“No, you back off.” He stood between Anson and Mary-Anne, arms folded, going toe-to-toe with Anson, blocking his approach to her. “You hired me as the Nighthawks’s chief medical officer in the Australasian region. I am totally in line when I diagnose an operative—and this particular operative will be unfit for duty if she doesn’t get more rest. If you want her to complete this assignment without collapse, I’m telling you to let this woman get some sleep!”
Standing toe-to-toe with him Tal could see his boss’s jaw clench, and he curled his fists, ready to fight if need be to protect Mary-Anne’s rights. Then Anson, his body rigid, wheeled around and snapped his fingers. “Time to call it a night. Get some sleep, all of you. Meet back here at 1200 sharp.”
Without waiting to see if they left, Tal scooped Mary-Anne up into his arms and laid her on the bed. He covered her warmly with the thick white chenille spread, glad one of them would get some sleep tonight—he sure as hell wouldn’t. The face-off with Anson had left him too strung out—and crawling into bed beside his beautiful wife wasn’t conducive to rest, either. It was more likely to give him a six-hour hard-on and aching hands from being in permanent fists, trying to keep from touching her.
So he was left with two alternatives: take a cold shower or watch a few hours of TV. Yeah, The Brady Bunch, Lost In Space and Leave It To Beaver would go down real well dubbed in Spanish. Soy estúpido, Señora Cleaver.
As he was closing the bedroom door, he heard a soft whisper.
“Mmm…Tal?”
Man, how did she do this to him so fast? One word and he was aroused, catapulted back to seven hours before and the loving that would have given him the right to sleep in the bed with her. Maybe wake up in the morning and love her again. “Yeah?”
“Thank you for that,” she said softly.
He grinned. “My pleasure. Now follow doctor’s orders. Rest.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She sighed, almost three-quarters back to sleep already. “But I’d sleep better if you were with me.”
Oh, boy. The mate inside his jeans was rock-hard, screaming at him for release, and she wanted him to sleep beside her? If he believed in reincarnation, he’d ask what he’d done in a former life to deserve the torture of this night. Yet his mouth spoke the words, “If you promise to sleep.”
Great, now he was in league against himself!
She sighed as he crawled in beside her and wriggled back until her sweet little ass snuggled against him. A tiny catching sound came from her lips, the closest she’d ever get to a snore. A spiral of hair tickled his nose.
Yep, and a great night of sleep will be had by all. He groaned under his breath. Don’t touch her, don’t touch her… But his arm moved by itself, draping over her waist. He laid his chin on her hair and relived the almost-loving they’d had tonight. A living miracle in itself, whether they’d completed the loving or not. She wants me. She really does want me.
Man, was he trying to kill himself?
As the sun crept over the horizon, his eyes finally closed.
And the dream came again.
“Three kids left. The line’s swinging like crazy with the force of the typhoon… God help us, I’m not going to make it…hang on, kids, hang on!”
Mary-Anne, half awake from the urgent muttering in her ear, came to life with a shock as a viselike grip held her wrist, almost cutting off her circulation. “Tal?” She blinked, trying to orient herself in the gentle light of dawn.
Tal swore viciously, hanging on to her as if a fall from the bed would kill her. “If I don’t get these kids into the bird now, they’ll die. My Achilles tendon’s stuffed, but I can still make the sixty-foot free-fall to the cliff shelf. Go, go!”
Mary-Anne listened in horrified silence. Something told her this dream was the incident Braveheart had told her about, when he’d saved the kids on the cliff. Knowing Tal as she did, he wouldn’t be having this dream, unless—
Unless something about it still haunted him.
She lay still, allowing him to hold on to her for security—or had she become one of the kids?—as he muttered on, finding the only form of release his taciturn nature would allow.
“Aaaargh!” He panted for a few moments, then he spoke, as if to someone else. “Come on, kids, we’re all going this time. Come on, sweetie, up on my shoulders—no? You’re too scared, baby? Okay, I’ll hold you. Yeah, good one, mate—you’re a big boy, you’re not scared to hang on. Crap, the line isn’t strong enough for us all. Typhoon’s closing in… Alpha Delta one-two-five, send down a reinforcing line. Bringing remaining survivors up now!”
Mary-Anne gasped, reliving the story in vivid, horrifying detail. Dear God, is that what SAR units had to face on every mission? Sometimes a man will do almost anything to forget…
“I don’t give a damn, Flipper—the typhoon’s here!” he yelled. “Now give me the bloody line!”
He made frantic scrabbling motions. “Good girl, wrap it ’round you. Good boy. Now we’re set. Go!” he called, obviously to those in the chopper. “Oh, God help us—steady the chopper, Braveheart! The kids are panicking and I don’t know how to calm them down…oh my God! God, no!” His voice rang with anguish so sharp it left her heart bleeding. Oh, God…baby girl…she was only about six… Baby, I’m sorry I couldn’t hold you…” A dry, racking sob escaped him. “I’m sorry, Kathy,” he muttered hoarsely. “I can’t save them all. I want to, but I can’t…”
The horror gelled—the scene was so real Mary-Anne felt the sobs wrenching from her gut, and her eyes ached from the tears.
“Tal.” The word barely registered through the rocks lodged inside her throat. She twisted around to sit up, and shook him. “Tal, wake up. It’s over. It’s over…”
“Bastards.” Tal half sat up on the bed, soaked in sweat, his scars standing out in sharp contrast to the stark whiteness of his skin. Whether he was awake now or still sleeping, she didn’t know. “Miserable bastards, dumping helpless kids to die, so they won’t talk about what they’ve done. Is it worth it?”
“No,” she whispered. “No, it’s not worth it.” She was beyond tears—and she now understood why Tal said what he did the first day, about his injuries rendering him useless. She knew about his exploits: Irish was the one who took more risks than anyone to save others on Search And Rescue—especially kids. And, as much as he wanted to be there—to save other kids like those on that fateful cliff shelf, kids who were dying around the world every day, he wasn’t physically strong enough to perform the amazing feats he used to. It wasn’t his life being over he fretted about, or his looks. It was the kids, the men and women—the innocent victims of war—he mourned for most.
And she’d accused him of self-pity. She’d accused him of being afraid to take risks—but that was all he’d ever done.
“I’m sorry, Tal,” she whispered, tenderly kissing his mouth, the lips still making silent pleas for forgiveness from the children who hadn’t made it. “I didn’t understand. I didn’t know. But I do now. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.” With her free hand, she caressed his drenched hair. Her tears fell onto his face like touches of healing. “But I’m here now, Tal. I’m here.” She kissed him again, willing his pain to subside.
“Mary-Anne. Mary-Anne…” The name barely made it from his tortured throat as he fell back on his soaked pillow, lying in the total quiet of exhaustion.
She smiled down at him, finally understanding the soul inside the man her beloved boy had become. “Yes, Tal. I’m here.”
“No…another—damn—dream,” he muttered, frowning. “You—never come. Miss you—like hell—like a great big goddamn hole inside me…and you never come.”
An ache bloomed in her chest, making it hard to breathe. With a trembling hand, she caressed his scarred cheek. “I should have come,” she whispered. “I should have come. But I’m here now.”
He sighed with the touch of her palm. His eyes blinked, then shut, in the slow wakening that comes after a dream. “Wish—I could say…all I
feel. Can’t…so stupid.” He sighed again, pulled her close and slipped back into sleep.
With her head on his shoulder and her body lying half across his, she should be half crazy with wanting, but all she felt was a strange, aching peace. She felt alive, glowing with newfound joy, and totally content. As the soft, fuzzy morning light filled the room through the windows, she closed her eyes and joined him in the deep slumber that knows no dreaming.
“I’m telling you, sir, I’ve had no chance to kill the guy. He and the lady are never apart, and they haven’t left the hotel room since they got in it.”
Burstall grinned as he took turns viewing and listening in on the conversation through the hole he’d painstakingly drilled in silence through his bedroom floor last night. Hell, if he had a woman like Verity West in his bed, he wouldn’t get out of it, either.
“Surely there has been one opportunity to kill the man?”
The edge in Falcone’s voice got stronger with every sentence he spoke. Falcone had it as badly for Verity West as it was rumored he’d once loved the wife who’d run from him years ago, supermodel Delia de Souza Falcone.
“Not at the distance I have to keep to divert suspicion, sir,” Longley answered, respectfully enough while standing before Falcone like a kid called to see his teacher. Through the hole Burstall noticed the man’s clenched fists. Longley was as itchy to lay into the smiling bastard as he was. “If the other journalists here identify me it would lead to you.”
Falcone tapped his foot on the floor and a pencil on his cherrywood desk. “Fine. Fine. Just do it soon, Mr. Longley.”
“Sir, there isn’t much I can do until they leave the hotel—and even then, they have several bodyguards.”
“Then get to him when they’re alone,” Falcone said softly, his chilling eyes and fine mouth smiling once again. “I am sure they won’t have bodyguards in their suite. Break in somehow, Mr. Longley—and kill O’Rierdan. Do it now.”
Longley gave a curt nod. “Consider it done.” He turned and stalked out of the luxuriously appointed room.
“Well, surely you have an opinion, Mr. Burstall? Considering the trouble you endured to create your peephole last night, you must have some thoughts on this? Why don’t you come down here and express them?”
Burstall cursed to himself. Damn the man for always being a step ahead! He got to his feet and walked downstairs and into the study, taking his time. “If you want my opinion, you need a backup plan, sir. The men surrounding O’Rierdan and Miss West are professionals who could take Longley down when he makes his attempt. Get the happy couple in here, out of their depth and away from their support systems. On your turf, you can easily kill him and take her.”
“So crude, Mr. Burstall—I shall persuade her to stay. But though vulgarly expressed, your thoughts are sound. Yes, we’ll execute that plan, but we’ll leave aside yours for now.”
Burstall started. “Mine, sir?” He looked in the eyes of the man who sheltered him, and he saw—Falcone knew about Lissa.
Falcone nodded, smiling. “Of course I know your plans to ransom young St. Bremer for the lovely Mrs. McCluskey. We will leave that out of our reckoning for now. It interferes with my plans—both personal and professional—and that I do not tolerate, Mr. Burstall. I do not want Interpol breathing down my neck while my shipments change countries, or investigating possible links between myself and Haversham, Inc., until the oil contract is in my hands. And a woman taken hostage, or a spy murdered, is bound to bring the wrath of the above-the-government groups down on us.”
Damn it to hell! It took all his self-control to remain calm and quiet and to say the expected words. “Yes, of course, sir. As you wish, sir.”
“Good.” Falcone lifted a brow. “Oh, and you do know that Mrs. McCluskey is rather heavily pregnant?”
Shock froze him, sickened him. Cruel devil, he got enjoyment out of torturing others. “Yeah, well, Mrs. O’Rierdan might be pregnant, too, by now, sir.”
The amusement fled. His eyes grew cold, reptilian. “The only children Miss West will ever give birth to will be mine.” He spoke without his usual polished purr.
Burstall made the mistake of smirking before Falcone had left the room…and he knew that he’d better get out of here soon. Or he’d pay for talking back to Robert Falcone—with his life.
Chapter 8
Two hundred and thirty-two…two hundred and thirty-three…two hundred and thirty-four…
Mary-Anne lay on the floor of the honeymoon suite of Amalza’s ritziest hotel, heading toward her daily goal in sit-ups. She was almost done. She’d finished a ten-kilometer treadmill run and a dance routine workout in an outfit designed to please the eager photographer snapping at her through the enormous plate-glass window. Her presence here would be known in hours…and hopefully they’d get an invitation soon from the target. Falcone had sent her so many invitations in the past, she had no doubt he’d send one today, and the mission would be on in earnest.
She quashed the spurt of regret. She knew she’d had only one real chance to make love with Tal. The cabin on the Spanish coast was the only true private time they would have during the mission, without cameras and listening devices surrounding her. So close to attaining her lifelong dream… But Anson, who never thought of his own or any operative’s personal needs on a mission, had snatched their time without hesitation. There would be no chance for them now until after the mission.
If he stayed with her.
“Are you going for the women’s world record for crunches?”
His voice held no irritation, no anger—just concern. As she’d had for him this morning, during the dream he apparently didn’t remember when they’d awakened an hour later. Two-fifty-six…fifty-seven…fifty-eight… “I do this…every day,” she panted between sit-ups. “Three hundred and I’m done for today.”
“You’ll make yourself sick. You won’t be able to move tonight.”
“It keeps me fit and healthy. I don’t overdo.” Stopping for a moment, she said, “I know some singers and actresses who do what I do, plus five hundred or more crunches every day. You get a gorgeous four pack, but I’m not into muscles, just keeping fit and trim.” She grinned. “See, I’m not as excessive as some.”
He hesitated, then spoke the worry that was obviously preying on his mind. “But you don’t eat enough to support this level of exercise. And you’re already too thin for your height. You’d be lucky to hit the scales at one-twenty, and you’re five-eight.”
“I’m one-twenty-three.” She grinned in delight. “And thank you—nobody else has ever told me I’m too thin before.”
“You are,” he said, with all his usual bluntness. “You should be at least one-fifty at five-eight.” He shook his head, frowning. “Do you do this much of a workout every day?”
“Sure. I have to keep superfit to get through my concert schedule.” She spoke in panting puffs between cross-training elbow-to-knee crunches. “They’re pretty rigorous, you know. All that singing, strutting and dancing demands a level of exertion you wouldn’t believe. And my missions include a lot of wall-climbing, running and jumping. This program is the Nighthawks’ advanced fitness stage.” She frowned at him. “You do it, right?”
“Yes.” He did his classic hesitation, then said, “But you’re already too small, and you don’t take in enough calories to keep up with the levels of fitness you follow. Your body will suffer later for what you’re putting it through now for your shows and the Nighthawks. And you don’t sleep enough, either. When’s the last time you had a week off?”
Two-seventy-nine…she blinked, startled, and looked at him, frowning. “I’m having two weeks off now.”
His face was grim. “No, Mary-Anne—I mean total time off. No singing, no writing, no recording, and no missions.” When she didn’t answer he took her hands and hauled her to her feet, his eyes searching hers with uncomfortable depth. “How long have you been jumping from one job to another without rest? How long have you been falling asleep on c
hairs and on the floor? When did you last think of your own needs and not those of your fans, your missions or saving some part of the world that’s in crisis?”
She felt more heat creep into her cheeks than even the exercise warranted. She tried to shrug it off. “It’s no big deal. I’m used to it now.”
“Which is even more dangerous for you. Not enough rest, too much work and working out will take a toll on your body you won’t even know has come until you collapse.” He used a finger to brush away a bead of sweat. “When did you last have your period?”
She gave an involuntary glance up at the camera hidden inside a wedding photo of the two of them. There were operatives there, strangers watching, listening in on her private business…she felt stripped naked emotionally, raw and vulnerable. The concern in his tone did little to ease her embarrassment at strangers hearing her admit that the regimen she followed was excessive.
When was her last period? As a former nurse she should know, but she couldn’t remember. She turned away. “I don’t remember coming to you for a checkup, Doctor,” she joked. “And, honestly, my cycle is none of your business unless I ask you for advice.”
He neither stiffened nor smiled at her attempt to deflect his questions. “If you still have a cycle at all, I’d be surprised.”
She frowned and looked at the floor. “Please, just leave it, all right? I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You helped me last night. Let me help you now. Please.”
She looked up, startled. He shrugged and gave that slow-to-be-born smile of his, showing his dimples. “Yeah, I do remember some of it now. How much gut-spilling did I do in my sleep?”
The look in his eyes was unashamed vulnerability—and even if it was a trick to gain her trust, she melted. “I’m so sorry about the little girl, Tal.”
“Me, too.” Stark anguish mixed with the concern in his eyes.
“You apologized to Kathy for not saving her,” she dared to add, and watched him flinch at the name. “I always knew her illness was why you became a doctor, but I didn’t know you felt so personally responsible for her death.”
Can You Forget? Page 10