All or Nothing

by Catherine Mann

  He closed his eyes, only to be blindsided by the image of her sitting on a porch swing with some other lucky bastard while their kids played in the yard. “The thought of you with someone else is chewing me up inside.”

  “You don’t have the right to ask anymore,” she said gently. “You know that, don’t you? We’ve been separated for three years.”

  “Tell that to my chewed-up gut.”

  She tugged her hand free. “You’ve already moved on. Why shouldn’t I?”

  He looked up sharply. “Says who?”

  “Every tabloid in the stands.”

  “Tabloids. Really?” He laughed. Hard. Not that it made him feel any better. “That’s where you’re getting your news from? I thought you graduated from college magna cum laude.”

  Finally he’d shocked her quiet, silencing those damn probing questions.

  But not for long.

  Jayne’s hand clenched around her discarded scarf. “You’re saying it’s not true? That you haven’t been with other women since we split up?”

  He leaned across the table until his mouth was barely an inch away from hers. He could feel her breath on his skin and he knew she felt his. Her pupils widened in awareness, sensual anticipation. And still, he held back. He wouldn’t kiss her now, not this way, when he was still so angry his vision clouded.

  Not to mention his judgment.

  He looked her in the eyes and simply said, “I am a married man. I take that commitment very seriously.”

  She was his wife. The only woman he’d ever loved. He should have the answers locked and loaded on how to keep her happy. He was a damn Wall Street genius, entrepreneur billionaire and Interpol agent, for God’s sake.

  Yet right now, he didn’t have a clue how to make things right with Jayne, and he didn’t know if he ever would.

  Seven

  The gates swung wide to Conrad’s home in Africa, and Jayne had to admit, he’d shocked the hell out of her twice in less than twenty-four hours.

  She’d expected a grand mansion, behind massive walls with sleek security systems that made Batman’s cave look like something from last generation’s game system. This place was…

  Understated.

  And the quiet beauty of it took her breath away.

  She leaned forward in the seat, as the Land Cruiser took the uphill dirt road. A ranch-style house perched on a natural plateau overlooking a river. She’d spent four years poring over renovations and perfect pieces of furniture for their different residences, perhaps hoping she could somehow create an ideal marriage if she could only put together an ideal home. She would guess the place was built from authentic African walnut. Everything about the house looked real, nothing prefab or touristy about it.

  Porches—and more porches—wrapped around the lengthy wooden home, with rockers, tables and roll down screens to overlook the nearby river. Palm trees had a more tropical than landscaped feel. Mangrove trees reached for the sky with their gnarled roots twisting up from the ground like wads of fat cables.

  She glanced at her husband, wondering what led him to purchase this place just before they’d split. But his stoic face wasn’t giving away any clues. Although, Lord, have mercy, he was as magnificent as the stark and unforgiving landscape.

  With the day heating up fast, he’d ditched the sports coat and just wore jeans with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Like his home, he didn’t need extravagant trappings to take her breath away. As if she wasn’t already tempted enough around him.

  Although the gun still tucked in the shoulder harness gave her more than a little pause.

  Their game of twenty questions during the plane ride hadn’t helped her understand him one bit better. If anything, she had more questions, more reservations. Being here alone together was complicated now. They’d moved past the idea of sex for the hell of it as some farewell tribute to their marriage. That didn’t mean the attraction wasn’t still there, fierce as ever, just beneath the surface of their tentative relationship.

  Tearing her gaze away, she pressed her hands to the dash. “This isn’t at all what I expected.”

  “How so?” He slowed the SUV then stopped at the half-dozen wooden steps leading to the front door.

  “No bells and whistles chiming. No gambling rich and famous everywhere you look.”

  “The quiet appeals to me.” He opened the door and circled the hood to her side.

  She stepped out just as he reached her and avoided his outstretched hand, not ready to touch him again, not yet. “If you’d wanted somewhere to be quiet, there were places a lot closer to home than Africa.”

  The dusty wind tore at her hair. She tugged her scarf from around her neck and tied back the tangled mess.

  “True. But this is the one I wanted and since I’m sinfully rich,” he said, pulling out her roll bag and a duffel for himself, “I can have the things I want, if not the people.”

  Was this quieter persona one he donned for his missions or was this a part of her husband she’d never seen? She shivered in spite of the temps already sending a trickle of sweat down her spine. “What about security? I don’t see any fences or cameras.”

  “Of course you didn’t see them as we drove up. They’re the best, thanks to our good friend Troy. If anyone crosses the perimeter, we’ll know.” He jogged up the stairs and flipped back a shutter to reveal an electronics panel. “You’ll be briefed on how everything works so you’re not dependent on me if an emergency arises.”

  Now wasn’t that an eye opener?

  She trailed her fingers along a rocker, setting it in motion and thought of his casino with the glassed-in balcony overlooking the sea. And she realized he loved the outdoors. Even now, his ear tipped toward the monkey chattering from some hidden tree branch.

  “Jayne?” he called from the open door. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course,” she lied and followed him inside anyway.

  This was definitely not a safari lodge after all.

  There weren’t any animal heads mounted on the walls, just paintings, an amalgamation of watercolors, oils and charcoals, without a defining theme other than the fact each one portrayed a unique view of Africa.

  And in such a surprisingly open space.

  Conrad had a style of his own—and a damn good one. But she’d fallen into a stereotypical assumption that he would put a foosball table in her living room if she turned over the reins to him. She thought back to his penthouse remodeling. She’d been so focused on the shock of all her things swept away she’d failed to notice the sense of style even in his man cave.

  How much of his “hiding” of himself had she let happen?

  She stepped deeper into the room with a massive stone fireplace in the middle. A wood frame sectional sofa dominated the space, piled with natural fiber cushions and pillows. There were no distractions here, just the echo of her footsteps and the sound of the breeze rustling branches outdoors.

  The place was larger on the inside than it looked from outdoors, likely another means of security. Her entire condo back in Miami could have fit in the living area with room to spare. A glance down the hall showed at least five other doors, but she was drawn to the window overlooking the river. A small herd of antelope waded in for a drink, while a hippo lazed on the far side of the shore.

  Conrad’s hand fell on her shoulder. “Jayne?”

  She jolted and spun to face him, finding him so close her heart leaped into her throat. Her hands started to press to his chest, but she stopped shy of the silver gun.

  “Uh, I was just enjoying the view.” She gestured over her shoulder at the window.

  “You’ve been standing there awhile. I thought you’d dozed off.” He tugged the end of her scarf, her hair sliding loose again. “You must be almost dead on your feet since we didn’t sleep last night, so I’ll save the grand tour for later. There’s just one place you need to see now.”

  The kitchen for a snack? His bed to make love before they both fell into an exhausted slumber?

&n
bsp; He stopped in front of a Picasso-style watercolor of people in bright colors dancing. He slid the painting to the side to reveal another panel like the one she’d seen on the front door. After a quick tap along the keypad, he stepped back. Boards along the wall slid automatically and stacked, revealing a passage.

  “This is the panic room.” Conrad pressed a card into her hand with a series of numbers. “This is the code. Do not hesitate to use it in case of an emergency. Don’t wait for me. I can take care of myself a helluva lot better if I’m not worrying about you.”

  Salvatore’s words from earlier came back to haunt her, about how she was Conrad’s Achilles’ heel. Her presence placed him in greater danger. Somehow in the rush to leave Monte Carlo, she’d lost sight of that revelation.

  Tears burned her eyes, and she ached to reach for him.

  “Jayne, it’s going to be okay.” He brushed her hair over her shoulder. “You need to sleep, and I need to check the place over. We’ll talk more later.”

  She tried not to feel rebuffed. He was doing his job. She had pushed him away after Salvatore’s revelation.

  Her hands fell to her sides. Of course he was right. She couldn’t possibly make rational decisions with her head cottony from lack of sleep. And if she couldn’t think clearly she became even more of a liability to Conrad.

  Yet as he showed her to the guest room, she still couldn’t help wishing she could sleep in his arms.

  * * *

  Conrad punched in the code to the safe room where he stored all his communication gear and security equipment. The entire place ran off solar power and a satellite feed, so he couldn’t be cut off from the outside world. He kept enough water and nonperishable food in storage to outlast a siege.

  Call him paranoid, but even in his infrequent freelance role with Interpol, he’d seen some intense crap go down in the world.

  The windowless vault room in the middle of the house had everything he needed—a bed, an efficiency kitchen, a bathroom and a sitting area, small, but useful down to the last detail. A flat screen was mounted on the wall for watching the exterior. And an entire office’s worth of computers were stored away, ready to fold out onto the dinette table like an ironing board lowered out of a wall.

  He parked himself in front of the secured laptop and reached for the satellite phone. He needed to check in with Salvatore. Halfway through the first ring, his boss answered.

  “Yes,” the colonel barked.

  “We’ve arrived, and we’re settled. No red flags here that I can see. What do you have on your end?”

  “The money in Zhutov’s wife’s account has been withdrawn and we have images—which I’m forwarding to you now—of his known associates in discussion with a hit man. We’ve got trackers on both individuals.”

  “I’ll review his wife’s bank accounts again. Why her assets haven’t been frozen is beyond me.”

  “We do what we can, and you know that.”

  “Well, let’s damn well do more.” Scrolling through computer logs of account transfers, Conrad tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear, not wanting to risk speakerphone where Jayne might wake up and overhear.

  “Hughes, my people are on it. You should sleep. You’ll be more alert.”

  “Like you sleep?”

  The colonel was a well-known workaholic. When they’d all been in school they’d theorized that their headmaster was a robot who didn’t need mere mortal things like sleep. Seemed as if he was always walking the halls, day and night.

  Salvatore sighed. “Go spend some time with your wife. Repair you marriage. Put your life back together again.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, you saw her back in Monte Carlo. She was pissed.”

  “I saw a woman who looked like she’d just been kissed senseless in an elevator.”

  “You’re not helping the problem at hand by playing matchmaker.” He’d need more of a miracle worker to untangle the mess he’d made of his life.

  “I sincerely hope you and she had a long talk on the airplane about your work with me.”

  Just what he needed right now, a damn lecture on all the ways he’d screwed up his marriage. “Thank you for your input, sir. I’ll take that under advisement.”

  The colonel laughed darkly. “Still as stubborn as ever, Hughes. Leave the sleuthing to my end this time. Your job is to fly under the radar, keep you and your wife safe. Let me know if you need anything.”

  The call disconnected, and Conrad set the phone aside.

  Three fruitless hours of database searching later, he slammed the computer shut in frustration. He couldn’t figure out if the clues just weren’t there. Salvatore’s words echoed through his head, about his job being to protect Jayne. The old colonel was right. Conrad wouldn’t be any good to her dead on his feet.

  Resigned to surrendering, at least for now, he left the panic room and sealed it up tight again. The sectional sofa looked about as inviting as a bed of nails, but it was the best place to keep an ear out for Jayne—other than sleeping next to her, which didn’t appear to be an option tonight.

  And speaking of Jayne, he needed to check on her, to leave her door open a crack so he could hear her even in his sleep. He padded barefoot down the hall to her room and eased her door open.

  Bad idea.

  Looking at Jayne sleeping was torture. And apparently he was a masochist tonight because he stepped deeper into her room. Her legs were tangled in the sheets, long legs bared since her nightgown had hitched up. Her silky hair splashed over the pillow in a feathery blond curtain.

  She slept curled on her side, with a pillow hugged to her chest just the way he remembered. If they’d still been together, he would have curled up behind her, their bodies a perfect fit. He still didn’t understand how something so incredibly good could fall apart like their marriage had.

  Tired of torturing himself tonight, he pivoted away and walked back out to the living room. He yanked a blanket off the ladder rack against the wall and grabbed two throw pillows. Even if his mind resisted shutting down, his body demanded that he stretch out and rest. But still his brain churned with thoughts of Jayne and how damn close they’d been to making love again.

  If Salvatore hadn’t been waiting for them in the penthouse, they would have ended up in bed. He could still hear her cries of pleasure from the elevator. He could feel the silken texture of her clamping around his fingers.

  They may have had their problems communicating, but when it came to sex, they’d always been beyond compatible. And they’d had other things in common, too, damn it. They shared similar taste in books and politics. She enjoyed travel and appreciated the beauty of a sunset anywhere in the world.

  And they both enjoyed the opera.

  In fact, he’d planned to take her to the opera during their forty-eight hours of romance, back when he’d been enough of an idiot to think he could let her go again. He’d chartered a jet to fly them to Venice for a performance. He’d reserved a plush, private opera box where he could replay their La Bohème date.

  He could still remember what she wore that night, a pale blue gown, feathery light. He’d been riding the rush of a recent mission, adrenaline making him ache all the more for his wife. The moment he’d seen her walk out of their bedroom wearing the dress, he’d known he wouldn’t rest until he found out what she had on underneath.

  Before Act One was complete, he’d known….

  * * *

  Dreams of Conrad during that hazy realm of twilight sleep always tormented her the most. Fantasy and reality blended until she didn’t know whether to force herself awake or cling to sleep longer.

  La Bohème echoed through her mind, the opening act, except that didn’t make sense because she was in Africa with Conrad. So why was the opera playing out on a barge on the river? Confusion threatened to pull her awake. Until the glide of Conrad’s hands over her breasts made her cling to the dream realm where she could sit with her husband on the porch and listen.

  Savor.

 
; His hands slid down her stomach to her leg. With skillful fingers he bunched her gauzy blue evening gown up, up, up her leg until his hand tunneled underneath. She felt his frown and realized she had jeans on underneath her formal dress?

  Confusion churned in her brain as she stared down at her bare feet and well-worn denim. She kicked at the hem of her gown, frustrated, needing to free herself of the voluminous folds so she could wear her jeans.

  And so she could feel Conrad’s touch.

  The roar of frustration grew louder, and louder still until the porch disintegrated from the vibrations. She stood in the rubble, a herd of elephants kicking up dust on the horizon.

  Her bare feet pedaled against the covers. She fought harder, frantic to wake herself up and outrun the beasts chasing through her head. Elephants thundered behind her, rumbling the ground along with an orchestra segueing into the closing act. Her chest hurt, and she gasped for air.

  She tripped over the gnarled roots of a mango tree. Her hands slapped the ground, but it gave way, plunging her into the Mediterranean Sea outside Conrad’s casino. The farther she sank, the darker the waters became until she hit bottom.

  Sealed in a panic room.

  A window cleared along the top and she looked up, searching for a way out. Desperation squeezed the air from her lungs. Conrad stood on the balcony far, far above, watching her, drinking his Chivas. She couldn’t reach him, and he couldn’t hear her choked cries of warning to watch out for the thundering herd.

  Wasn’t a guy always supposed to hear his mermaid call him?

  Except she wasn’t the one in danger.

  His balcony filled with thick, noxious smoke until Conrad disappeared…

  Jayne sat up sharply.

  Wide-awake, she blinked in the dark, unfamiliar room. Gauzy mosquito netting trailed from all four corners of the canopy. Just a dream, she reminded herself. Not real.