by Cheryl Biggs
Jealousy flared in Hart, hot and unanticipated, sweeping through him, startling him, before he could even attempt to deny or ignore it. He didn’t know why he still wanted her after all this time, after everything that had happened. What the hell was the matter with him? It hadn’t been that long since he’d been with a woman. “Yeah, I do, too,” he managed. He looked deep into her eyes, and again suspicion overruled the feelings he hadn’t welcomed.
The look he saw there didn’t agree with her words.
Suzanne played a fingertip around the rim of her wineglass, her thoughts on both men. Rick had stood barely five-nine; Hart was several inches over six feet. Rick’s build had been muscular compaction, his facial features a carving of perfection, his handsomeness a classical one, and combined with his limitless charm, no one, male or female, had been able to resist him.
Hart’s physique was long and lean, and his face was coarsely featured, like a sculptor’s work in progress. “Granite” was the term that came to mind as she looked at the nose whose slight bump on the ridge hinted at a long-ago break; at the unyielding jawline; at the high cheekbones that reminded her of desert ridges. But looking into his eyes was like becoming lost in a midnight sky strewn with stars.
How many times in the past had she stolen endless moments staring at those eyes when he was occupied with something else, knowing that if she let herself look too long she might find it was a place she’d never want to leave? How many times had she dreamed of running her fingers through his hair or wondered how his lips would feel against hers?
And his voice. God, how she’d missed hearing that deep, soothing drawl that was part Louisiana and part Texas.
There seemed both intense strength and a quiet vulnerability about Hart. It was a combination she’d always found odd—and all too appealing.
“So,” Hart said, drawing her from what he assumed were thoughts of the past, and himself from a quandary of emotion he’d rather ignore. “Other than moving to Los Angeles, making new friends and starting a new career, what else have you been doing? Are you seeing anyone? Involved? Engaged?”
He saw the small smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Jealousy reared in him again, but he told himself he really didn’t care if she was romantically involved with someone, unless that person was also her accomplice in treason and setting him up for a fall. He was just making conversation, trying to find out as much about her as possible in order to get a direction toward the truth.
Hart knew his question had brought thoughts of a man into her mind, as he’d intended it to. What he wanted to know was who.
“Too personal?” he asked when she didn’t answer.
Suzanne looked back at him. Innocence shone in her eyes, but it had shone in Teresa Calderone’s eyes, too, and he had no intention of falling into a trap like that again.
The report that had come back that morning on Suzanne had been clean. But that didn’t mean there weren’t things about her that hadn’t been discerned yet. After all, it had merely been a preliminary report and one done in a hurry.
If she was guilty, and he had to consider that a very real possibility, it was only logical she had an accomplice. Hell, she could have a whole country behind her for all he knew.
“No,” Suzanne said finally, jerking Hart from his speculations. “There’s no man in my life. Unless you count my cat, Dooby, or my business partner, Clyde, who is also my cousin, and more in love with antiques than I think he could ever be with a woman.”
“The man obviously doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Hart said.
Or maybe he does, a nasty little voice in the back of his mind whispered, reminding him of the treachery and betrayal he’d been handed from women he’d thought had loved him.
“What about you?” Suzanne asked, a teasing lilt to her tone. “Why hasn’t some lucky woman caught you yet?”
A sense of longing sliced through Hart, totally unexpected and almost painful.
She’s responsible for Rick’s death, he reminded himself, trying to ward off the feelings he didn’t want to have. And the feds suspect her of treason.
But they also think Rick’s alive.
He forced a smile and damned his nagging suspicions while trying to ignore the almost feral need to reach across the table and slip a hand behind her neck, pull her to him and kiss her until he stole the breath from her lungs and the truth from her heart.
“Like you said, Suzanne,” he answered finally, “she’s been lucky.”
She shook her head. “No, I would say she’s been very unlucky.”
“I’d almost forgotten how wonderful the scent of the desert is,” Suzanne said as Hart walked beside her on the path to her bungalow. They hadn’t talked about the situation that had brought her back to Three Hills, and she was thankful. For a few hours she had been able to forget the disaster that had taken over her life. She paused at the door and turned to him. “I had a wonderful time tonight, Hart. Thank you.”
Obviously she wasn’t going to invite him in. Because she needed to report in to her accomplice?
Hart caught her gaze with his, seeking the truth there, and for one brief moment, one millisecond of eternity, he found himself wanting nothing more than to forget his suspicions, forget the world, forget everything, except how much he wanted her.
She was so close.
Now the passion that had always simmered, quietly and denied, between them, suddenly flared into an inferno Hart was helpless to douse. It consumed him, devouring his blood and replacing it with the fires of a need stronger than anything he’d ever felt. It stole his good sense, banished all reason and made a mockery of the self-control that he’d honed to steel-hard perfection over the years, and that he normally could rely on to get him through anything.
His arms swept around her, dragging her into his embrace, crushing her body to him, and his mouth captured hers, swiftly and thoroughly, much like a hunter captures its prey, with little mercy and no tenderness. War and battle, anger and resentment, those were the form of his life and always had been. No one and nothing had ever taught him how to take what he wanted with a gentle hand.
But as much as having her in his arms stoked the conflagration of passion in him, it also stoked the flames of anger. She had been Rick’s wife, and she had gotten him killed. The thought echoed cruelly through Hart’s mind, slicing at his passion.
He wanted to punish her for Rick, and he wanted to punish her for making him want her. But he couldn’t, because she was kissing him back. Her lips sweet, intoxicating and as hungry as his.
A firestorm claimed his body.
Nothing made sense. Reality slipped away. Desire consumed his every thought.
She was everything he’d always wanted and everything he knew he should avoid. She was as much the light he’d always needed in his life as she was the darkness that could destroy him; she was whatever hope he had for the future and a prospect of doom beyond his worst nightmares.
Her arms encircled his neck.
Willpower deserted him. A need fiercer than anything he’d ever experienced consumed him.
It was a kiss of desperation, fueled by such emotional intensity that reality slipped totally away from him. He felt her tongue entwine about his, dueling, teasing and inviting.
A soft moan slipped from her mouth to his, ripping through him, feeding his passion.
Suzanne pressed against Hart, every inch of her body responding to his kiss, his touch. She knew she was losing herself. Hart was the soldier, but she felt the rage of battle erupt deep down within herself. She wanted him, had wanted him for so long…yet every thought and feeling she had was urging her to push him away as much as pull him closer.
He could save her…or he could damn her to a hell beyond imagination.
Suddenly the sound of gunfire erupted behind them, shredding the night’s peaceful silence.
Hart ripped away from Suzanne, at the same time grabbing her arms. “Get down,” he snarled, and roughly shoved her to the groun
d, instinctively turning his back to the assault and shielding her with his body.
Another explosion rent the air.
Suddenly he knew it wasn’t gunfire. Hart pushed to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs as much from leftover fear as anger at himself for what he knew had been a senseless mistake. He whirled around to face whoever was out there.
An old car, battered and nearly paintless, coughed and backfired again as it disappeared around the corner.
Hart stared after it, chagrined beyond belief. An ugly curse sped through his mind.
“I thought someone was shooting at us,” Suzanne said, breaking the now unearthly stillness that surrounded them.
Hart helped her to her feet, feeling like a fool. He was a soldier. Not once had he ever mistaken any other sound for gunfire. Until now.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said curtly. Without waiting for her to respond, he turned on his heel and stalked to his car.
Mistaking a backfire for gunfire wasn’t the only mistake he’d made tonight. He slid into the Vette. What the hell did he think he was doing, kissing her like that? He was falling into an age-old trap, the one every woman used when she wanted something from a man. They were always sweet and cloying when they were trying to gain your trust, then when they had it, they unfailingly betrayed it.
But this was Suzanne, a little voice of reason said from the back of his mind. He scoffed aloud. And the woman who’d left him in a motel room had been his mother.
Desperation allowed him to drudge up memories he normally avoided. If they didn’t divert his thoughts and douse the desire smoldering in him, he knew nothing would…
“Stay here, sweetie,” Corie Branson had said, “and be a good boy, okay?”
“Can I watch more cartoons, Mommy?” Hart had said, already turning his attention back to the television.
“Of course, sweetie. Now remember, I love you,” she said, pulling the blanket up and tucking it around his legs. “Give Mommy a kiss.”
That had been the last time he’d ever seen his mother.
Long hours later he’d awoken when the motel manager, a tall woman, and a policeman entered the room. They’d been nice, and the policeman had given Hart a candy bar while the woman brushed his hair, told him not to be afraid and helped him on with his jacket. Then they’d taken him to a large place where a lot of other children were.
He hadn’t understood what was happening then. It was later that they’d explained that his mother had telephoned the police and said she couldn’t come back, but that she loved her little boy and asked them to take care of him.
It was a nice lie woven around a shred of truth and meant to keep him from being afraid and crying, and it did—for a while.
But regardless of what the social workers and women at the orphanage said, the one thing Hart had come to realize while growing up was that his mother had left him, with no intention of ever coming back.
His memories rolled on like a kaleidoscope of horror, tearing painfully at his heart, but succeeding in keeping his thoughts of Suzanne from his mind, and desires from conquering his body.
The authorities had taken him to his only relative—an aunt. But she’d already had six children of her own and a worthless husband. The last thing she’d wanted was another child, especially one that wasn’t even hers.
His first foster mother had been a nice grand-motherly type who had a sadistic streak a mile wide.
His second loved him like her own, or so he’d thought. After a while he’d finally dropped his defenses and let himself return her love. But it had been a mistake. Two days before the adoption papers were to be signed, she’d backed out. He’d never known why.
Hart spent the remainder of his growing-up years in the orphanage, refusing to care about anyone or expect them to care about him.
Then he’d met Francie, fallen madly in love and gotten married. Six months later he came home one day to find her in bed with one of her brother’s friends. A quickie divorce had followed, he’d nearly pickled his brain in booze over the next several months, and finally, in a last-ditch effort to save himself, he’d buried his feelings so deep down he could ignore them—usually—and joined the army.
Hart sighed, realizing that no matter how many unpleasant memories he dredged up, thoughts of Suzanne would still be waiting for him when he was done torturing himself.
Her claim of spies, accidents that weren’t accidents and being followed all sounded ludicrous. Now he knew that in spite of all his doubts, suspicions and so-called good sense, part of him obviously wanted to believe her.
Maybe already did.
It was stupid, unprofessional and most likely suicidal. He sighed, but part of him believed her.
A few minutes later Hart swung the Vette onto the narrow country road that led to the base. He needed answers, and now was as good a time as any to try to get them.
Suzanne stood on the porch and watched him drive away, then remained there long after she’d seen the taillights disappear around a corner.
Why had she kissed him like that? He didn’t trust her, didn’t believe her, was probably playing her along, hoping she’d confess to treason, murder and Lord knew what else, and she’d fallen right into his arms like a fool.
She was just about to go inside when she noticed another car moving up the street, its headlights out.
Instinctively, she stepped from beneath the porchlight’s glow and into the shadow of a tall saguaro that grew next to the front door.
Across the street one of her neighbors had a lamp at the end of his driveway. She watched as the car pulled past it. A sharp gasp grabbed her lungs. She wasn’t sure, but the man behind the wheel appeared to be in uniform.
Suddenly all her doubts about Hart disappeared as if they didn’t exist. Alarm seized her.
Once the car passed, she ran into the house, slamming the door behind her. Someone was following Hart.
She hurled herself into the kitchen and grabbed the telephone receiver from its wall hook. He had to be warned. Suzanne stared at the keypad, suddenly realizing she didn’t have his number or know if he even had a cell phone.
Thoughts of spies and murderers hammered at her. She ran into the bedroom, grabbed her bag and searched through it for her car keys.
Slamming back out the front door, Suzanne paused, breathless, on the porch.
It was too late. The other car was gone.
The phone was ringing when Hart entered his apartment.
“Hart?” Suzanne said when he picked up.
His heart skipped a beat as alarm seized him. “Suzanne, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I mean, not with me, but I think someone was following you when you left here. I saw a car pass by a minute or so after you drove away, and it didn’t have its lights on, and…”
She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, realizing she sounded hysterical and he probably didn’t believe her.
“I was…worried,” she said haltingly, suddenly feeling foolish. She had probably imagined the car had been following Hart. Just like she’d imagined the driver had looked like Chief Carger. Most likely it was just one of her neighbors on his way somewhere. “I was obviously wrong, Hart. You’re fine. It’s late,” she knew she was babbling, but she was unable to stop—because she didn’t want to hang up. “I should go. Let you get some sleep. I’ve probably fantasized this whole mess. Rick always said I had an overactive imagination. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Suzanne,” Hart said before she could hang up, “I’m fine.”
“I know. Really.” Her laugh sounded fragile, even to her own ears. “It was probably just one of the neighbors. Hadn’t turned his lights on yet, that’s all. Good night, Hart.”
Before he could respond again, she hung up.
Hart slowly replaced the receiver while a barrage of conflicting emotions and thoughts assaulted him. Was she right? Had someone followed him when he’d left her place? Or was this another move on her part to catch
him off guard to get him to believe her wild claims?
He walked to the window and, careful to move the blinds only fractionally, peered outside.
There was no one in sight and no strange car parked on the street.
But he knew better than to think that meant someone wasn’t there.
If the feds suspected he was Suzanne’s accomplice in treason and murder, then it made sense they’d have someone tailing him.
He was just about to drop the window blind when he spotted a long, dark car rolling out of sight around the corner, its lights out.
Was that the car Suzanne had seen and thought was following him?
“Ah, hell.” He turned away from the window. It was definitely time to call it a night.
Half an hour later his thoughts were still in turmoil. He lay in bed, staring through the darkness at nothing as that moment on her porch played over and over in his mind. He’d drawn Suzanne into his arms, kissed her, crushed her body to his. He’d been out of control, and he’d felt more alive with her body pressed to his than he had in more than a year—maybe in his entire, sorry life.
But was she an innocent being framed or was she more cunning and deceitful than any woman he’d ever known?
He shifted position, ramming a fist into his pillow out of frustration.
“Dammit.” Hart pushed off the bed and began to pace the room. In spite of the confusion and anger simmering in him, he had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Suzanne Cassidy. But to believe her innocent threatened everything he’d made of his life.
If the government he worked for, the country he had put his life on the line for, was involved in trying to frame an innocent woman, maybe even kill her, and now intended to take him down with her, then his entire life, everything he believed in, was a total sham.
But to believe her guilty meant…
He slammed a fist down on his dresser. No matter which way he looked at the situation, no matter which way it turned out, he was damned.