In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  He chuckled. “I don’t quite remember it that way.”

  She dropped a grape into her mouth. “Of course, you don’t. That would’ve made you a perv, and we both know that you’re not.”

  “It was yellow, the dress was lemon yellow … and, in my defense, it was cold in the studio. How could I not look?” He smiled wickedly.

  “See—what did I tell ya’? It’s your smolder that gives you away … I can give you more examples if you like.”

  No, he didn’t need more examples. He knew them all and redirected the way this conversation was going by tickling the instep of her foot. She broke out into a fit of laughter, wiggling on the sofa.

  “Stop. Please. Okay, okay … uncle! No more examples. You’re ent … irely mys … terious.”

  Raising her foot to his mouth, he first kissed her big toe then wrapped his lips around it. Popping it from his mouth, he kissed it again. “Stay right here, just like this, and I’ll be right back. I have something for you.”

  He could feel her amorous gaze peek around the edge of the sofa, eyes burning upon his backside when he strode out the front door to his Harley.

  “Hurry back!” she teased with a laugh, and he did as commanded, quickly removing the day’s most special gift of all from his saddlebag.

  Wrapped in simple brown paper with a red bow, he held the package out to her. “I bought this for you because … well, your last one—not that you used it much anymore, but it was destroyed in the hothouse.” Damn; he was stumbling over his words. “It … um, your first one … saw me through that dark time when I came back to Pemberley. It gave me hope, helped me to face my demons.”

  She sat up, looking adorable with her disheveled hair, dried in a wild mess, and he pulled the fallen daisy from her locks. Untying the ribbon, the paper fell open revealing a new—blank—sketchbook.

  “Oh, babe,” she softly said, smoothing her hand over the image on the cover: two lovers entwined in a sensual tango. “She’s wearing a red dress.”

  “Like the one I bought you in Seville.”

  “I love it! Thank you!”

  “I thought you might want to take up sketching again. I also found you a professional set of colored pencils, but I left them up at the compound.”

  Crossing the length of the sofa, she lunged into his arms with a mind-blowing kiss. He felt the wetness from her tears against his cheek and tightened his embrace, heart thundering against his chest wall. How the hell was he going to get through tomorrow? How could he ever leave her?

  “See,” she whispered when her mouth left his wanting more. “You don’t need to say anything at all. I can feel your heart beating against mine, just as steady, just a strong.” She took a breath. “I love you so much, Fitzwilliam.”

  ***

  “Let’s spend the night here,” Liz had offered, and Darcy would grant her anything if it meant one more moment with her hidden away from the world and all its ugliness.

  He reveled in the feel of her body molded into his, her backside pressed against him on the bed as he held her tightly to him from behind. But then she shifted, breaking from his embrace to roll onto her back.

  In the soft glow of the moonlit room, the maple tree’s shadow danced upon the cabin wall, but he barely paid attention. He laid there propped on his elbow, listening to her steady breath and watching her eyelashes flutter. The old oscillating fan clicked with each slow pass it made beside the brass bed, and his thoughts drifted to what would be easier on her: leaving her now with her sweet dreams and incredible memories or riding back to the farmhouse together with the sun peeking over the horizon. What would be easier on him? Saying good-bye in the light of day or departing without her seeing his own concealed tears? Dawn, he determined, was the enemy sneaking up on them and stealing what was left of their reprieve. This was killing him … but Iceman lay just below the surface, ready to end this nightmare in the best way he knew how. Above all things her safety was paramount.

  As she peacefully slumbered, he couldn’t help but touch her; he dragged a finger down her collarbone and traced a path to the sensual notch at her neck. His own skin tingled at the feel of her special erogenous zone until he kissed the hollow, mouth lingering on her soft flesh.

  This would not do. Why sleep away their last moments together when he could be watching her laugh?

  Seeking her response, he kissed Liz’s velvety, open mouth, pulling her top lip into his in a tiny suckle. She tasted like champagne. As he hoped, she stirred, involuntarily opening her leg as if to invite him. Yeah, his princess knew him well, but tonight, he wanted a different kind of intimacy.

  “Liz,” he whispered, slowly gliding his hand up her thigh, lingering on the snake and orchid tattoo on her hip.

  He kissed her, again and this time she kissed him back.

  “Hmmm. What time is it?” she moaned.

  “After three, I think.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s dance.”

  “Fitzwilliam? Are you dreaming?”

  “No. Let’s go outside and dance in the moonlight.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t want this night to end.”

  She rolled to her side and faced him, tenderly caressing his brow. Like a beacon in the darkness, her beautiful, concern-filled countenance burned his soul.

  “Oh, baby … you’re afraid, aren’t you? Afraid you won’t come back,” she whispered.

  “Come dance with me.”

  A little smile of acquiescence formed on Liz’s lips, and he rose from bed, walking to the sofa where she had disrobed his gray T-shirt before retiring. Of course, he’d prefer them both au-natural, but there would most likely be a chill in the night air.

  “Do you have tango records here?”

  “Ssshhh,” he whispered holding the T-shirt and her socks out to her, followed by a kiss.

  Once he slid his briefs on and she pulled the second sock up, he took her hand; his other grabbed the secure satellite phone Rick had given him before they departed Virginia.

  Liz giggled when they exited the back door, unfazed when her feet crunched the twigs and leaves accumulated around the perimeter of the structure. The moon was high and bright, but its splendor was encumbered by the tree canopy.

  “Where are you taking me … and there better not be bears,” she stated with a lightness to her voice that confirmed all the reasons he adored his Lakmé. But as they entered the forest, he didn’t answer. Heck, hadn’t she said that his silence spoke volumes?

  About one-hundred feet to the left of the cabin lay a picturesque meadow he had mentioned earlier, and yeah, he, too, hoped there weren’t any bears around.

  Feet touched tall grass when they stepped beyond the tree line, and Liz halted in her tracks, mouth agape, eyes widened. “Wow,” she breathed.

  Above, the near-full moon evaded the scattered clouds, mysteriously illuminating them against the blackness. Mystical and magical, the glow of twinkling stars kissed the earth below by painting hundreds of white oxe-eye daisies a silver-blue tint. The same daisies in the cabin.

  He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect location in which to spend their last few precious hours together as though the only people in the universe. His breath caught at the sight of her hazel eyes sparkling from the reflection above, a wisp of her hair carrying on the warm breeze, her smile growing in absolute mirth and marvel.

  His forest nymph glanced up at him then chuckled. “Transparent,” she playfully mouthed.

  He thought of all the things he had yet to say but resolved that of the many songs he could think of, the slow ballad he’d chosen combined with his body language—and the steady, powerful cadence of his heartbeat—would have to say it for him because words seemed trite in expressing the depth of his need and love of her.

  They stopped in the center of the meadow, and he dropped her hand to locate the music on the phone, but she was oblivious to his actions in that moment. She was lost i
n the magnificence of the scenery, head tilted to the sky, searching for the North Star (as was her habit.) Van Morrison’s piano and percussion brushes filled the silent night. In awe, he watched her stretch her arms out on each side, slowly turning her body in carefree circles as though soaking the moonbeam into her own angelic radiance. The field of pale silver at her feet was her celestial stage; the majestic oaks surrounding her were her stilled audience, and he, her most ardent devotee, was mesmerized.

  He thought of a line from The Count of Monte Cristo: “Woman is sacred; the woman one loves is holy.”

  “Dance with me,” he said coming behind her with a slide of his arm around her slender waist, halting her turns before she got dizzy.

  Turning to face him, her smiling lips met his and she clung to him, devoid of a proper dance frame as his body swayed, bringing hers into its rhythm. “Someone Like You” and the moonlight wove their spell. Liz followed his lead of basic dance steps lightly walking through the wildflowers in an improvised, slow fox trot.

  Trusting his lead, she mirrored his movements then turned under his arm at his prompt, coming back in his tight embrace. The synergy of their bodies moving as one felt like a dream; he pressed his cheek against hers and slid his hand down her spine to the small of her back. Her heartbeat against his bare chest stirred him and he breathed in the distinct fragrance of Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy—his best half.

  The song lyrics in this four-minute moondance resonated deep in his heart:

  She made it all worthwhile.

  His hard road was about to end forever.

  He’d been everywhere on every continent and had been left wanting … until her.

  She helped carry his heavy load, changing his life through her light and love.

  There was no one like her and there never would be again—their heartbeat was one.

  She breathed life into his soul and he knew that the best was yet to come.

  “Liz,” he breathed into her ear. “Make love to me.”

  The song came to an end, but their comingled breath continued the ballad as he laid her down among the flowers. After tonight, never, would she ever, have any doubt that he’d move heaven and earth to come back to her—no matter what.

  5

  Freezer

  August 3

  Washington, DC.

  Fanny Pryce, receptionist at Bingley Dance School, liked bald men, so she tried to say but, like Knightley, she wasn’t very good at the dating thing. Whereas he was unlucky and terrified to pursue anything with anyone and still entirely convinced that death was a welcome option to escape guilt, she was just shy—and that had some appeal. Of course, last week’s beer following her shift at the studio did not make it a bona fide “date,” but there was definitely something in the air between them, an unspoken acceptance of each other and no need to share their back story. And as far as he could tell, her history was scarred. She was restrained, awkward, and trying to fit in. Behind her sad eyes, there was tenderness. Yet, her cheerfulness indicated her determination to rise above whatever happened to her in her past. Was everyone affiliated with this dance school messed up? Other men might easily overlook this low-maintenance, unassuming young woman who wore dresses buttoned to her neck and oftentimes wore her hair pulled back off her face, but in his opinion, it was what he couldn’t see that was the attraction. She was an heirloom rose hiding in bramble. Make no mistake, though, he’d had his fill of vapid, foreign models and gold diggers (not that he had as much gold as his employer) when working in Monaco. What a life he’d led. Had anyone else had as much empty, meaningless sex as he had?

  Despite the explosion on U Street the day before, he had a metaphoric spring in his step. Hell, there might have even been a whistle to go along with it, but he didn’t want to appear uncaring that Obsidian’s world was getting smaller by the day. It’s not that he was unfeeling, but his skin had thickened significantly after accidentally shooting his son.

  Exiting the taxicab in front of the dance studio, he considered what might lie ahead for him in Bermuda. This was one mission he wasn’t so sure he wanted. First of all, it wasn’t government sanctioned—not that he was always a “play by the rules” kinda guy, but still. Secondly, since the sniping failure of Operation Viennese Waltz, the ease of the Merengue was much more suited to his style of assassination. Pistol ready, get in, do the job, get out. But Darcy needed his help and for that he’d go to the ends of the world; that’s what they were trained to do. His buddy had been the only—o.n.l.y—one there for him following the death of his son, and he’d never forget that loyalty, that friendship. He’d have his back no matter what.

  The security bell chimed when the establishment door opened into an almost-empty studio. Above the dance floor, colorful paper streamers draped from the beamed-rafters to the turning disco ball and a banner spanning the mirrored wall read: “Mambo Italiano Night,” which he assumed was in preparation for the monthly dance party the next night.

  “Hi, Mr. Knightley,” Fanny greeted with a sweet blush to her cheeks. Her light brown hair cascaded down to her shoulder and she wore a little mascara, making her blue eyes look so much more expressive.

  “Hey, Fanny. Nice to see you. And you can call me John, ya’ know.”

  “Oh, okay. Are you back in town for long … John?”

  “No, I leave this afternoon following a meeting.”

  She fidgeted behind the desk, took some cash from a newly arrived student then gazed back up at him with a soft smile on her peachy lips. Rushing to words wasn’t Fanny’s style, but he was patient as she found her confidence. “You know, I’ve never seen you dance,” she finally said.

  Looking over his shoulder at Caroline dressed in a white sheath dress and colorful scarf tied at her neck, he chuckled, leaned over the counter, then whispered. “I don’t want to show up my boss. Do you get to dance at the monthly parties?”

  “I could if I want; I mean … I’m allowed after I check the guests in, but I have two left feet and …”

  “Maybe when my meeting is over, we can take a spin around the dance floor.”

  “But the party isn’t until tomorrow. I … um.” Fixing the collar of her dress, she swallowed. “Okay.”

  What on earth was he thinking? Not that he didn’t know how, but he hadn’t seriously danced since attending the Annual Rose Ball in Monaco as the escort to one of his employer’s many lovers who he wanted on hand—but not so near to his wife!

  “Well, it’s about time, Mr. Clean,” Caroline said from behind.

  Rubbing his bald head, he winked at Fanny before turning to face the other beast in his life. Flaming red hair pulled into a chignon gave the appearance of a classier side of the vicious woman. A lethal Kunoichi, female Ninja master, former CIA officer would never come to mind unless, of course, one knew her temperament.

  “Hey … you’re looking almost like a lady, Caroline.”

  “As usual, you’re an hour late, but I’ll forgive you considering yesterday’s misstep. Follow me.”

  As instructed, he languidly trailed her four-inch silver stilettos to the remodeled office. Gone was the window, and in its place was an acoustical soundproof door. In the dead of night, the day after Rick’s arrival home from Peru, trusted contractors (who had done this at Pemberley), stripped the office to its studs and re-built it into a secure type of SCIF (Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility). To students, the two new instructors, and Fanny it appeared as an ordinary office. And just like the one that saved Liz’s life, it was fireproof.

  “Have a seat, and keep your feet off the desk,” the co-director of Obsidian commanded with a point to her index finger, like he couldn’t see the chair, or this was his first time visiting. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes. Since her break-up from Rick, she’d grown bitchier and harder to deal with, even curtailing her ritualistic fuck-’em and dump-’em casual hookups. Maybe that stint she did (and he heard every ugly bit of it from the van) in Paris at L’Enclave ruined her—or was it Liz’s doing by del
ivering a long overdue set down regarding Darcy? Maybe he had it all wrong … could she have enjoyed that BDSM crap with Karakurt at the zoo and was now batting for the other team? At any rate, she was as gorgeous as ever, but in need of … something, from someone—anyone—just not him.

  The door sealed behind them and she sat on the opposite side of the desk. “I’ll ask, but only because I must—were you harmed in the blast?”

  “Your concern is overwhelming. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m fine.”

  “Did the Feds arrive on scene? That could be a real problem if your gear and personal belongings were there.”

  “I didn’t hang around long enough, and I’ve already been debriefed by the Director.”

  She removed an emery board from the desk’s top drawer, then dragged it over her pink thumbnail. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

  No. That raised eyebrow of hers was not going to get him to confess about his interest in the school’s receptionist.

  “Tell you?” He tightened his lips and nodded. “Well … I did hear that they’re opening a fetish club near Chinatown. Given your recent Parisian exploits, you might appreciate some dim sum and rubber flogging.”

  “Very funny. Why don’t you tell me all about that fetish club after your visit with Rick?” Although I doubt your virginal friend out at reception gets into bondage.” She glanced up at him with an expression that made the skin on his scalp prickle. “Unless, of course, you and—”

  He cut her off before her offer. Apparently, her fascination with him hadn’t disappeared altogether.

  “Listen, as much as I relish our insulting banter, Darcy and Rick are waiting for me.”

  “Darcy hasn’t arrived yet, and don’t get your hopes up about Bermuda—Morales has yet to be located.”

  “Then why am I going?”

  “I honestly don’t know why Darcy specifically requested you being added to Operation Gombey or why Rick finally acquiesced. Gombey is off book, and as I keep saying to him, we need to stay focused on real business. Operation Merengue’s target is a prime directive from the Agency and should be Obsidian’s number one objective. The Agency—and Obsidian—are laser-focused on bringing down this organ and human trafficking ratline, and your style of hit is the best way to accomplish this. The number one human rat is protected—by someone. Take him out and the whole house of cards comes down.”