By the time he joined her in the glass-enclosed fitness center, she was running like a mouse on a wheel, flying like the wind
and getting nowhere.
The look of surprise on her face was worth losing sleep for. He was glad to see they had the place to themselves.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, removing a pair of earbuds.
His gaze slid to the alluring expanse of her bare abdomen, which looked smooth and supple and perfectly feminine despite her
level of fitness.
He stepped onto the treadmill next to hers and powered it up. “Might as well get used to it,” he countered. “From now on,
where you go, I go. That’s how it works in the jungle.”
For a moment they ran wordlessly, side by side. Worried that she might stick her earbuds back in, he said abruptly, “Carlos
suggested we bury the hatchet. Maybe we should talk.”
Her continued silence forced an apology from him first. “Look, I’m sorry for my negative response this afternoon. If you were
in my shoes, you’d have done the same thing,” he assured her.
She flicked a considering glance at him but held her thoughts to herself, keeping aloof.
“Is there anything you wanted to ask me?” he offered in desperation. “You know, to even the playing field.”
Another considering glance. “Okay,” she relented. “How long have you been a SEAL?”
“Five years,” he replied.
“But nine-eleven happened eight years ago,” she pointed out, her expression not without sympathy.
Eight years later, his heart still cramped with grief whenever the subject came up. “My father would’ve expected me to finish
school,” he explained. “So I got my master’s and then I went to Navy OCS. I needed the time to get in shape before I enrolled
in BUDs.” Officer Candidate School had been a walk in the park compared to BUDs.
“Did you make it the first time?” she asked, clearly cognizant of the rigors.
“Rolled out the first time with a strained Achilles tendon. I made it the second time, did two years of qualification training,
and went to Afghanistan with SEAL Team Three,” he added, recalling a hot, dry wind, the fear of never knowing where the enemy
was.
“Is that what you wanted?”
“I wanted to understand the enemy. That’s what drew me to intel in the first place. To understand them is to beat them, right?”
She grimaced, astute enough to understand that the question was rhetorical. “So, how long have you been loaned out to the
agency?”
“Three years,” he said, knowing what was coming next.
“Why didn’t you just look me up instead of spying on me?”
Was that irritation in her voice, or had he hurt her feelings? “Keeping tabs isn’t spying,” he rationalized. “Besides, you
wanted your space. You made that pretty clear eight years ago.”
She’d explained in a final e-mail to him that she was joining the CIA, cutting ties with the past—for her own protection,
allegedly. Her message, followed six months later by his father’s death, had made 2001 the loneliest year of Gus’s life.
“Why bother keeping tabs on me, then?” she demanded.
She’d been the love of his life, the one he’d wanted to stay with forever. “Just curious,” he insisted, avoiding her gaze.
He hadn’t been able to help himself. The first week the agency had acquired him, he’d made inquiries, only to be dissuaded
by rumors of Lucy’s fearlessness. Thoughts of rekindling a relationship recoiled in the face of reckless devotion to Uncle
Sam. His own job was dangerous. He couldn’t afford to extend his heart to a woman with an immortality complex.
“So when did you train in the jungle?” she wanted to know.
“Last year in Venezuela. A group of us went to train the Elite Guard so that the moderates had a fighting chance.”
“And then they switched sides,” she finished, visibly quelling a shudder.
“You should never have gone back to that warehouse,” he scolded, glimpsing its lingering effect on her.
Jade green eyes flashed in his direction. “Look, it’s over. Just drop it, will you?”
“Is it really?” he countered skeptically. “Can you tell me you don’t think about it every time you close your eyes to sleep?
Is that why you don’t sleep, Luce?”
Without warning, she slammed the red button on the display before her, bringing her machine to a sudden halt. “What are you
implying? That I have PTSD?” she demanded, breasts rising and falling as she turned to grip the handrail and to glare at him.
Powering down his own machine, he faced her squarely. He could smell her perfume, warmed by the heat of her body. Combined
with the anger in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks, the scent was intoxicating. “Who wouldn’t have PTSD after an experience
like that?” he reasoned gently, wishing she’d just let him take her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay.
“Get out,” she ordered, jerking her chin at the exit. “You’re wasting your breath trying to talk me out of this assignment.
Just go. Get some sleep. I’ll see you on the plane to Bogotá.” Turning her shoulder on him, she powered up her treadmill once
again, cranking it to high as she stuck the earbuds back in and took off.
So much for trying to bury the hatchet. With a nod of defeat, Gus stepped off the treadmill and headed for the door. Sadly,
the rumors regarding Lucy Donovan were true. She was a maniac, devoted to her career.
At the rate she was going she would run herself into the ground before her thirtieth birthday.
L
UCY SHOOK TWO
A
DVIL TABLETS
into her hand and regarded them in her palm, lit up by the bright sunlight shining through the airplane window. The 747’s
jet engines hummed serenely at an altitude of fifty thousand feet. The hour was fast approaching when over-the-counter pain
medication would be a luxury she could only wish for, right up there with clean socks and a toothbrush.
Gus dropped into the seat beside her, startling her. It wasn’t fair that men could pee so fast. “What’s hurting?” he demanded
in Spanish, spying the little pills in her hand.
She had discovered the other night that, yes, Gus now spoke fluent Spanish, but with a slight American accent that hopefully
none of the European UN team members would detect. Carlos had suggested he tell everyone he had a Danish grandmother. That
would also explain his height and coloration.
“I have a headache,” she lied, tossing back the pills with the remainder of her Sprite. Truth was, the spot where her microchip
was planted, on the back of her right hip, was throbbing.
Gus’s protective hovering set her teeth on edge. Through prescription-free lenses, similar to the glasses he’d worn before
the navy paid for corrective laser surgery, he studied her with grave concern. The glasses were part of his cover, meant to
downplay his over-the-top physical condition and make him look more like a geek. Thanks to his intelligent demeanor, he managed
to pull off the illusion.
Since taking off from Dulles on this nonstop trip to Bogotá, Colombia, he’d surprised her by showering her with the gentle
affection of a new husband, treating her much the way he had when they were dating, not at all like the SEAL who’d tried scaring
her off this assignment two days ago.
“Are you sure it’s not your hip?” he murmured, annoying her with his acuity.
“Positive,” she retorted, jiggling the ice chips in her cup.
“Can you look at me and say that?”
Turning her head, she sent him a hard glare, but lying straight to his face wasn’t easy. “I’m positive,” she repeated.
“You know, it’s not too late to turn around, Luce,” he mentioned quietly.
In Spanish, her shortened name came out as
luz,
meaning “light.” Lucy sucked in a tight breath. “My parents are having marital problems, okay?” she hissed, bringing up a
situation that had weighed on her thoughts since she’d limped into her apartment after her microchip procedure and discovered
her mother had moved in with her.
His expression of dismay would’ve been comical if the subject wasn’t so touchy. “Damn,” he muttered. “Sorry to hear that.”
Lucy popped an ice chip in her mouth and pulverized it between her teeth.
“How long have they been married?” he asked her quietly.
“Twenty-nine years,” she replied, peering into her cup for another ice chip.
“They’ll work it out,” he reassured her. “It’s probably just a bump in the road of life.”
“I don’t know.” She sighed with worry. “My mother’s living in my apartment.”
“So that’s what’s bothering you,” he said with a thoughtful nod.
“Yes,” she retorted.
“You’re sure you’re being honest with yourself.”
Lucy’s temper simmered. “Yes,” she repeated. “Would you drop it already? We’ve already been through this.
I am not backing out,
” she added in English.
Without warning, his mouth covered hers, muffling further words.
Lucy’s breath caught in her throat at the feel of his smooth, warm lips against hers. Memories, unsettling for their blinding
sweetness, caught her off guard.
The pressure eased. “
Cuidado,
” he whispered against her lips.
Careful.
They were supposed to remain a hundred percent faithful to their covers, speaking only in Spanish.
Did he think he could manipulate her at will? Offended by his heavyhandedness, she kissed him back, wresting the reins of
control away. He stiffened as she slipped her tongue between his teeth. He met her stabbing tongue with a gentle, sensual
parry of his own, and pleasure rippled through her.
Alarmed, she drew back. His taste and texture were still familiar, but his confidence bespoke sexual experience that sparked
an immediate and powerful response. With the feeling she had unwittingly opened Pandora’s box, she drew back.
For a moment they gazed warily into each other’s eyes.
“Just curious,” she whispered, explaining her impulse with a shrug, using the same explanation he had used the other night.
With a tight look, he straightened in his seat and sat back, thoughtfully quiet.
Lucy turned her warm face toward the window and peered down, dismissing her actions as an aberration.
Far below them, the coast of Venezuela drew a skirt of sand out of the tourmaline waters of the Gulf of Mexico. It was down
there that she’d been stripped of her confidence in the first place.
She was coming back to reclaim it—not in Venezuela, exactly, but in neighboring Colombia. As tough as it was for her to admit,
she couldn’t do this without Gus. She would have to rely on him to cope with the jungle’s rigors—that was no doubt true. But
once this assignment was over, she’d be stronger and more self-reliant than ever. PTSD would be a thing of the past.
P
ERCHED ON A PLATEAU
in the Andes Mountains, nine thousand feet above sea level, Bogotá sprawled as far as the eye could see. Seven million people
living in one place had clustered into neighborhoods of differing wealth and ethnicity. To the north, a chain of mountains
created a scenic backdrop for the wealthy.
The airplane floundered through the thin air, then bumped down on the runway at El Dorado International Airport. As the unique
scent of South American soil stole through the open door, uneasiness roiled in Lucy’s stomach, congealing into something approaching
fear as she exited the plane.
I can do this,
she assured herself, stealing guilty reassurance from Gus’s hand as they strode along the boarding platform into the terminal.
Bypassing baggage claim, they headed straight to customs with their backpacks, submitting them to a laughably lax inspection.
Colombia wasn’t big on catching smugglers, evidently.
“What is the nature of your visit?” inquired the bespectacled official at their next hurdle—immigration.
“Business,” Gus answered for the two of them, and Lucy nudged his toe, reminding him to let her do the talking.
The man frowned down at their false passports. “You’re with the UN?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Lucy, her stomach churning. Carlos had warned them during the in-briefing that the Colombian army would jump at
the chance to follow a UN team into the rebels’ hideout. Yet nothing was more guaranteed to get the hostages killed.
“Which areas of Colombia will you be visiting?” he asked.
“We’re staying in Bogotá,” Lucy lied. If rumors of an arriving UN team were circulating airport security, this man might report
their arrival to the army.
“At which hotel?” he pressed.
Lucy shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We don’t have reservations.”
Pursing his mouth with disbelief, he stamped their passports. His myopic gaze glinted watchfully as he slid them under the
glass partition. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you,” Lucy breathed.
Gus snatched up their passports and propelled her toward the exit. Shouldering her backpack, Lucy glanced casually back.
“He’s making a phone call,” she warned.
“Walk faster,” Gus urged.
With a firm grip on her elbow, he drew her into the crowd thronging toward the glass doors. Together they scanned the crush
of humanity for Carlos, who’d promised to pick them up.
Lucy spotted him first, lounging beside an advertisement for the TransMilieno rapid-transit system. At their approach, the
Spaniard turned and marched ahead of them through the glass doors.
Humid air, choked with the smell of car exhaust, enveloped them as they hurried after him. Carlos had waved down a taxi. He
yanked open the rear door for Gus and Lucy. “Get in,” he urged, his dark eyes snapping.
Lucy dove into the rear with Gus immediately behind her. “Hotel Hacienda Royal,” said Carlos, jumping into the front.
“
Sí, señor.
” The driver peeled into traffic and immediately switched lanes, overtaking the taxi in front of it.
Lucy groped for a nonexistent seat belt. “Do we have company?” she asked, catching Carlos’s eye as he peered over his shoulder
to look behind them.
“I dare anyone to catch us,” he replied as their driver veered into the oncoming lane, going head-to-head with a busload of
passengers before lurching back onto the right side.