CHAPTER Seven

 

 

At first Emily felt the stab of pain in her shoulder. Her mouth opened, ready to admonish him, but then his lips were there. The kiss was so sudden. A tight gurgle bubbled deep in her throat as she struggled to comprehend the assault. She was flattened against the wall by a solid bank of muscles. Muscles in his chest. Muscles in his thighs−and inflexible arms boxing her in. With nowhere for them to go, her hands landed on his chest. Even beneath the thick jacket she could feel his heart. It launched her pulse into a matching cadence.

Trapped between his hands, she couldn’t shift her head. She was locked into this rough kiss, pinned in place by those strapping thighs, which nudged her impossibly closer to the wall. They nestled intimately into her until she thought her eyes might roll up into her head at the tantalizing sensation. His grip was tight and his kiss was relentless.

Wild with confusion, Emily shoved against him. Nate grunted at the impetus, but dug his hands deeper into her hair and forced his body tighter against hers. The outside world reached her in a herald of echoes. It faded as she became preoccupied with the texture of his lips. On and on, he kissed her and she would have sagged if not for his feral embrace.

Why?

Rather than consider the logic, she clutched his shirt and held on for dear life.

***

After the first contact with her mouth, it took Nate a blinding second to remember his original goal. He was aware enough to conceal Emily’s hair under his grasp. The shiny strands caressed his fingers as the wind penetrated their asylum. As best he could tell, only the outline of his back was exposed to the sidewalk pedestrians. If he hunched into her body−if he seemed intent enough−maybe, just maybe Barcuda’s men would walk on by.

Emily’s protests grew weaker and her fists against his chest had flattened. He was able to lift his eyes for a split second to glance over her shoulder into the reflective glass. The menacing trio paused to study the storefront, but their eyes shifted, surveying the shops adjacent to it as well. For one panicked heartbeat, Nate felt a set of eyes bore into his back. He dipped for another kiss, aware of Emily’s fingers clutching his shirt beneath his jacket.

The scent of fresh-fallen snow and citrus at the curve of her throat was intoxicating. He drew it in and lingered for a second before chancing another look in the window. Barcuda’s men had moved on.

The rational side reminded him that it was safe to draw back now. But the taste of her lips and the sensation of his hips in so tight against her body made him return for one more kiss. This one was gentle, and he felt her respond. Was he imagining it? Was he deluding himself that her fevered lips just swept across his and returned for another pass? The delusion was so real his palms slipped down her side to rest on her hips, which he wanted to tug closer.

Son of a bitch. She was a married woman.

But he was not kissing the married woman. He was kissing the deity that saved him on that highway. The woman in his arms was the woman who had stayed with him all night. And that woman just inched her hands up over his collarbone. That woman let loose a whimper of confusion and passion.

“Emily,” he whispered against her lips.

The sound jolted her.

Sapped of energy, he propped his hand on the doorjamb and used that leverage to shove off of her. He could not look her in the eyes. Instead he scanned the crowd and reached for her hand, tugging her back out into a throng of indolent shoppers.

“Come on,” he uttered gruffly.

Stumbling on the uneven sidewalk, Emily resisted. “But—”

“Not now.” It wasn’t his intention to sound so harsh, but they were vulnerable here, and his senses were back on high alert. Only two more blocks until they reached the bed and breakfast that would offer him a modicum of an advantage over their pursuers.

Emily kept her hand linked with his, a reluctant admission of trust.

“Almost there,” he encouraged.

The storefronts ended, which brought them to an antiquated cemetery flanked by a wrought iron fence. Crumbling tombstones rested askew, some completely toppled over, their epitaphs obscured by ice. Still, there was a regal peace to this graveyard, as if the dusting of snow was meant to protect the honored citizens beneath.

Beyond the churchyard, a stretch of residential homes lined the quiet end of the boulevard. Each of these Victorian mansions possessed hand-painted signs with bold script in their snow-covered front lawns. The Moorings B & B. Sweet Mary’s Bed and Breakfast.

Nate slowed his pace. On this end of town they were exposed. There was no crowd to mingle in, and definitely no storefronts to ravage a woman in front of. They had nowhere to hide. Aged oaks, normally lush with greenery were now distorted tangles of black limbs, each writhing branch seeming to point a finger at them. They’re right here.

Edelweiss. There it was. Two potted pine trees with pink ribbons wrapped candy-cane style about their limbs flanked a sidewalk that showed signs of neglect. A shovel had cleaned the path, but the job was a hasty one, leaving only a foot wide gap between snow banks. Climbing steps that groaned under the pressure, Nate drew back the door to the screened portico and winced at the shriek of the hinges. He threw a cautionary glance at the yard, satisfied that it was still empty.

“Charming,” Emily murmured.

He turned to offer a cynical reply, but his breath hitched as he looked at her. Emily’s eyes were bright and alert, restlessly searching the empty terrace. The brisk cold flushed her cheeks, and enhanced the vivid blue sky eclipsing her wide pupils. His glance dropped to her lips, still moist and swollen from his kiss.

Damn.

“Take a picture.”

“Touché, Em.” He dragged his gaze from her to assess the garden. Still no sign of Barcuda’s men. “Inside, darlin’.”

The look she gave him was unreadable. She either just condemned him to hell, or she mirrored his own thoughts and wanted to battle the cold with warm flesh on flesh.

“Can I help you?”

Nate’s head snapped. “Umm, yes,” he plucked his fingers inside his shirt pocket and extracted a credit card. “I believe I have a reservation. Clyde Smith.”

The woman behind the counter flipped open a ledger and cast him a quick appraising glimpse over the glasses perched atop her bulbous nose. He estimated her to be nearing seventy. The fingers that drummed on the wooden stand were already curved with arthritis, but they beat a confident rhythm.

“Smith, yes. That’ll be seventy-five dollars, but I don’t take those cards. I take cash or check.”

“Alright,” He dipped his fingers into his back pocket and caught Emily follow his hand, “but I only have a hundred dollar bill. We’ll call it even if you can possibly drum up a pot of coffee.”

“For twenty five dollars, you’ll get that coffee, plus soup.” Her smile smoothed the cobweb of wrinkles atop her cheeks. A quick pat of short gray curls, and a shrewd sidelong glance had her leaning forward artfully. “I just put on a tub of chicken noodle soup, and only one other room is occupied, so there’s plenty.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Emily injected.

Nate pried his gaze away from her long enough to nod at the proprietor of Edelweiss. “Thanks so much.”

He reached for the key, an ornate device of tarnished bronze that probably opened the door over a hundred years ago.

“The last room down the hall,” the woman offered. “Ground floor. If it warms up any, you have the back deck to yourselves.”

Excellent. He owed Phil for this one. Aside from the strategic forewarning, the room offered several options for escape. Nate shook his head. Hell, when was the last time he had worried about an avenue of escape. The NMD job was supposed to have taken him away from jeopardy like that.

But he did remember the last time. He remembered it vividly. It was only a little over a year ago that he was stationed in the Persian Gulf, where an escape route was essential. Naval intelligence had wormed their way into the community in an effort to undermine a large radical group. Nate was holed up in a seaside shanty trying to survive a bout with an unsavory local virus.

Bowed over a chipped porcelain bowl that served as a toilet, he heard the telltale whisper of the palms. A brush—a murmur—the natural caress of fern against man. They emerged from the trees, men whose morals were beaten out of them by their militant leaders. Death was not a threat to these walking corpses.

Nate knelt back on his heels and lifted his head into the trade winds to catch their scent. Rancid odors caused his weakened stomach to protest. He tried to focus on the draped tarp that served as his front door. It was the only entrance—the only exit, and now they drew closer.

“Are you honeymooners?”

Nate blinked at the question.

A mouth full of obvious dentures smiled warmly at him, hauling him from his reverie. The proprietor dropped her incisive gaze to his hand, and then jumped to Emily’s clutched fist. Sensing their discomfort, she nodded and flipped the ledger shut, edging out from behind the podium. “I think you two look like you need a little warming up. There’s no fireplace in your room, but the radiator will toast things up.”

She winked at them, and then tossed the words over her shoulder as she slipped through the foyer, “Stay decent for a few minutes until I get you that coffee and soup.”

“I think,” Emily whispered by his side, “that I am losing my mind.”

Nate pocketed the key and slid his arm around her waist. “No Em, this is reality. Reconsidering your life as a criminal, are you?”

He was growing accustomed to her death looks. If they were meant to intimidate, they failed.

At the door with the digit three on it, Nate released his grip on her waist and motioned her back with a silent nod. The clunky key turned with an obstinate screech—a blatant alert to anyone who might be waiting inside. The chamber was empty, though. Nate gently tugged Emily inside, and locked the door behind her.

***

Emily’s breath hitched as she looked up. A vaulted ceiling harnessed whimsical echoes of their footsteps across the polished floorboards. Casement windows nearly twice their height flanked two walls, their glass panes tarnished yellow. Thick blue cords held back frilly lace curtains to offer a view of the back porch, its freshly painted surface spared from snow by an extension of the room above. A barricade of pine trees offered refuge from the neighboring yards and played host to a family of cardinals rooted to the limbs like Christmas ornaments.

Captivated, Emily left that tempting view to examine the lavish Victorian chamber.

A brass bed swathed in a quilted spread nearly made her swoon with a need to collapse across it. How soft the pale blue pillows looked. How plump the mattress appeared. If she could just sink into that downy utopia for one minute. Just one minute.

The queen-sized bed was bordered by two night tables adorned in lace. White porcelain lamps cast an intimate glow across the polished wooden floor. Before the wall of windows, a white wicker couch romanticized the motif.

The charm of the room was not store-bought. It was a direct expression of the friendly proprietor, and in any other venue would have made Emily smile with delight. But this was not the venue.

Her reflection stared back at her from the armoire. A misty mix of rain and snow had flattened her hair, and her eyes seemed shrunken with fatigue. Absently, she reached up to touch her lips as the recollection of that kiss punched her in the stomach.

What the hell just happened? Yes, Nate explained the motivation−the close call with the NMD thugs. But, she didn’t understand the reaction—on her part, or on his part. It was voracious. In the midst of all this desperation, her reaction to Nate Morrison was pure hunger.

With her career and the strain of keeping her brother corralled, there was very little time for men. Any dates usually ended awkwardly. The brave few who hung on for more than one engagement were intimidated or put off by Colin’s behavior. The bottom line was that she had never been kissed like that in her life, and it had all been just an act.

In the oval mirror, her gaze locked with the man.

Amber-spun gold washed over her, making her tremble. She crossed her arms and hugged herself for warmth. Thoughts of her brother’s safety plagued her and worked to keep her mind off of Nate’s lips. The hit squad from NMD still bore an imminent threat and she was fearful of her life and frantic over Colin’s.

Her breath struggled while locked to that intense stare in the mirror. Over the discord inside her head, one thought cried out, and she voiced it hoarsely.

“Why did you kiss me?”

The eyes in the mirror widened.

“They were there,” Nate’s voice was husky. “One more step and they would have seen us. I had to do,” he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, “I had to do something.”

Well, there. You already knew the answer. Did you expect him to confess to some deep-seated desire?

In the midst of danger, and despite the fact that you misled him−hell, blatantly lied by omission in the hospital, Nate had not caved into sudden passion and kissed you like there was no tomorrow. It was simply an act—a quick-thinking gesture to avoid detection.

“Emily.”

“No.” She raised her hand.

There were no words to make this situation any better. She felt like a fool. Surely he had sensed her response to him. Surely he must be standing there wondering how a woman could react to a fake kiss like that when their lives were on the line. What type of woman was she to arch into him like she simply couldn’t get close enough to his body? What type of woman would delve her fingers inside his coat, seeking the warmth and strength of his chest, when just a few feet away three men with guns hunted them? What kind of woman could return his kiss while her brother was out there, alone?

Oh God.

“Emily.”

Again she deterred him with splayed fingers.

But, hadn’t he responded too?

There was no denying the physical response. But that was it, wasn’t it? Just physical. Hell, he was human, and she was plying herself against him like an Under Armour shirt.

“I felt it too,” he whispered.

Emily’s head snapped up. “What?”

Nate took a step. “That kiss, it wasn’t just a—”

A knock cracked against the door, the sound reverberating in the arched chamber. Emily’s hand slammed against her heart as her wild eyes sought Nate’s. Silently he commanded her to withdraw to the corner. She obeyed and watched with dread as his fingers swept beneath the hem of his sweater for the gun.

“Everyone decent in there?”

Power seeped from her knees. She sagged against the wall at the proprietor’s call.

“Just a minute,” Nate responded gruffly.

Emily saw the tense muscles of his wide shoulders relax when he stooped to peer through the peephole. He returned the automatic to its lodging against his back, but kept his hand in that vicinity−just in case.

“Mr. Smith.” The woman’s wrinkled smile glowed in the doorway. In her hands was a pewter pot, steam leaking from beneath its lid. “Chicken soup.”

***

Nate reached for the pewter container that seemed to weigh more than the woman herself. His glance slid down the hall, “You shouldn’t have carried this. I would have come for it if you asked.”

“Nonsense,” she waved. “I’ll be right back with the coffee.”

Nate watched the hitch in the woman’s gait as she ambled away. Anxious, he listened to the telltale groans of the ancient house and detected her uneven cadence as it faded across the dining room floor. He should have detected her approach before she even knocked.

How much of his former self had he lost? Did Nate Morrison really die that humid afternoon in the Gulf? For six months that was his official status in Naval records. Killed in action.

Only, it had not been warfare. Intelligence missions lacked the romance of warfare. The death of his father, the legendary Admiral Morrison, was heralded as a great military loss. Nate’s disappearance drew no more fanfare than the softest breeze off that Kuwaiti coast.

He survived that day with cunning and a keen knack for self-preservation. Slipping into the sea through a tunnel that had taken two weeks to develop, he treaded water for hours, watching the shack burn to the ground and the men boast of his death to their leader. When the sun finally set, Nate Morrison, the ghost, returned to shore.

Yes, he should have sensed the Bed and Breakfast owner’s approach, but he had been distracted by the look on Emily’s face.

Even now he could not take his eyes off hers. They had adapted to the oncoming darkness, taking on the hue of midnight. Shadowed and mysterious, they harbored hidden insight that she would never divulge. What was she thinking? Did she think that the kiss was just a means to hide from Barcuda’s goons? Well, it was wasn’t it? But then it changed. What a mess.

“Okay, you two.” The proprietor returned, offering up a silver tray with coffee and mugs. This time Nate knew her approach well in advance, but he still felt his sharpness was failing.

He used to be able to hear variances in the wind. He used to be able to discern a man’s thoughts before they were voiced. Now everything was a muddled echo. He knew nothing of what motivated Emily to put her job on the line—her life in danger. The love for her husband? That thought only darkened his mood all the more.

“Coffee,” he said to the owner. “I believe that this will cure all my ills.”

A curved finger bobbled up and down in admonishment. “Not all of them.” She winked at Emily. “But I’m sure you’re lovely lady will take care of the rest.”

On a throaty laugh the elderly woman tapped her hair and managed an awkward about-face, and left.

With the tray of coffee supported on one arm, Nate locked the door. A final peek through the view hole appeased him somewhat. The sun had set and the room was aglow with too many lights, which created too many revealing shadows to the outside world. He set the tray down and turned off the overhead chandelier, and then stooped to switch off one of the bedside lanterns. One lamp was left to cast a soothing glow that transformed the white furniture into a sultry shade of peach.

Only now did he return to her gaze.

If he thought Emily’s eyes were like midnight, it became evident that there was a place darker than that. There was no trace of the warm Caribbean Sea he once wallowed in. Unblinking, she watched him, and Nate was reminded of that same uncanny stare of the eccentric engineer.

“Do you want some soup?” Emily asked quietly.

I want you.

He dropped down on the foot of the bed, his elbow on his knee as he tried to swipe the pain in his forehead away.

Emily was seated on the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under her while she reached to ladle the golden broth into a bowl. The aroma made his stomach rumble.

For as hungry as he was, the temptation to approach that couch and haul her up into his arms provided a constant hum to feed the ache in his head.

“Nate?” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

He almost laughed. No! Goddammit, do I look like I’m okay?

The fact that she asked that simple question in that tender inclination made him feel a lot better, though. This was his angel. He realized that the criminal in her—the woman on the run—that was not her. This was her core self, he was sure of it.

“I think some of that soup, and some sleep is going to do wonders.”

“But—” Her eyes fled to the windows. There was no need to voice the rest.

Stiffly he rose and drew down the tarnished shades. An external light brightened the back porch and a small radius of the back yard. For now he believed them to be safe. Barcuda’s men had most likely found the Jeep and figured they skipped town on a bus. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to work with to buy time until he could find the engineer and understand better the motivation behind this whole mess.

When he turned away from the window, he fixed his eyes on hers. “Okay, we’re alone. We’re not going anywhere. Now is the time, Em.”

“For what?” She swallowed, and her leg came down off the couch.

“For you to talk. I’ve put my neck on the line, and I don’t even know what the hell for. Don’t get grand illusions that I’m trying to protect you. Just being in your proximity has put me on some sort of hit list.”

He took a step and glared down at her. “And I want to know why. Dammit, I deserve that. You’ve drawn me—hell, you’ve drawn my best friend into your web. It’s time to talk.”

***

Emily wanted to shrink back into the pillows. With the light radiating behind him, Nate’s silhouette was stamped with power. An athletic body, with long muscular thighs tensed in confrontation. His shoulders were bunched as if struggling not to grab her by the arms and physically extract the answers from her. She trembled at the image, but lifted her head to the challenge and met his eyes dead on. Her voice failed her.

“Emily,” he ground out.

“Yes, yes. You’re right. You’ve helped me when you didn’t have to. Just give me a few minutes rest and I’ll leave. As you pointed out, if I’m not around, you’ll be safe.”

“Dammit.” The giant fell. Those long legs ducked down as he crouched on the edge of the mattress. “That’s not what I’m looking for. You aren’t going anywhere until I figure out what’s happening here.”

The gravity in his expression made her realize that that was the truth. He would never let her leave. It was a sobering thought. She sank back against the pillows.

“I’m sorry.” Her head shook back and forth. “I’m sorry.”

“Emily,” He leaned forward.

She thought he was going to reach for her. She wanted that. His embrace. So much strength—just to be engulfed by it, to feel wrapped in his security. For once she wanted to be the weak one and have someone take care of her. Was that so absurd?

A brief cry of frustration bubbled over her lips. It was selfish, that’s what it was. Colin needed her. She had to be strong.

“I stole those plans,” she declared. “What more do you need to know?”

His shoulders relaxed. She noticed the heavy shadow around his jaw. The stubble made him look dark and attractive to the point of sinful.

“Why would be a good start.”

“Misappropriation,” she responded dryly.

“By NMD?”

“Yes.” She took a steadying breath. “If you built a model airplane−and let’s just say it was a large enough to fit people in it. Would you trust a model to fly those people halfway around the world?”

“No,” Nate reached for the bowl of soup Emily handed him, and in doing so, touched her fingers. “If the model was made of plastic, I would expect it to disintegrate once it got a taste of air pressure.”

“Exactly.” She smiled but concealed the gesture with a sip of soup. “Now suppose you built that model airplane during your lunch break at work, does it mean it’s now the property of your employer?”

“Whoa.” He shook his head, interpreting her point. “It doesn’t work that way, Em.” He set the bowl down on the floor. “If you built that model airplane on your lunch break, in a plant that manufactures model airplanes…then the line gets very thin and fuzzy.”

“So I’m finding out.”

From the depths of Emily’s purse, the muted shrill of her cell phone sounded an alarm. She stared at the leather bag down by her shoes as if it were eight million miles away. Frantically she sought Nate’s gaze and mouthed the words what do I do?

He came to his feet, a swift powerful move that made her cringe at the next chime of the device. Nate glared at it. “Go ahead. If we have to leave here, so be it.”

Emily’s hand shook as she delved for the instrument. Trembling fingers flipped the receiver open, and her voice hitched as she said, “Hello?”

“Miss me?”

All energy drained from her body. Colin.

“Wh-where are you?”

“Uh-uh. You know better than that, sister dear. But I’m safe, and I know how you worry so.”

She barked a laugh that sounded on the border of madness. In her periphery she caught Nate watching her. He gathered who was on the other end of the line, but it didn’t seem to reduce his tension. “We’re looking for you. The only way you’ll be safe is with us.”

“There is no safety in this world.” Colin drew in a long breath, and Emily feared he might hang up, but he continued quietly.

“Where am I?” he repeated. “Deep in hiding. Underground. On the lam. A virtual dissident. I’ve gone so deep only the Devil will find me—and even he has to look down. And, and—”

A ragged pain tore into Emily’s chest at the catch in his voice. “Yes?”

“I can’t find Benjamin.”

Oh no. “Colin, please, tell me where you are.”

“Dammit Emily, I said no names!”

Emily glanced up to see if Nate had heard Colin’s outburst. He was at the window, the stark planes of his face shadowed by the drawn shade. He dropped the flap back in place and leaned over to extinguish the lantern. Emily started at the darkness, but blinked until her eyes acclimated to the glow from the porch light. She understood the need for this cloak of shadows. It was the slightest of advantages.

Back at the window, Nate looked like night himself, with black hair and a sheltered expression.

“Besides,” Colin continued in exasperation. “I can’t tell you over the phone. Who knows who is listening?”

“Then how?” Emily pleaded. “Colin, Nate will help you. I know he will.”

In the shadows, she met his gaze.

“You can’t do this alone,” she emphasized.

Colin sighed on the other end as she listened for any telltale signs of his whereabouts. Silence. Nothing but the sizzling inside her head.

“You can’t look out for me all the time, Emma. You think I don’t know how you’ve taken care of me. You think I live in some fantasy world where I don’t have to deal with reality. I know what’s happening, and I’m responsible. Not you. This is not your mess to clean up, and you should have never gotten involved to begin with.” A slight squeak, like a rusted joint that needed lubricant. “You seem to trust the NMD guy. Why that is, well, I’m not even going to venture a guess. Just− just get to the lawyer. You still have the backup drive, don’t you?”

“Yes.” It was becoming more difficult to talk over the vise around her throat.

“Okay,” Colin was quiet for a moment as Emily strained again for any instructive background noise. Nothing. “Emily?”

Something in the way he said her name started the tears. A sense of dread made the crystals bead at the corners of her eyes.

“Yes,” she choked.

“I wish Dad was here.”

Oh God. She struggled to keep the sob out of her voice. “I know, Cole.”

“If anything happens to me, at least I’ll get to see them.”

“No!” Her sudden surge to her feet snapped Nate’s head away from the window. “Listen to me.” She clutched the phone with desperation. “Give me a clue, something to let me know where you are.”

Colin’s voice was muted, like he was not speaking into the receiver. “If you look between a rock and a hard place, that’s where you’ll find me.”

“Dammit, this isn’t the time for jokes.”

“No joke, Emster. No joke.” His mouth was back to the receiver, but the tone was a mere whisper. “I’m safe, okay? I’m safe.”

“Colin, don’t hang up!”

He was gone.

Emily’s fingers unclenched, and the glowing cell phone dropped to the floor. She tried to cry, but the sobs were locked inside, manifesting in a series of tremors.

She swayed—a graceful dance with despair.