by Gayle Wilson
Griff had chosen his weapons with care, and then he had trained them hard, holding his agents to the same rigid standards to which he had always held himself. They had served him, and their country, well.
But when a weapon becomes flawed, when it cracks under pressure, it’s useless. Worthy only of being discarded. That hadn’t been Griff’s decision six years ago, but it had been his.
Given the events of the last few days, it was one he didn’t regret having made. And the sooner he could put Elizabeth under someone else’s protection, the better off they all would be.
Maybe then even Edmonds would get what he wanted.
“YOU NEED SOME HELP with her?” Edmonds asked after he’d pulled the car around to the back of the Maryland estate and parked it.
“I can manage,” Rafe said.
He would have to relinquish his care of Elizabeth soon enough. He wasn’t going to do it voluntarily one minute before he had to.
He had begun to slide across the back seat of the sedan when she opened her eyes. For an instant they were sleep-fogged and unfocused. As soon as she realized he was holding her, they widened. And then they held on his face, examining it as if she had never seen it before.
“We’re here,” he said softly.
She nodded, struggling to sit upright.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I’ll carry you inside, and then we’ll—”
“We’re at Griff’s?” When he nodded, her lips tightened with determination. “Then I’ll walk in under my own steam, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” he said, beginning to move across the seat again, still holding her.
“Don’t do this to me, Rafe,” she said, pushing against his chest with the palm of her hand.
“You’re in no condition—”
“I worked too hard to be accepted on equal footing with everyone else on the team. I’m not going to spoil it now by being carried inside that house like some kind of damsel in distress. Would you want to be?”
She had a point. He would have fought tooth and nail against any such suggestion if he had believed he could possibly make it on his own. Without another word, he released her.
SHE ALLOWED RAFE to help her out of the car, his fingers reassuringly strong and steady under hers. Despite everything she could do, her knees trembled with weakness when she stood. She was forced to put her hand against the top of the door to control the vertigo.
Rafe didn’t hurry her, obviously understanding what was going on. After a moment she met his eyes and nodded. He put his hand under the elbow of her good arm. In spite of what she’d said in the car, she was grateful for the support.
“Our instructions were to go in through the back,” John said. “Through the famous rose garden.”
She had known Griff came from a moneyed background, but she had never before been on the Cabot estate. It was damned impressive, she admitted, as they followed Edmonds across the carefully manicured lawn and through the extensive collection of hybrid teas.
After a few steps she freed her elbow from Rafe’s hand and eased her good arm under the injured one, holding it against her body. Even while she slept, she had on some level been aware of the growing pain from the wound. Now every movement seemed to send an electric shock through her body, each step an unwanted reminder of the bullet that had grazed her.
“Still okay?” Edmonds asked as she approached.
He was holding open the door that led inside from the garden, allowing her to precede him into the house. She was aware of Rafe behind them, taking a last look around the grounds before he joined them.
The room Edmonds ushered her into was obviously Griff’s study. It was dominated by a huge desk, covered with computer equipment. On the far side of it, under the windows, was an equally outsize couch. It was there John directed her.
As rocky as she was feeling, she didn’t decline the invitation. She walked over to the sofa and lowered herself by careful stages down onto the butter-soft leather cushions.
By that time Rafe had come inside. His eyes assessed her face, but he didn’t ask how she was feeling. She would have been reluctant to tell him.
“Now what?” he asked, the question addressed to John.
“We wait. Unless you can think of anything else we should be doing before Griff gets here.”
“Then I’m taking Elizabeth upstairs,” Rafe said. “Griff will have some kind of antibiotic salve and aspirin in the bathroom cabinets. Those will be better than nothing.”
“I’m fine,” she said, refusing to be shuffled off upstairs and away from the decision-making.
She understood Rafe was only trying to take care of her. If their roles were reversed, if he were the one who’d been injured, she would probably be doing the same. And he’d react with the same denial she’d just made.
“We can do it up there or we can do it here,” he said uncompromisingly. “The choice is yours.”
Rafe had apparently decided Edmonds was trustworthy enough to leave alone. She agreed, based not only on her instincts, but also on the depth of the man’s knowledge about Griff’s operations, not the least of which was how to get into both of Cabot’s very secure houses.
And she wouldn’t object to having a shower and getting out of these bloodstained clothes and into something clean. Rafe had thoughtfully brought her bag into the house with him.
“I’d like a shower,” she said, giving in to his ultimatum without saying the words.
“That can be arranged. After I take a look at your arm.”
He walked over to the couch and held out his hand. Her first inclination was to refuse to take it, despite knowing how ridiculous that would be. As deep and soft as the sofa was and as weak as she felt right now, it would probably be impossible to stand without his help.
She put her fingers into his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Then, as he had outside, he put his hand under her good elbow, guiding her toward the door on the other side of the room, which led out into a wide hallway. Without hesitation, Rafe directed her to the left.
“You’ve been here before,” she said.
“Once or twice.”
She hadn’t been. Not here. Not at the summerhouse. Had the agency’s old boys’ network been alive and well, even among the team?
She was beginning to sound like one of those bitter feminist types who looked for sexism under every rock, she acknowledged in amusement. Not that it couldn’t still be found, but the fact that she’d never been invited to either of Cabot’s homes might be nothing more than coincidence. Lack of opportunity or need. It didn’t equate to some antifemale bias.
As they climbed the stairs, that exclusion became the least of her worries. Either she was more out of shape than she’d realized or she’d lost more blood. The climb exhausted her, so that by the time they entered one of the bedrooms, she was leaning against Rafe openly.
The distance to the bathroom door on the other side of the suite seemed overwhelming. And the king-size bed between was incredibly tempting. She was determined, however, to make it all the way to the bathroom, already anticipating the heated spray of the shower pounding out the tension at the back of her neck and washing the cobwebs from her brain.
“How about if I take my shower first? I’m pretty sure this has stopped bleeding,” she said, touching the thick pad of the makeshift bandage with her fingers. “If I clean it up a little, you should be able to tell more about it.”
It was a reasonable offer, one that gave them both what they wanted. Whether or not Rafe would be reasonable about accepting it was another question.
“You sure you’re up to a shower?”
“It will help more than that aspirin you mentioned,” she said truthfully. “Not that I’m turning those down, mind you.”
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes,” he said, putting her suitcase on the bed and thoughtfully popping the locks. “I’ll look around for first-aid stuff while you shower. I might as well start in there.”
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, she had managed to select a set of underwear, a pair of slacks and a cotton knit sweater, which she had laid out on the bed. His gaze examined them briefly before it lifted to her face.
“I better untie that for you.”
She turned, allowing him access to the bandage he’d fashioned from her T-shirt and the belt of her robe. Actually, she should probably lay out the robe as well, she decided. Especially if Rafe was planning to show up here in fifteen minutes to reexamine her injury.
She watched as his fingers loosened the knot he’d tied, unconsciously remembering the pleasantly abrasive feel of them against her skin. She wanted to reach out and put her hand against his cheek, despite his withdrawal the last time she’d done that.
It had now been almost three days since he’d shaved. The blackness of the resulting beard along with the sun-darkened skin gave him a ruthless, cut-throat appearance, at odds with the concern with which he was unwrapping her arm.
That dichotomy had always been a part of who Rafe Sinclair was. As an operative, he had been as ruthless as the situation demanded. It was only as her lover that she had become aware of the other side of his nature. The contrast between the two had fascinated her from the beginning.
“This may hurt,” he warned.
His eyes rose from the bandage to fasten on her face. Set within that darkly weathered skin and surrounded by long coal-black lashes, they seemed incredibly blue.
And they were filled with compassion. The same emotion she had seen within them when she had begged for some explanation of why he’d left.
He had never given her one. At least not one she had been willing to accept.
Perhaps the only explanation really was the one he had offered. He had changed, and in the course of that change, he had discovered there was no place for her in his life.
“It’s okay,” she said, realizing that he was waiting for a response while she had again been lost in fruitlessly reexamining their past.
His lips flattened slightly. His eyes remained on hers as if he were wondering what she’d been thinking. Then they fell, as he pulled the pad away from the torn flesh.
He did it quickly and without warning. And it did hurt. This time, thank God, she had managed to prevent any audible expression of that pain.
Together they looked down on the wound. She held her breath in anticipation of that slow seep of blood. Despite the tearing from the bandage, it didn’t happen.
“Looks like it’s finally stopped,” Rafe said, sounding as relieved as she felt. He touched the bruised skin around the furrow, his hands gentle enough not to cause additional pain. “This may leave a scar.”
She laughed, which brought his eyes up again.
“Maybe Griff knows a good plastic surgeon,” she said, still amused that he thought she might be worried about something that minor. She was far too grateful to be alive.
“If not, Steiner does,” he said, releasing her arm.
A reference to the agency’s destruction of the identities of the members of the EST. In some cases that had included measures like plastic surgery, intended to change facial features that had become too well known to the enemy.
“I don’t think I’ll be asking for Steiner’s advice on anything,” she said.
“He did pass on the alert.”
“You aren’t feeling grateful, are you? Whatever those bastards do, it’s for a reason. Their reason. You’re the expert on Jorgensen. And now, due to their own stupidity, they don’t have anybody capable of going after him. They figured they could get to you by going through Griff. So they did.”
“Except this isn’t Jorgensen,” Rafe said. He didn’t look up at her, which made her wonder what she was missing.
“Then we’re back where we started,” she said. “And frankly, I’m too tired right now to even think about what that means. All I know is that I need a shower, a change of clothes, and something to eat. In that order. Other than that…” She hesitated, knowing if it were up to her, right now there wasn’t anything other than that. “I guess the only thing we can do is wait for Griff.”
“Fifteen minutes,” he said.
She nodded, wondering if she was up to the plan she’d just outlined. Rafe would stay and help her into the shower if she asked him. As tempting as that was in one respect, however, it was also the last thing either of them needed right now.
RAFE TAPPED on the door of the bedroom where he’d left Elizabeth almost twenty minutes ago. After he’d finished rounding up the things he needed to dress her arm, he had realized there were still ten minutes left of the fifteen he’d promised. That meant there was time enough for a shower of his own, along with a much needed shave. And he had to admit he was feeling more human.
When there was no answer to his second knock, he put his ear against the wood panel, trying to decide whether the water was still running. He couldn’t hear anything, but that might be due to the thickness of the door.
He could always open it without permission, but he hesitated to do that. Especially when he remembered what had happened the day he’d burst into her bedroom. He wasn’t sure he was up to a repetition of that kind of temptation.
He knocked again, and when there was no response this time, he turned the knob, allowing the door to swing inward. The bedroom appeared to be deserted, although Elizabeth’s suitcase was still on the bed.
The door to the bathroom was standing open, and there was a thickness to the air that testified to its high moisture content. He listened again before he stepped inside the room. There was water running somewhere.
“Elizabeth?” he called.
She appeared in the open doorway of the bathroom. Her hair was still damp from the shower. It had been combed straight back from her face, which was bare of makeup. She was already dressed in the short-sleeved cotton sweater and slacks he’d seen on the bed.
“Sorry. I was brushing my teeth,” she said.
“How’s the arm?” he asked, breathing in the fragrances of soap and shampoo that had accompanied her into the room.
“Not as gory, at any rate.”
“Ready for me to put a dressing on it? I found some antibiotic salve.”
She nodded, walking over to the bed to sit on the side.
“Or had you rather do this in the bathroom?” she asked, looking up at him. “It’s still a little steamy in there.”
Her eyes seemed clear and very green. There was a becoming flush of color along her cheekbones, probably caused by the heat of the recent shower. If he hadn’t seen the amount of blood she’d lost, he might be willing, as she seemed to be, to dismiss her wound as minor.
“This is fine,” he said.
He laid the materials he’d gathered on the bed and put his hand under her upper arm, bending over it to take a closer look. It was less gory, the path the bullet had taken clear.
“Any problems with mobility?” he asked.
She opened and closed her fingers and then she turned her wrist back and forth. “It hurts, but everything seems to work.”
She’d been lucky, he realized as he examined the gash. Discounting the possibility of infection, which the salve he’d found should prevent, this would heal within a few days.
He released her arm to twist the top off the tube of ointment. Then he squeezed a thin thread along the line of the wound. Next he tore open the packaging that held one of the gauze pads and placed it over the gash, letting the salve hold it in place until he could tape it.
When he’d finished, he straightened, stepping back. The combination of Elizabeth and a bed had always been dangerous. It was especially so right now, given his gratitude that she was alive
.
The injury was a graphic reminder of the fragility of human life. One he hadn’t thought he’d ever need after Amsterdam.
“That should do it,” he said unnecessarily.
“Thanks,” she said, putting her palm lightly over the bandage and smoothing the tape with her thumb. Then she looked up at him again.
“Are you going to do what they want?” she asked. “Are you going to go after whoever this is?”
His eyes fell again to the square of white gauze he’d just taped over a bullet wound the bastard had inflicted. As much as he hated the idea of doing what Steiner and his crew wanted, it didn’t seem as if he were going to be given an option.
Whoever this was had made it personal. And he had used the only weapon that would ensure that Rafe would come after him.
“Griff’s here.”
They both turned at the interruption. John Edmonds was standing in the door of the bedroom, his eyes moving quickly from one of them to the other. Finally they settled on Rafe.
“He’s found something he thinks you ought to see.”
“About Jorgensen?” Rafe asked.
“You could say that. Come downstairs when you’re through. He and Hawk are waiting for you. He wants to tell you about this himself.”
Chapter Twelve
“I thought you should see this,” Griff said, laying a folder on the table in front of Rafe. “We can’t make a definitive connection with what’s going on now, but we have to concede that the possibility exists.”
Surprisingly, Rafe found himself reluctant to view the material he’d just been handed. If this were proof Gunther Jorgensen was alive, not only had he wasted a year of his life, but it also would represent a massive failure of his abilities as an operative. Something he had once taken so much for granted he had never even thought about his competency.
He put his hand flat on its manila surface, drawing the folder toward him. Involuntarily, he raised his eyes, focusing on Elizabeth’s face. She seemed almost as anxious about what this contained as he was.