Rogue Soldier (8 page)

“Trust me,” he said, and she nodded.

“He would pat me on the head sometimes, then on the shoulder. One day I was sitting next to him and he patted my thigh and left his hand there. I was too young. I didn't think anything of it.”

She watched a muscle tick in Mike's face, focused on that.

“It was May and I was invited to a pool party at a friend's house. Mr. Soniak was in the barn. My father wasn't home yet. My mother was finishing dinner. She gave me a beer to take out to the man before I left. I was in nothing but a bikini.”

Had it been as much her fault as anyone else's? If she hadn't run around half-naked, if she hadn't sat to stay awhile when he'd asked her.

“It was hot, too hot for that early in the year. He told me how much I'd grown and offered me a sip of cold beer, and I took it.”

Maybe if she hadn't taken the drink, if she hadn't wanted to look older and sophisticated in front of the man who was half her father's age and so full of charm and amusing stories, the man who was the very salvation of her family.

“I had a bottle of suntan lotion with me.” That and a towel. “He told me he would put it on for me before I left.”

Mike's hand tightened on hers.

“It felt funny having his hands on me. My mother put suntan lotion on me sometimes, but it didn't feel like that. He took too long. He sat me on his lap and I squirmed.”

That was it. She really couldn't say more now. Tears burned her throat, constricting it to the size of a needle.

A hoarse sound escaped from Mike and brought her gaze to his. “Did he rape you?” He was holding his breath for her answer.

“No,” she forced out the word. “But he put his fingers inside my bikini. He hurt me,” she said, wanting him to hear all of it now. “It was nothing. My
father said it was nothing. He didn't take my clothes down and he didn't rape me. My father said I must have misunderstood an innocent gesture.” The last words came out in a whoosh, rushing to reach the end of her embarrassing confession.

There. She'd said it now. She lifted her gaze to Mike's face, expecting to see confusion and the question “That's it?” in his eyes.

But his face was tight and dark as he swore and gathered her to him, held her in an embrace that was so infinitely gentle, it took her breath away.

“It was nothing,” she said, echoing her father's words.

“It was everything,” he said in a voice that allowed no argument. “He took your innocence. Your father should have killed the bastard.”

“Our family depended on him.”

“It shouldn't have mattered.”

And to her mortification, she felt tears roll down her face. “My mother understood. She made sure I was never alone with Mr. Soniak after that.”

“But she didn't call the police?”

She shook her head. “She would never contradict my father. It just wasn't her way. He supported us. He made the decisions. My mother would have been lost without him.”

He swore again. “No wonder you don't trust
anyone.” He pulled back and brushed his lips over her forehead.

“I want to.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “God, I'm such a sissy.”

“You're as tough as nails. You're so tough, sometimes it scares me.”

It was strange to hear those words come out of his mouth. She wouldn't have thought anything scared Mike McNair. She relaxed into his warmth and inhaled his scent, and when her eyes fluttered closed she fell into a deep dreamless sleep unlike the nightmares of helicopters and ill-mannered grizzlies that had plagued her short nap earlier.

 

H
E KNEW WHERE THEY WERE
. Being able to use the CIA's resources was a thing of beauty. Once he knew the warheads were out of the country, he had made sure the search switched its focus to the northeast. Every suspicious movement was reported back by the agents in the field, and he had access to the reports.

The Boss took his first easy breath in days. Everything would be fine now. Nobody else had enough knowledge of his various activities to finger him but those two, if they put things together… He couldn't afford to let that happen.

People in Alaska went missing all the time. Nobody would make much of it. The weather, as
ruthless as it was, had a way of surprising unprepared tourists. The bodies wouldn't be found until the spring thaw. Unless, of course, the wildlife found them first, in which case the bodies would never be recovered at all.

This one last task he had to see to the end, then he would be on his way to Belize.

He let his eyes drift closed. Belize. There was a party by the pool. The young woman coming up to the veranda swayed her hips seductively, the sun caressing her breasts as he would caress them soon. He reached an arm out and she came to him with a smile.

 

T
HE
CIA
WAS THERE
all right, not glaringly obvious, but not quite blending in, either. Tessa pulled her fur-trimmed hood deeper over her face as she passed a rental car parked in front of a shoe store, the man behind the wheel talking with lips that barely moved. If she wasn't specifically looking, she would have thought him a tourist, as no doubt many of the locals did.

The sky at 6:00 p.m. was as dark as in the middle of the night. She made her way toward the harbor without hurrying but walking as if with a purpose, blending in with the few people outside who were coming from or going to work.

She kept an eye out for her dogs and spotted two
huskies peeking out of the back of a pickup. They weren't hers.

A lot of the boats were already put up for the winter. It wouldn't be long until the harbor closed altogether, waiting for spring breakup. Looked as if it was under construction now. She eyed the giant seawall of granite boulders she assumed were there to protect the city, then she saw the two shipping vessels Mike had told her about and walked toward them. The dock was a short one, reaching into the sea no farther than an eighth of a mile. She wondered if in the summer months, when there was more boat traffic, ships had to wait their turn to come in.

To her credit she didn't jump when Mike suddenly stepped out of the shadow made by a giant pile of crates right next to her. They'd decided to come separately, taking different routes, being able to survey a larger area that way.

“Any trouble getting here?” He appeared relaxed, but she knew from experience that he was alert to the smallest detail around them.

“No.” They fell in step. “I saw two possible agents. Can't be sure.”

Another car sat at the end of the harbor. She could make out one person behind the wheel.

“That's another one.” Mike confirmed without
looking that way. “Walk slow. We won't be able to come back this way again without drawing notice.”

So they had one chance to survey the two boats and decide which one to trust their lives to tomorrow—if the American captain decided to go, thereby giving them a choice. They'd better make note of everything. She skimmed her gaze over them. Both vessels waited in the back of the harbor, near the car. They wouldn't get a chance to stop and gawk for long.

“Which one is the Russian?”

“The smaller one,” he said. “It got caught on the water in that storm two days ago and sustained too much damage to reach home port. They had to pull in here for repairs.”

They were almost at the boats, their pace slowing to a stroll. Mike reached out his hand in a tentative gesture. She took it. A couple seeking a romantic moment by the water might appear less suspicious.

The boats were right in front of them, the surveillance vehicle not fifty feet ahead. They needed time, a few more minutes for a careful look. She stopped and took Mike's other hand, as well, turned her face to his, moving so her back was toward the boats and he had a perfect view. She knew nothing about ships; Mike would have to be the one to make a determination.

A cold breeze came off the dark waters behind her. It would be a perilous journey, her first time on a ship.
She squeezed Mike's hand to help keep her doubts at bay. She glanced toward the car. The man behind the steering wheel was watching.

“Look like I'm saying something romantic,” she said.

His gaze flickered from the boat to her as he pulled her a little closer and gave her a few moments of undivided attention. “I'm out of practice with romance,” he said.

She gave an impolite snort. That would be the day, when Mike McNair couldn't get a different woman every day of the week. Then the petty jealousy slipped away as she thought back to when they were still together, the nights they had spent under the stars, how little they had needed for happiness back then.

“Help me out. In another time, another couple— What would she say?” He interrupted her thoughts.

His breath fanned her face, ridiculously warm, visible in the cold air, tangible like a touch.

“I missed you.” She swallowed. “A woman might say that.”

His gaze hesitated on her face before slipping to the boats behind her. “He missed her, too. I'm sure he would tell her.” He waited a beat. “What else?”

The stars above them seemed to shine with new brilliance.

“If they had fought before, she might tell him she's sorry.”

“Does she still care for him?” He pulled her into a full embrace, but kept his attention on the task at hand.

“Maybe she's scared to.” Her heartbeat doubled.

His parka was soft, but she could feel the hardness of his body beneath it, the steel core that drew her and scared her alternatively. He was a strong man, the strongest she knew. Could she ever keep her own strength, stay independent next to him, when leaning on him seemed so natural? Would she lose herself if she gave herself to him? And if she lost herself and he let her down, what then?

“I'm thinking he does. Care for her.” He focused on a point behind her, the familiar line of his jaw covered with the beginnings of a stubble. “No need to apologize for the past then.”

“Maybe he's sorry, too?” she whispered.

“More than words could say,” he said.

“Sometimes people fight about stupid things.”

A car door opened, then closed. Neither of them looked in the direction of the sound, but both were acutely aware of the shuffling footsteps coming their way.

“Does she love him?” He was looking at her now, his eyes swirling pools of darkness, their intensity freezing the words in her throat.

“I don't know. Maybe. Maybe she's fighting it,” she said at last, her voice rusty. Were they still talking about some imaginary couple?

The man coming toward them was no more than twenty feet away.

Mike dipped his head, but stopped short of touching her. She wanted the reassurance of his lips. She wanted him to claim her, to make things easy for both of them. She couldn't keep up this tug-of-war anymore. Did it really matter who won?

He hovered, watching her. He wouldn't kiss her, she realized, and disappointment slammed into her at the thought. He would keep his promise not to push.

The footsteps slowed as they neared.

She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, watched as his eyelids slid closed, his thick, dark lashes trembling. The first touch was a shock, sweet and blinding like the opening of heaven's doors.

He didn't move, but waited for her to do as little or as much as she pleased. She brushed her lips across his warmer ones, a slow pass then back again. A tentative nibble on his lower lip sent her blood rushing. Then he opened to her and she promptly forgot that all this was only for pretend.

She could never get enough of the taste of him.

They had kissed a hundred times before, a thousand, but never had it been like this. He didn't
try to arouse her, distract her, placate her or comfort her with this kiss. He was simply there, having given up all his power for her to do with him as she pleased.

Oh, he responded, and she felt the hunger under the iron control, but he made no move to get the upper hand, no attempt to master and to lead. It left her more breathless, more completely lost to him than if he had.

She explored him anew, learning him, sinking into his familiar places. It seemed they had been apart for a thousand years, or none at all, any thought of further separation all but unimaginable.

His mouth was soft and warm under hers, supplicant.

A challenge rose from inside her after a while. She mastered him because he let her. This was no true victory. The goal became then to snap that steel will, to take his control, to make him lose himself to her passion.

She tasted him, teased him, nibbled, bit hard, then stroked gently with her tongue. She was tearing down his defenses, could feel them crumble. Trouble was, her own were coming down, as well. As he was losing himself to her, she was losing herself to him.

She felt his hands fumble with the opening of her parka and arched against him, urging him faster, waiting for his hands to find her feverish body. But the caresses didn't come.

She pulled away after a few moments to look at him, confused.

He was holding the fur trim that lined the zipper, his hands white-knuckled and trembling. Then she looked up, into his eyes, and saw the effort it took, the panic that he couldn't hold much longer, the desperation of wanting to keep his word to her.

She felt childish all of a sudden, embarrassed. She leaned her forehead against his throat, her body weak with need.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have,” she said when she straightened and pulled away.

He flashed her a look that asked who she was kidding, then took a deep breath and looked around, reminding her why they were here in the first place.

The man was back in his car. He had likely walked to the other end of the harbor and back, passing by them twice without her noticing. Her embarrassment kicked up a notch.

“Look,” he said, and turned her gently.

The sky lightened over the sea, as if a painter had dragged his brush across black canvas, leaving a mesmerizing swirl of pale color behind.