Can You Forget?

by Melissa James

  The sense of watching and waiting grew…her skin rippled, the unseen scent of danger closing in. Falcone left Tal with an expert in plastics. He knew.

  Tal slipped an arm around her waist, smiling as smoothly as Falcone. “My wife and I are hardly likely to separate on our honeymoon, Mr. Falcone.”

  Oh, he was good…words designed to break the man’s control. Falcone’s eyes shifted, with a hint of gritted teeth, and though he smiled and moved away, the shiver ran right down her spine.

  Tal turned to the slender Eurasian doctor, beautiful in the exotic, timeless way of Asian women, who was watching him in open female admiration. “I beg your pardon, Dr. Hing. I don’t have half your experience or expertise, and I’d love to hear about your research, if we include my wife in the conversation?”

  Mary-Anne smiled, slipped her arm around Tal’s waist and asked the doctor if her new surgery involved the use of lasers.

  “Separate after dinner and begin your objectives.” Ghost’s whisper came in their ears through those state-of-the-art earpieces. “Braveheart, Flipper, use your thermographic devices to count the bodies outside the ballroom. Your objective is to stop anyone following Irish. Cause a melee if necessary. Songbird, your objective is to distract Falcone, and keep everyone’s eyes on you. Sing, flirt, play their game—anything to give Irish time to conduct his search and report.”

  Mary-Anne shuddered. The reality of this mission hit her hard. She’d never truly faced danger before, not like this. She couldn’t treat this as the game she always had before. This was Russian roulette—and Tal, far more than she, was looking down the barrel of that one bullet.

  Dinner was the most unnerving meal she’d ever sat through—Falcone’s eyes burning-cold and assessing on her, and the sense of watching, waiting—the rage…and the presence of so many guards, all with their gaze trained on her and Tal. Closing in.

  During port in the large antechamber, as she chatted with a mixture of fans and local black marketeers, Falcone tried again. “Miss West, I’d like you to meet Jonathan Trimble of Maximum Impact Music. You know the label, surely?”

  Mary-Anne nodded and smiled, shaking hands with Trimble. Waiting for the spiel.

  “Mr. Trimble came tonight in the hopes of meeting you,” Falcone purred, his hand just touching her back.

  “I am a huge fan, Miss West,” the portly man said earnestly. “I don’t know if your manager has contacted you with my offers…”

  Her smile remained firmly in place. “He has, Mr. Trimble, but as he told you, I’m under a five-year contract. There are legal procedures involved with changing labels, as you know.”

  “Surely a star such as yourself can waive procedure?” Falcone purred in her ear.

  Her fingers tightened on the stem of her wineglass, longing to throw its contents in his face. “Stars belong in the higher galaxy, and are beyond protocol, Mr. Falcone. I’m just a woman who sings for a living.”

  “I’m sure I could rebuff that humble notion if you’d give me a few minutes of your time alone. I could show you what a star you are in my prejudiced view,” he murmured in that smooth voice, close to her ear. “But you know that, don’t you, lovely Verity? Such a pretty name, far more suited to your burning-bright beauty than Mary-Anne. Does the doctor know of my deep admiration for you—and how far I’d go to prove it to you?”

  A whisper came in her ear. “Remember the mission, Songbird.”

  Ghost’s voice of reason jerked her back from her fury. “My husband knows everything about me,” she replied, the essence of languid politeness in her tone. She smiled with cool sultriness, the don’t-even-think-about-it that was Songbird’s trademark. “We’re terribly close, in every possible way. But then, I’m sure you know that, as well, Mr. Falcone.”

  “Good. Keep him guessing,” Ghost’s voice encouraged her. “He likes the chase. Play the Iceberg for him—it’s what he brought you there for—and he’ll do anything to get you in bed.”

  She’d never wanted to sock Ghost in his perfect nose more than now—and damn him, he probably knew it. And Tal, wearing a similar device in his ear, must know it, too.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Falcone. Although I do love my work, I love a night or two off, as well.” She turned to Tal, slipping her hand into his—after she unclenched the fist he’d made.

  “Control your temper, Irish. In two minutes, it’s time for recon. Surveillance is tight, so use the scrambler and take no more than three minutes.”

  Like hell, Tal mouthed. He’ll make a move on her, and you know it!

  “Irish, you will do as I say or you’re pulled. I have four operatives in there waiting to take over. Falcone won’t give a damn if you suddenly disappear—but it will leave Songbird alone in his eyes from then on. Now do as I say or get out.”

  He gathered her close and spoke into her ear, smiling for the sake of any spies, whispering presumably for privacy. “You want me to leave her alone with that creep, Boss?” he asked savagely. “Can’t you see it’s a setup?”

  “Of course I know. Watch your own back, too. Flipper says Burstall’s on the move. Take three minutes,” was the inflexible reply. “She can hardly be kidnapped in that space of time, in the middle of a crowd. And she’s not alone. There’s a boy’s life at stake. You will not leave him to die! For the last time, go.”

  She hadn’t expected a reprieve. Ghost never cut any operative slack on a mission. She smiled and touched Tal’s face, grateful he’d gone to bat for her. “I’m used to doing this.”

  “Doing this? Yeah. Handling it? I’m not so sure.” Tal’s eyes searched hers, his blazing with fury and worry and warning. “If things get too hot, scream for me, and stuff the mission. You got that?” He bent to her, kissed her hard and fast and, with a murmured excuse about the bathroom, turned on his heel, heading for the exit leading to the long hallway. And as they both expected, nobody made a single move to stop him. Oh, God, please keep him safe. Don’t let Falcone have someone there to kill him!

  Thirty seconds later it started. “So the extremely attentive doctor has finally left you alone, my lovely Verity,” came the hated purring voice in her ear. “I’ve been eager to speak with you alone, just the two of us, without his unwanted presence.”

  She wheeled around to face Falcone, head high, eyes flashing—her heart pounding so hard it hurt. Could he see it? Distract him before he gives any orders regarding Tal. Play the game. “I am not your anything, Mr. Falcone, except your guest, and I would appreciate the basic courtesy and respect a gentleman normally extends to a married woman on her honeymoon.”

  A low blow—Falcone, by all reports, prided himself on his manners—but a necessary one.

  The thin, elegant man froze at her words. “I beg your pardon if I’ve offended you, Miss West.”

  She nodded with regal carelessness. “Apology accepted.”

  He smiled again, using all the charm he was famous for. “It’s really your fault. Your beauty can turn a man’s head…your perfume entices, and your talent completes an irresistible and radiant package. I am utterly under your spell.” His hand slithered down her arm.

  She stepped back. “I didn’t cast a spell upon you by choice. My perfume is my husband’s favorite, and my looks are no more my fault than your actions are attributable to me.” Give him the full treatment. If it’s the Iceberg he wants… “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stand so close, if you wouldn’t speak to me or touch me in this familiar fashion—and please stop speaking of my husband as a minor inconvenience.” She spoke with icy precision. “I don’t know what kind of women you associate with, Mr. Falcone, but I find this kind of charm rather nauseating.”

  The indrawn breath was almost a hiss. “That is truly telling it as it is, is it not, Miss West?”

  “Songbird, I said distract Falcone, not alienate him—and try not to remind him of Irish while he’s on recon!”

  Damn it, damn it, damn it…a swift glance revealed Braveheart and Flipper had left their stations by the doors—and th
ey’d only been ordered to do so if Tal was in possible danger. Three minutes…give Tal three minutes! Thinking furiously, she smiled, cool and gracious. “I beg your pardon—that was an atrocious lapse of manners. I am a guest in your home. You wished me to sing tonight, Mr. Falcone. Why don’t we forget the past two minutes and start over?” She held out her hand to him.

  After a moment in which she held her breath, Falcone smiled back. “Of course,” he said with an ironic little bow. “Starting over—a most apt term. People can start over. Circumstances and objectives can change. But it is time to entertain us with your superlative talent, lovely songbird.”

  And that term, which seemed almost deliberate, chilled her to the core.

  “Bingo,” Tal whispered, using the heat detector/body imager along the ground floor of the Embassy. “There’s someone in a basement cavity behind what looks like a wine cellar, and he’s not moving.” He gave the exact location in the house. “Look again at the architectural plans. Isn’t there an external entry near that cellar, a weak spot in their defenses?”

  “Only barred windows. Good work, Irish. You know the plan—the equipment’s waiting in the car for you.”

  “Right. Scrambler off, and returning to Songbird.”

  “Recon another minute or two. No shadows following as yet, and Burstall’s on the move. Falcone’s study is down the hall. Check for information relating to—“

  “Send the guys. I’ve been out three minutes fifteen seconds. I’m not leaving her alone longer.”

  “She’s about to sing. The men are fawning all over her. It’s only a matter of time before someone says something indiscreet to impress her. We’ve got some serious Interpol file names here, Irish. Give her another couple of minutes to—”

  “Not in my job description. I found your hostage. I’m going back to protect my wife from the sleazebags fawning over her, as you so aptly put it.”

  “Give me a break, Irish. She’s not in any danger. She’s used to this part of the assignment.”

  “You don’t know her at all, do you?” Tal muttered, feeling sick. “Do you have any idea how much she hates strange men touching her? Do you know she spends the night crying and scrubbing herself off after that kind of thing happens to her?”

  The silence echoed, buzzing in his ears like a disconnection.

  “You could have asked me.” He headed for the stairs. “For the past three years you could have asked me how she’d cope with this kind of stuff on missions. But you didn’t care. You traded on her need to help people to get what you want, but you never cared about her as a person. I’m going upstairs.”

  This time there was no argument.

  He stalked back up the stairs where he met Braveheart and Flipper who, against orders, stood on watch for anyone following him. Together they walked into the large, airy ballroom.

  Tal walked up to where Mary-Anne stood waiting for him with a smile of sweet relief on her face. “You all right?”

  He grinned. “What do you think?”

  “The boy?” she whispered, pretending to kiss his ear.

  A hot shiver ran through him. “Alive. Let’s get out of here and go back in with the others—”

  Muted applause came at that moment. “Miss West has graciously consented to sing for us tonight…”

  She rolled her eyes discreetly. “Not yet. It’s time to sing for my supper.”

  He grinned at her silly crack—she always made the most pathetic jokes when she was nervous—and cupped her face in his palm. “I’m here. I won’t let them touch you.”

  Her gaze drank him in for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I needed to hear that tonight.”

  She took in a breath, plastered a smile on her face and moved to the stage with a natural grace that all the wannabe pretenders to style and class here would never know. She froze out Falcone’s guiding hand with the tiniest shrug, cool and proud, a touch disdainful.

  What a woman…

  The orchestra immediately struck up her biggest hit, “Making Memories.” The room hushed as her glorious voice filled the room. Every eye fixed on her as the woman carved from ice came to warmth, love and life before their eyes.

  “Even with all I ever knew of me and you,

  Knowing my joy will soon be through,

  Still I’ll stay another day, filled with love, lost in pain,

  Making memories with you.”

  The poignant song of love doomed by death from her album After the Dove came to its superb climax. Through enthusiastic, spellbound applause, she saw only him. Although she’d written the song for Gil, the words applied so well to their lives.

  He tipped his glass to her, making silent applause against the exquisite crystal, smiling in pride. “Encore.”

  She bit her lip over the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, her eyes shining; then she turned to the orchestra, murmuring. “This was always my favorite,” she said, turning back to the audience. She smiled at him alone as the music began. “This is our song.”

  With the first raw, unhealed refrains of “Farewell Innocence,” something shattered inside him.

  On this night, which could be the last night of their lives, she wasn’t hiding from him anymore. She sang to him alone with a whimsical smile, her expression hovering on tender, bordering on faith. Double bluff to perfection—for while the radiant, happy-bride look on her lovely face suited their honeymoon status, and kept Falcone in a state of unbalanced rage and hunger, it was also the truth…a truth she told to him alone.

  I love you, her every word said—yet another refrain, hidden beneath the joy, haunted his soul. Goodbye, Tal.

  Loving her and losing her, once and again. It was over, and yet it would never end until death parted them. Could he ever forget her, even after death? Could she forget him?

  The applauding crowd parted as she walked down the single step toward him. He took her hand in his. “It’s time to go.”

  For once she didn’t have the words to make it right. She just nodded and turned to Falcone, hovering behind them. “Thank you for a most interesting evening, Mr. Falcone.”

  Falcone took her hand and held on to it. “Oh, please don’t leave yet, my lovely songbird,” he purred. “If your Irish companion wants to leave, he is most welcome to go, but I do wish you would stay here a little longer.”

  Tal froze. With two words, Falcone had declared war. Would he attack them with so many people around?

  “I don’t think so,” he growled. He clicked his fingers and Flipper and Braveheart were beside them—Nighthawks united, ready to swing into action. Tal wrapped his fingers around the wrist of the hand holding Mary-Anne’s. “Let go of my wife.”

  “Why not let her decide?” Falcone’s voice had lost a touch of its creaminess: edges rubbed against the smooth finish. “What do you say, lovely songbird? Will we allow the good doctor to leave alone, quietly?” Still alive, his tone clearly said. He clicked his fingers, as Tal had done, and six men surrounded them.

  Mary-Anne looked sick with terror. “Go, Tal. I’ll be fine.”

  “Like hell. Twenty-four,” he yelled, hoping those Nighthawk plants were in the room this moment.

  As one, the four in the center of the storm kicked out and up, taking down a man each, Braveheart and Flipper, nearest the other two goons, took them out with quick, hard uppercuts. An orchestra member knocked out two goons racing through the doors from the balcony, one with his fist, one with his double bass.

  Tal threw a tiny dart-needle at Falcone’s neck as he tried to edge outside with Mary-Anne. With a look of comical surprise on his face, Falcone fell to the ground.

  “It’s just a tranquilizer dart that’ll only hold him for a few minutes. Let’s go!” Tal yelled, grabbing Mary-Anne’s hand and running like hell for the doors to the stairs.

  From the other doors Darren Burstall suddenly appeared, with three men behind him. “Kill the others, but keep Miss West alive—and O’Rierdan’s mine!”

  “Ghost, enter the perimeter
!” Tal snapped into his mouthpiece. “We’ll never get a better opportunity than now.”

  “Halfway there,” came the reassuring reply. “ETA one minute.”

  Tal could almost hear the distinctive thwack of the choppers arriving. “Let’s hold them off.” He pulled out a gun.

  “Set up a forty-eight, boys, and run!” Mary-Anne shouted into her mouthpiece. She stumbled out of her heels, still running. Fully armed, Flipper and Braveheart covered their backs.

  Tal bolted down the last of the stairs with the speed of adrenaline, ignoring the shooting darts of pain in his leg, and forced his feet to take him through the door.

  On the first floor, two young waiters with trays of food and glasses appeared out of a door, knocking it right into two of the security men and stepping right into Burstall’s running range. Startled by Burstall’s vicious snarl to move, one dropped the food all over the floor. The other tripped, smashing glasses all over the stairwell. Burstall stumbled, slid on the sauce and fell down three stairs, landing right on the glass. He screamed as blood spurted from his leg. His gun went off. Someone above screamed as a glassed-in set of first editions shattered.

  Burstall scrambled to his feet, his face and hands cut and torn, his expression dark and ugly. “Stop Dr. O’Rierdan and Miss West from leaving,” he said into a microphone on his wrist.

  “Mr. Burstall, the gates are smashed, our men are knocked out,” a dazed voice answered. “I think they’ve gone.”

  Burstall snarled and turned to the young waiters, scrambling around to clean up the mess. “Hello, little Nighthawks. Looks like your famous operatives left you behind to take the rap.”

  “Que?”

  Burstall frowned as the two pure-speaking natives, barely out of their teens, gave fumbling apologies in soft, shy Amalzan dialect. Meanwhile the head waiter, a highly recommended friend of someone in the catering firm, and the double bass player, had already disappeared from the Embassy.

  Chapter 17

  They watched from the thick belt of shrubbery as their car moved smoothly around a curve in the road, leaving them behind. After a final quick review of the Embassy’s architectural plans Anson had left in the car, Tal nodded to her. “Go.”