Reminding herself that she had nothing to fear from this man, she said, "That policeman over at the other table, the one who came in just a minute ago, is watching us with increasing interest."
Although he didn't move a muscle, Rachel was aware of Shade's surreptitious sideways glance. "I would suggest," she continued calmly, "if you wish to avoid spending the remainder of the evening down at the precinct house responding to questions you'd rather not answer, that you leave your weapon safely where it is."
Damn. He hadn't even noticed the cop come in. No doubt about it. He must be getting soft in his old age.
That unsavory idea reminded him of an old intelligence agency bromide: There were old spooks and bold spooks, but there were no old, bold spooks. Shade slowly dropped his hand to his side.
"Who the hell are you? And what do you want with me?"
"My name is Rachel Parrish. And I want to accompany you to Yaznovia."
There. It was out in the open. She hadn't broached the subject as tactfully as she'd planned, but then again, tact and patience had never been Rachel's long suit. There were some things that even death couldn't alter.
"You're from the company." Shade wondered why he hadn't figured it out the minute she'd shown up. Obviously the desk jockeys were afraid that, left to his own devices, he'd screw up some unfathomable government foreign policy.
"No. I'm not from the CIA."
"Sure." She was good, Shade admitted as he swiped at the damn fern again. Everything about this woman—her unwavering gaze, her steady expression, her understated appearance, her composure—all screamed sincerity. "That's what they all say."
He still had the scar between his shoulder blades where an unbelievably sexy, redheaded double agent had stabbed him while they were taking a hot shower together in a supposed safe house in the German countryside. Six years later and Shade still hadn't figured out where she'd hidden the damn stiletto.
His intelligent eyes were looking into Rachel. Looking hard. Looking deep. Men had looked at her that way before, while questioning her during her fatal trial. At the time, they'd professed to be merely probing for the truth, but Rachel had understood all too well that they'd already found her guilty.
But this man was not like those others, Rachel reminded herself. Shade was rough-hewn, yes. He'd done things that he would someday have to atone for. But despite his outward cynicism, she knew that he possessed a deep-seated, unflinching integrity. He was also old-fashioned enough to believe in justice.
She'd always seen things in Shade others couldn't see. Things he'd never seen in himself. She also knew that it would irritate and embarrass him to discover that she considered him an unshakably moral man.
Such knowledge allowed her to hold her ground beneath his sharp stare. Although looking into his unwavering eyes was like gazing into a too-hot sun, if he expected her to squirm, he'd be disappointed.
"I understand why you might doubt my word. But I assure you, I'm not a spy."
She was a helluva lot better than good. There weren't many people who could stand up to a look designed to make the bad guys tremble in their boots. Most individuals with something to hide began to fidget. Flush and look away. Sweat. But she remained as cool as a frozen daiquiri.
"I think," he said slowly, determined to get to the bottom of this unexpected twist in plans, "we need to talk."
"Yes." Her pleased smile, now that she'd gotten her way, was nothing less than beatific. It lit up her eyes to a gleaming pewter, softened her features, and for a fleeting instant, he almost remembered where he'd seen her before. And then the illusive image faded.
"But not here," Shade said, as the noise level in the bar rose. The place was becoming packed with people all eager to see and be seen. Music blared nonstop; voices grew progressively louder, the blender whirred incessantly.
"It is a bit clamorous."
Having achieved her first objective—that of making contact with Shade—she was becoming more aware of her surroundings. Accustomed to eternal peace and serenity, Rachel's ears were beginning to ring from the interminable music.
The unfamiliar scents, the crush of people crowded shoulder to shoulder, seemingly unfazed by such physical intimacy, was making her claustrophobic. Her body suddenly felt disturbingly fragile, as if she'd shatter like crystal if anyone so much as brushed against her.
Moisture beaded up on her forehead and above her top lip; her hands grew cold. Tiny spots had begun to swim in front of her eyes.
Not one to miss a thing, Shade noted her sudden distress, along with her valiant attempt to conceal it. She reminded him of some naive little missionary plunked down into a village of cannibals.
He polished off the rest of the Scotch. "You hungry?"
Rachel shook her spinning head to clear it. She took a deep, calming breath, unaware of the way it caused her unfettered breasts to rise and fall provocatively beneath the black wool.
The change of subject momentarily confused her. Then, as if on cue, she felt an unfamiliar rumbling in her stomach. She pressed her palm against the front of her straight skirt, as if to quiet it. "I think I am."
"I skipped lunch today and I'm starving. Wait here while I make a quick call, then we'll leave. We can eat dinner while we talk."
More than a little eager to escape the crowded tavern, Rachel nodded her assent.
After briefly filling Marianne in on what he'd learned so far, and promising to give her more details later this evening, Shade returned to Rachel, who was standing exactly where he'd left her, slender arms wrapped around herself in an unconscious gesture of self-protection.
She had, he saw, retreated somewhere deep inside herself. She was as stiff as a marble statue and her eyes were directed toward the floor, her lashes a sooty fringe on her ashen cheeks.
Sympathy stirred and was immediately and firmly squelched. "Okay. Let's go."
Her relief was so quick and so palpable, Shade felt as if he could have reached out and touched it. Obviously the lady was not as cool and collected as she'd first appeared.
When he put his hand on her back, guiding her expertly through the crush of government employees on the prowl, a bubbly sensation Rachel could not identify rose up inside her.
When she would have stepped away, his hand moved to her arm, holding her so tightly beside him that their bodies were nearly touching. His hard thigh brushed against hers; the brief, unnerving impact almost made Rachel's knees buckle.
"You all right?" Shade felt her sudden stumble, and his grip tightened.
"I'm fine." Rachel groaned inwardly as she realized, despite the very best of intentions, she'd already told her first falsehood. Joshua would be terribly disappointed.
The unpracticed lie was as clear as glass, making Shade all the more suspicious. Who the hell was she? he wondered. And why did she seem so damn familiar?
They didn't talk as they made their way through the combination railroad station/upscale mall. In the distance, a disembodied voice coming from a loudspeaker announced trains leaving for Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston and New York City.
As the bustling crowds surged around them, Rachel's uneasiness increased. So many people, she thought, moving instinctively closer to Shade. Where were they all going in such a hurry? The unfamiliar crush of humanity made her head begin to swim again and this time she was grateful for his touch as he put a strong, almost protective, arm around her shoulders.
Outside Union Station, a taxi was unloading its passengers. Shade waved it by. Then another. He stopped the third.
"Was there something wrong with those first two?" Rachel asked. Now that they were outside, she found herself able to breathe again. Her mind cleared, allowing her to remember her mission.
"I like this one."
Years ago, he'd been driven around Moscow by a trio of KGB agents who were not exactly thrilled to discover him in their country. Two hours later, he'd learned three important lessons: KGB agents tended to be humorless thugs, broken bones healed and never, ever, take the first cab that conveniently shows up just when you're looking for one.
As he opened the back door for her, Shade glanced with seeming casualness at the cab behind them, making a mental note of the license plate: Able Kilo X-ray 398.
Rachel slid gracefully into the back seat, treating Shade to a flash of thigh. Whoever she was, the lady definitely had world-class legs.
"reeling better?"
Once again, color rose in a complexion that was a study in winsome pastels. "I'm fine," she said quietly, folding her hands neatly, almost primly, in her lap. "Thank you for asking."
"You looked like you were about to pass out."
"I think it was the heat in the tavern. Now that I've had some fresh air I'm feeling very much better." She smiled. "It was very kind of you to be concerned."
His broad shoulders moved in a careless, irritated shrug. "Lesson number one, Sister Rachel. I'm never kind."
Knowing better but not wanting to engage in an argument, Rachel didn't answer. Instead, she turned her attention toward the passing scenery.
Rachel had never ridden in an automobile. Add to that the chaos that was rush-hour traffic in the District and she found the journey to the restaurant to be a trip she knew she would never forget.
As the taxi driver tore through the streets, Rachel clung to the edge of the cracked vinyl seat. The experience was absolutely terrifying. And exhilarating. Adrenaline, once felt but long ago forgotten, coursed through her veins as the cab careened around a corner.
Behind the cover of the dark glasses he'd donned after leaving the bar, Shade watched her with unwavering interest that he told himself was strictly professional.
Bright color stained her high cheekbones, her lips were slightly parted, she was breathing in short little gasps, and her white-knuckled fingers were grabbing onto the edge of the seat as if she were afraid she was in danger of spinning off the edge of the world. Although there was nothing remotely sensual about the madhouse that was Washington late-afternoon traffic, she looked, Shade mused, exactly like a woman approaching orgasm.
"You must not be from around here," he probed.
She closed her eyes as the taxi abruptly cut in front of a Shoreham hotel curtesy van, earning a deafening squeal of brakes, then a furious bleat of the van's horn.
"I'm not." Now that, she considered, was a major understatement.
Gingerly she peeked again, just in time to watch the driver cut off a delivery van. "Is the restaurant very far?"
"No. So where's home?"
Relief flooded through her. As admittedly thrilling as the ride was, she didn't know how much more of it she could take. "I was born in Massachusetts."
"Ah. I thought I recognized the accent." Although the cadence was different, it reminded Shade slightly of Marianne's Bostonian tones. Perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. "Boston?"
"Salem."
"So, do you live there now?"
"I left some time ago. Dear Lord," she murmured, pressing a palm against her pounding heart as two bicyclists suddenly cut across three lanes of fast-moving traffic.
In the front seat the driver leaned on the horn and shouted a string of colorful, imaginative curses out the open window. The lead bicyclist responded with the raised middle finger of his gloved hand.
"So, where do you live now?"
"Oh, here and there." She wondered what he'd say if she told him the absolute truth, and decided he'd probably take her directly to the local lunatic asylum.
"What do you do? Here and there. For a living," he added at her blank look.
"I'm a midwife," she answered, relieved that the cycle had gone full circle and her former occupation was returning to vogue. Another falsehood safely averted.
"I thought midwives went out with gaslights and horse and buggies."
"They did lose popularity for a time," she agreed. "But now there are a great many women who prefer having their children at home, with their family present."
"Sound like leftover hippies to me," Shade decided.
She tapped down the flare of irritation created by his dismissive attitude. "Well, you're certainly entitled to your opinion. But you're wrong," she was unable to resist tacking on.
"If I'm wrong, why don't you tell me more about your work?" he suggested. "In order to help me better understand?"
He wasn't at all interested in her work as a midwife, Rachel knew. He was digging for information about her. About her past. She wondered if telling him the unvarnished truth would wipe that superior expression off his rugged face.
"Oh, look," she breathed, partly in an attempt to change the subject, partly in heartfelt appreciation of the sight, "aren't the cherry blossoms lovely!" The flowers reminded her of puffy pink clouds.
"Gorgeous." He didn't bother looking at the world-famous trees, decked out in their best springtime finery, bordering the equally famous Tidal Basin. "Have we met?"
Rachel sighed. She'd been waiting for this question. "Met?" she hedged, thinking back on that brief episode when Shade had been trapped under the ice. "No," she said with absolute, unwavering conviction, "we've never met."
Shade had very good instincts about people. More than once his life had depended on such intuition. He sensed she was telling the truth. But he still couldn't quite shake the feeling their paths had crossed before.
"Then why do I feel as if I've known you?"
"Perhaps in some previous life?"
"Sorry, sweetheart, but I don't believe in previous lives, second sight, Ouija boards or any other hocus-pocus kind of stuff." He didn't add that he'd never bought into Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy, either.
Rachel knew all too well that Shade possessed a relentlessly logical mind. It had been folly to even attempt to throw him off track.
"Well," she murmured with a slight shrug of her shoulders, feigning intense interest in the towering marble and granite obelisk the cab was approaching, "they say everyone has a double."
As they passed the Washington Monument, she thought back to the gallant young revolutionary soldier she'd seen through that freezing winter at Valley Forge. He'd survived the war, with her help, and had gone back to his Virginia farm where he'd married and fathered six children and lived happily ever after with his family for another thirty years.