-defined thighs...

  Shit. He cleared his throat, “Ready?”

  Her eyes caught his for one suspended moment. Finally she nodded. “Yeah.” She reached up for the bar.

  He lifted it off the rack, handing it to her, oddly reluctant to burden her with it. He was careful to pull his support away smoothly.

  An odd feeling, this, watching someone whose graceful body he’d held in his arms last night use that same body with such power and strength now. No question that she knew what she was doing. No neophyte would be pressing this much weight for her size.

  Impressive, he had to admit. Her body was a finely-honed machine, exhibiting great strength and the legacy of obvious discipline.

  Yet she was all woman, no question. Jillian’s muscle definition was imposing when she exerted herself, like right now, yet when she simply moved about in the normal course of things, she looked undeniably feminine, no bulging biceps or mannish features.

  But last night she’d been soft. And too damned appealing.

  “What?” she asked.

  Not going there. “Don’t talk. You could get hurt.”

  She glared at him, then focused on the middle distance, concentrating as if he was invisible.

  Peeved, maybe. Definitely not mannish. Cullinane smiled.

  “Twelve.” She pushed the bar toward the rack.

  He took it out of her hands and settled it carefully, and knew he had to get out of here. “Anything else?” he made himself ask curtly.

  “No.” She walked away.

  Cullinane gladly left for his run.

  One step ahead of the urge to turn back.

  * * *

  Jillian peered down the road as she ran, seeking a good place to turn around. She’d finished her indoor workout and decided a run would do her good. Cullinane had left the gym abruptly; she had no idea where he’d gone.