Mary-Anne gave him a gracious smile. “A signed photo taken in the lobby, to show we honeymooned here?” The little man nodded, his face absurdly hopeful. “Of course—if that’s all right with you, darling?” she asked, turning to Tal.
What a crazy day—and it was only half over. Feeling as though he’d stepped into an alternate universe where his lifelong dream had taken on the features of a nightmare, he managed a nod and followed Mary-Anne and her entourage out the door.
“It’s confirmed, sir,” one of Falcone’s guards reported to Burstall within half an hour of the car incident. “Both the man and the lady pulled guns like a reflex action, within seconds of my driving at them. They held automatics like pros. The man took out the radiator with one shot.” He grinned. “I’m glad you thought of sending backup as tourists and journalists—and had another car waiting. I could have been in trouble.”
“Good job.” Burstall handed the man a wad of notes. “Mr. Falcone won’t appreciate his lady being a spy, so to keep this to yourself for now.” He nodded, and the man left quickly.
So they were not the simple honeymooners they appeared—but many celebs were gun-trained in these days of stalkers and terrorists. Hmm. He had to know who he was dealing with. Falcone would not be forgiving if he blew his lady love away without proof that she was a spy trying to take him down.
Ten minutes later he listened to Longley, and he smiled. Verity West’s husband had a faded, jagged pink line down his left cheek, and a definite limp. Bingo. Confirmation complete, and for more reasons than Robert Falcone’s obsession with the guy’s wife, Tallan O’Rierdan had to die.
Eventually. He had other uses for him first.
Chapter 13
Despite her years of fame, Mary-Anne had never been on a yacht—and it was so exotic to the woman who was still an Outback girl at heart. Cruising a yacht in the Mediterranean. Wide-eyed, she stepped from the speedboat onto almost two hundred feet of sheer, unadulterated luxury. “Wow.” She had to squelch the need to tiptoe and whisper. “It looks like a museum.”
Anson shrugged. “The public expects you to honeymoon in luxury, as would Falcone. You must live up to that—we have to go into damage control now, do what we can to disarm suspicion.”
“If this doesn’t do that, nothing will. It’s fit for a queen,” Tal remarked, surveying the opulently appointed saloon. “The settee alone would be worth a fortune with all that tapestry and carved oak. The decor is like a mini Titanic.”
Braveheart elbowed Tal. “It’s very bad form to mention that ship on a boat, Irish. If you had real sailors aboard, they’d bolt. You’re lucky I’m not superstitious, like most of my—”
“Braveheart,” Nick barked, interrupting whatever Braveheart had been about to say with emphasis bordering on aggression.
Braveheart’s bow was mocking, his bright eyes flashed and he spoke through gritted teeth. “I beg your pardon, sir. I forgot for a moment that we can’t talk like normal people, or give information about our real lives to our fellow—”
“If you don’t like the rules, Braveheart, the door is over there.” Nick cut into the words, clear and cold. “I tolerate your occasional impertinence because of your usefulness, and I empathize with your impatience to be out there doing something—but this assignment is too damn important to blow.”
“Yes, sir.” Braveheart’s magnificent, bearlike form, usually so loose and relaxed, seemed carved in ice. “I apologize, sir.” There wasn’t a trace of apology in his voice.
“Give it a rest, buddy,” Flipper snapped at Braveheart, his rugged Gypsy looks almost alabaster with fatigue. He’d arrived at 0500 after flying his team in himself. They’d trekked across the uninhabited north of the island and into a neighboring cove to Lortámacino to avoid Falcone’s men. “We’re all wired here. If you want to let off steam, swim back to your boat.”
“This is my boat,” Braveheart retorted icily. “I’m Songbird’s official bodyguard. Get up to speed, will you?”
Wildman stepped between the two men as they squared up to each other. “Come on, guys, this is bloody stupid. We’re not the enemy here. We’re supposed to work together on this mission. Burstall and Falcone are the enemy.”
Within seconds the American guys and Flipper’s team had also joined in, snapping and snarling like dogs that faced a juicy slab of meat just out of reach.
“Sorry to interrupt you, but shouldn’t we check the boat before we discuss any of this aloud?” Mary-Anne asked loudly to dispel the rampant levels of testosterone in the room.
Enforced inactivity drove these guys nuts. Serious adrenaline junkies and compartmentalists—she suspected as much in their day-to-day lives and occupations as their secret life—when they worked, it was all-out; when they played, it was hard. There wasn’t time to kick back and party in two days, and they couldn’t drink in case they had to swing into action. There were no football fields or basketball courts here, the rooms weren’t set up for martial arts—they couldn’t even swim far from the boat in case they ended up as shark bait, and they sure weren’t guys who’d settle for chess or shuffle-board.
There was only one other time-honored method of relaxation—and she was the only woman here. As both a married woman and a fellow operative, she was strictly off limits to all of them—except Tal, who was leaning against the door post of the saloon, arms folded, watching the budding fight with the grin of pure male enjoyment guys wore at spectator sports.
The unseen tempest of male frustration and impatience roared in her ears already—and without access to more traditional methods of male release, testosterone-laden fistfights would abound until they got the nod to infiltrate the Embassy.
She made herself yawn. “Come on, guys, quit it and get the job done. You can prove who the biggest he-man is when you’re on your own boats and I’m not around to get bored by it, okay?”
In a slow motion that was almost comical, the men all turned to her, legs still splayed, fists clenched and teeth gritted. Refusing to show any signs of intimidation—she’d never wanted to find out if giving in to fear or feminine softness gained any sympathy, since it sure as eggs wouldn’t get her any respect—she gave them all a cheeky grin. “Well? Am I right or am I right?”
“Get to work, men,” Nick snapped. “None of this should have been said before we completed recon of the yacht!”
The operatives took over the strung-out men, swinging into action almost without thought. They’d searched the yacht from one end to the other within fifteen minutes, while she and Tal took to the saloon—and from his frequent hot glances her way, he was thinking the same thoughts as she was. How long until we get rid of all these guys and can be alone? “All clean, sir,” Braveheart reported to Nick, his face and voice subdued.
Nick nodded, having already relegated Braveheart’s outburst to the emotional trash bin. “Good. Take an hour to walk Irish through the techno toys you’re taking into the Embassy. You’ll need the knowledge, Irish—then we’ll have to leave you two alone for a few hours, or it will look suspicious.”
Tal raised his brows. “Sure, Ghost. It might be difficult, but I think I can handle it.”
Nick gave Tal a crooked grin. “I’m sure you can. No details necessary, though, unless you want the rest of us to spend the rest of the next few days all revved up with no place to go.”
Mary-Anne gave a stifled giggle at the unexpected joke—but Nick was right. The testosterone levels had definitely kicked up another notch at Tal’s words…
To her surprise all the men joined in the laughter, albeit with reluctance at first. “Yeah, it’s a tough life, eh, Irish?” Wildman’s grin was almost wolfish. “Poor guy—what a mission. Stuck with Songbird, spending hours alone with her for the sake of world peace. I mean, it’s not like she’s a world-famous hottie or anything, hey, guys?”
Then the male-bonding harassment started in earnest. “Yeah—you’ll suffer the rest of your life, being known as the guy who melted the Iceberg,” Tapper, one of the
American guys, chuckled.
“You’ll be a chick magnet for the rest of your days. What a problem to have.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s a hard life,” Tal agreed with a wry glance at her. “Would you guys mind taking off so I can get through Braveheart’s toy selection?”
Nick waved a hand. “All of you, out. Braveheart or Flipper will radio when I need the speedboat.”
With a few not-quite-off-color jokes—in deference to her presence—the men filed out of the room and off the yacht. Flipper—obviously a sailor of some sort, by his code name—had already left the saloon and started the yacht’s engine to sail them to a secluded cove to the far east of the island.
“I’ve been checking on your friend,” Nick remarked to her while Tal moved to the twelve-seating dining table. Braveheart opened an enormous case filled with electronic wizardry, his eyes alight with eagerness as he displayed toy after toy. “Hacker’s working on his bank accounts—she should let me know in a couple of hours. If he’s legit, one call from someone from MI5 should scare the hell out of the owner and have Longley sacked for his illegal antics. If he’s on the take, we take him down.” He glanced at Mary-Anne with a half smile. “I wouldn’t take chances with your safety or reputation on a mission.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she returned, laughing. “I’m irreplaceable. A cat burglar operative with a fan club in the black market.”
Anson gave her a reluctant grin. “Whatever works—and, darlin’, you work harder than any operative I’ve got.”
Tal watched her sharing a grin of easy camaraderie with their secret boss, and needlepoint blades sliced through him: the same fury that had blinded him when he’d seen the same look on her face nine years ago when Gil West had come home with her. For then, as now, he saw the one thing she’d never given him. He still burned up inside when he thought of the total trust he’d seen in her eyes…
Why did he care? He had her passion, something he suspected Gil West had never known with her.
But—because she wouldn’t talk about West—he’d never known. And it killed him, thinking of her crying out West’s name, her body writhing in passion as it had above his own.
Faith was the life within desire, the power within love—and Mary-Anne didn’t believe in him. Without that, her passion was hollow: a pretty ornament, a shell on the beach to collect and put away on a shelf to gather dust.
And for all that she called herself Mary-Anne still, he burned with the knowledge that Gil West had created the legend of Verity West—and five years after West’s death, he was still sure Gil had done it to take her away from him forever.
And he had. Gil West’s ghost hovered between them like a living entity, a silent monster trapping him in a one-way street that blocked his way to the girl, the woman he’d never stop hoping would come back to him.
It would take a miracle now. Though shades of Mary-Anne still lingered in her personality, Verity dominated her life in a way only she could conquer…and only if she wanted to. How could he ask her to give up everything for him, so that he could have both his career and love? But he couldn’t stop aching for what he knew was the impossible.
The word never stopped burning his heart and gut when he was with her. Impossible. If she’d only talk to him, admit to the unhappiness he strongly suspected, he could at least try to make her the girl she’d been; but as things stood, Verity West was a fact of life he could do nothing to change.
“I hear Falcone has a marvelous party planned in honor of our dear diva and yourself,” Braveheart told him in his favored style of convoluted English, his startling blue eyes twinkling in a male camaraderie free of envy. “You’re getting quite the royal welcome, if all I hear via the local catering firms is true.”
“Yeah—eat and drink, for tonight we die,” he muttered. “What’s the precautions on this recon? What do I take into the Embassy—and how will it escape Falcone’s detection?”
Braveheart’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, you get to test out some great little toys—and we’re talking distinctly serious techno crap here. A scrambler so sophisticated they won’t know who to blame when security breaks down. Lip and ear mikes so tiny they’ll pass for a freckle, and so strong you barely have to whisper, both in sending and receiving. A heat detector so sensitive you’ll find the hostage before you look, and image it back to us in seconds.” His brows lifted. “But as to Falcone, I believe getting us and the toys in will require all your own ingenuity, my friend.”
His interest flamed, Tal grinned. “Sounds like fun.”
“Yeah.” Braveheart’s gaze wandered to where Mary-Anne and Anson talked in subdued voices. “You get all the fun this time.”
Tal’s eyes flashed to Braveheart—but the other man’s bright blue gaze was gentle as it rested on Mary-Anne’s face. “She’s one lovely lady, Irish,” Braveheart said quietly, “gutsy and smart, and one hell of a good friend in a tight corner—and not the type of woman to play around or even flirt if she doesn’t mean it. You’re a bloody lucky guy.”
“For as long as it lasts,” he muttered.
“She asked about you when we worked together. She asked Flipper and Wildman. She asked others. Everyone she worked with, in fact. Just like you did with her.” Braveheart tapped him on the shoulder with his fist. “Hell, nearly the whole Nighthawk team knew the score with you two years ago.”
That’s more than I knew. He wanted to put his fist through a wall. Three years wasted, and all for Anson’s stupid rules…
I could have asked Aunt Miranda for her address and phone number, but I was a bloody coward, scared witless Mary-Anne would kick me out on my arse—or, worse, that she was over me and would laugh at my showing up like a lovesick fan.
The truth of the unwanted self-revelation broadsided him. Damn it all to hell, he was as trapped now as a decade ago. He’d fooled himself that all he’d wanted was to make peace, to be friends again—even this week, he’d stupidly believed he could have his fill of her and move on. But he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. She still held the key to those chains around his heart—a key she’d never use because she didn’t know she had it. And he, trapped inside his inarticulate nature, hiding all he felt without conscious choice, would probably never tell her.
Sudden agony hit him like a kung fu kick to the groin. The internal scarring he’d yet to learn to live with, and the cut and torn muscles on his inner thigh seized up. He’d been waiting for it since he’d dived in front of the car this morning.
But with the self-control he depended on like a druggie’s fix, he managed not to show Braveheart how bad he needed to curl into a ball on that magnificent king-size-and-more bed until the anguish dwindled to the manageable pain he lived with every day. “Is that everything? Maybe we should go through them again to be sure I’ve got it all down.”
From ten feet away, Mary-Anne knew something was wrong—the strain in Tal’s voice gave him away—but she also knew that, for some reason, he’d shut her out. He wasn’t including her in the toy hunt, even though they both knew she knew far more about this kind of weaponry than he ever would.
“He’s closed off because he’s in pain with his thigh, and he doesn’t want to admit it,” Nick murmured near her ear. “The attacks come regularly, but he won’t take anything for it while we’re here. He’s in agony now, by the looks of him. He’s limping, even with the shoe insert. He needs his medication—and he needs you. Go to him.”
With a startled blink at Nick’s insight—she’d never have believed until now that he’d even noticed them apart from their skills for the cause, or cared what they needed—she crossed the room to where Tal stood almost desperately straight, his smile fixed, eyes too bright. Tiny dots of sweat beaded his brow as he showed Braveheart he could work all the deadly little toys they’d have to take with them to the Embassy.
Nick was right. Tal needed her now, and somehow that made it all right. She slipped under his arm, levering his weight with her shoulder. “Hi,” she said softly, moving with subtle strength to
take the weight off his leg under the guise of a hug.
After a narrow-eyed glance, Tal leaned into her, kissing her brow. She could feel the sigh of relief he kept inside.
Braveheart, misreading the intimacy, grinned and packed up the kit. “We’ve been through everything twice. I believe it’s time we left the newlyweds alone to their devices, O fearless leader. We can go through everything again tomorrow.”
Nick nodded, again accepting Braveheart’s teasing without comment. “All clean here. There’s no way for anyone to reach this cove, except by speedboat or chopper, and we’ll be watching constantly for that. And there’s lead lining in every wall in this yacht. No outside device will hear anything inside this room.” Nick passed her on his way to picking up part of the kit. “We’ll be back at 0900 to go through the kit thoroughly.” He pressed something cold into her hand as he passed her, heading for the doors and the little speedboat awaiting them outside.
As soon as the doors shut behind them, she opened her hand to find a small jar in her palm.
“Thanks.”
His voice was quiet but stiff, filled with reserve and a touch of resentment for needing her support. She smiled up at him, refusing to be offended. She’d been there hundreds of times with male patients, waging the battle of need against pride. “What’s a wife for—even a pretend wife?”
A trickle of sweat rolled down his temple. “I don’t care how long it lasts, it’s—real now, damn it! Can you help me to the bed—please?”
He could barely move. She didn’t have time to think about what he’d said; he needed her now. She used a semi-fireman’s lift to get him down the passage to the bed, but her knees nearly buckled under his weight by the time they reached the bed. Still she wouldn’t let him twist around and tumble down. She gently turned him and laid him on the covers, lifting both legs at once.
“Muscle…relaxant in my case. Intramuscular shot straight into my quadricep. Do it fast or I’ll puke or pass out with the pain.”
Can You Forget? Page 16