Like no one else on earth, Andy understood. He had worked with
B.B. in the DEA. The memory roughened his tone. "I know. You can't be too
careful, honey. Look, we've had orders come down to cooperate with some guys
who are looking for a man. It's all hush-hush. They're not the local FBI
people. I doubt that they're FBI at all, but orders are orders."
Rachel's hand tightened on the receiver. "And an agency is an
agency?"
"Yeah, something like that. Keep quiet about it, but keep
your eyes open. I'm not real comfortable with the feel of this."
He wasn't the only one. "I will. Thanks."
"Sure thing. Listen, why don't you come to dinner some night
soon? It's been a while since we've seen you."
"Thanks, I'd love to. Have Trish call me."
They hung up, and Rachel drew a deep breath. If Andy didn't think
the men were FBI, that was good enough for her. Going into the bedroom, she
stood beside the bed and watched the man sleep, his deep chest slowly rising
and falling. She had kept the blinds closed since the night she had brought him
into the house, so the room was dim and cool, but a thin ray of sunlight crept
between two of the slats and slanted across his stomach, making that long, thin
scar glow. Whoever he was, whatever he was involved in, he wasn't a common
criminal.
They played lethal games, the men
and women who peopled the shadowy world of intelligence and
counterintelligence.
They lived their lives
balanced on the razor's edge of death; they were hard and cold, intense but
casual. They weren't like other people, the people who worked at the same job
every day and went home to their houses, to their families. Was he one of those
for whom a normal life was impossible? She was almost certain of it now. But
what was going on, and who could she trust? Someone had shot him. Either he had
escaped, or he had been dumped in the ocean to drown. Were those two men
hunting for him to protect him, or to finish off the job? Did he possess some
highly sensitive information, something critical to defense?
She trailed her fingers over his hand, which was lying limply on
top of the sheet. His skin was hot and dry; fever still burned inside him as
his body tried to mend itself. She had been able to spoon enough sweetened tea
and water into him to keep him from becoming dehydrated, but he had to begin
eating soon, or she would be forced to take him to a hospital. This was the
third day; he had to have nourishment.
Her brow furrowed. If he could swallow tea, he could swallow soup.
She should have thought of that before!
Briskly she went into the kitchen and opened a can of chicken
noodle soup, ran it through the blender until it was liquified, then put it on
the stove to simmer. "Sorry it isn't homemade," she muttered to the
man in the bedroom. "But I don't have any chicken in the freezer. Besides,
this is easier."
She watched him closely, checking on him every few minutes; when
he began to stir restlessly, moving his head back and forth on the pillow and
kicking at the sheet, she prepared a tray for his first "meal," such
as it was. It didn't take her long, less than five minutes. She carried the
tray into the bedroom and almost dropped it when he suddenly heaved himself up
on his right elbow, staring at her with those piercing, fever-bright black
eyes.
Rachel's entire body tensed as desperation flooded her. If he fell
off the bed she wouldn't be able to get him back on it without help. He was
weaving back and forth on his precarious prop, still staring at her with
burning intensity. She plunked the tray down on the floor where she stood,
sloshing some of the soup over the side of the bowl, then darted to the side of
the bed to catch him. Gently, supporting his head and trying not to jostle his
shoulder, she put her arm around his back and eased his head onto her shoulder,
bracing herself against his weight. "Lie down," she said in the calm,
soothing tone she always used for him. "You can't get up yet."
A frown laced his black eyebrows
together, and he resisted her efforts.
"It's
time for the party," he muttered, his words still drunkenly slurred.
He was awake, but certainly not lucid, drifting in a fever-induced
dream world. "No, the party hasn't started yet," she reassured him,
catching his right elbow and pulling it forward so he wouldn't be able to prop
himself up on it.
His weight fell heavily on her supporting arm as she lowered him
back onto the pillow. "You have time for a nap." He lay there,
breathing heavily, his brow still furrowed as he stared at her. His gaze didn't
flicker as she retrieved the tray from the floor and placed it on the bedside
table; his attention was locked on her, as if he were trying to make sense of
things, to fight his way out of the mists that clouded his mind. She talked
quietly to him as she propped him up on her extra pillows; she didn't know if
he understood what she was saying, but her voice and touch seemed to calm him.
Sitting on the side of the bed, she began to feed him, talking to him all the
while. He was docile, opening his mouth whenever she put the spoon to his lips,
but soon his eyelids began to droop as he tired. Quickly she gave him aspirin,
elated at how easy it had been to feed him.
As she supported his head and pulled the extra pillows from behind
him so he could lie flat again, she had an idea. It was worth a try.
"What's your name?"
He frowned, his head jerking restlessly. "Whose?" he
asked, his deep voice full of confusion.
Rachel remained bent over him, her hand under his head. Her heart
was beating faster. Maybe she could begin getting some answers! "Yours.
What's your name?"
"Mine?" The questions were making him fretful, agitated.
He stared hard at her as he tried to concentrate, his gaze slipping over her
face, then moving lower.
She tried again. "Yes, yours. What's your name?"
"Mine?" He drew a deep breath, then said it again.
"Mine." The second time it was a statement, not a question. Slowly he
moved, lifting both hands, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.
He molded his hands over her
breasts, cupping them warmly in his palms and rubbing her nipples
with his thumbs.
"Mine,"
he said again, stating what he plainly considered to be his ownership.
For a moment, just for a moment, Rachel was helpless against the
unexpected pleasure burning her flesh at his touch. She was frozen in place,
her nerve endings going wild, her body flooding with warmth as his thumbs
turned her nipples into hardened nubs. Then reality returned with a thud, and
she jerked away from him, bolting off the bed. Exasperation at him – and anger
at herself – filled her. "That's what you think," she snapped at him.
"These are mine, not yours!"
His eyelids drooped sleepily. She stood there glaring down at him.
Evidently the only things on his mind were partying and sex! "Damn it, you
have a one-track mind!" she angrily accused, half under her breath.
His eyelashes fluttered open, and he looked at her again.
"Yes," he said clearly,
then closed his eyes and went to
sleep.
Rachel stood beside the bed with clenched fists, torn between
laughing and swatting him. It was doubtful that he had understood anything
she'd said; that last provocative word could have been in answer to her
accusation, or to some question that existed only in his own foggy
consciousness. Now he was sleeping heavily again, totally relaxed and oblivious
to the upheaval he had left behind.
Shaking her head, she picked up the tray and quietly left the
room. Her insides were still quivering with mingled indignation and desire. It
was an uncomfortable combination, uncomfortable because she wasn't one to
delude herself, and she couldn't deny that she was attracted to him more
powerfully than she could ever have imagined. Touching him was a compulsion;
her hands wanted to linger on his warm skin.
His voice made her shiver deep inside, and
one look from those black eyes made her feel
electrified.
And his touch…his touch!
Twice now he had put his hands on her, and each time she had turned molten with
uncontrollable pleasure.
It was insane to feel so intensely about a man she didn't know,
but no amount of self-lecturing could change her response. Their lives had
become linked from the moment she had dragged him out of the surf; in assuming
responsibility for his safety, she had committed herself to him on a level that
went so deep she was only now beginning to realize its reaches. And he had
become hers, as if that act of mercy had created a marriage of their lives,
binding them together regardless of their wishes or wants.
Though he was a stranger she already knew a lot about him. She
knew that he was hard and fast and well trained; he would have to be, to
survive in the world he had chosen. He also possessed a tough-mindedness that
was awesome in its intensity, a steely determination that had kept him swimming
in the night-dark ocean with two bullet wounds in his body, when a lesser man
would have drowned almost immediately. She knew that he was important to the
people who were hunting him, though she didn't know if they wanted to protect
him or kill him. She knew that he didn't snore and that he had an extremely
healthy libido, despite his physical incapacitation. He was still when he
slept, except when his bones and muscles ached from his flaring fever; that
stillness had bothered her at first, until she realized that it was natural to
him.
He also answered no questions, even in his delirium, not even one
as elemental as his name. It could be the fever-induced confusion, but it was
also more than possible that his training was so deeply ingrained in his
subconscious that even illness or drugs couldn't override it.
Soon, tomorrow or the next day, or
perhaps even during the coming night, he would wake up and be in full
possession of his senses.
He would require
clothing, and answers to his questions. She wondered what those questions would
be, and thought of her own questions, though she was beginning to wonder if he
would provide any answers. She couldn't prepare for what he might or might not
say, because she felt it would be useless to try to predict his actions.
Clothing, however, was a problem she could do something about. She had nothing
there that would fit him; though she often wore men's shirts she had bought
them specifically for herself, and they would be far too small for him. She
hadn't kept any of B.B.'s clothing, though that would have been useless in any
case, as B.B. had weighed a good thirty pounds less than this man.
Mentally she made a list of the things he would need. She didn't
like leaving him alone for the length of time it would take her to drive to the
nearest discount store, but it was either that or ask Honey to do the shopping
and bring the things out. She considered that. It was tempting, but the arrival
of the two men that morning made her reluctant to involve Honey any deeper in
the situation. It should be safe to leave him alone for an hour. She would do
her shopping early the next morning, which would give those men time to move
out of the immediate area.
She carefully locked the house when she left, and told Joe to
stand guard. Her patient was sleeping quietly; she had just gotten him settled,
so he should sleep for several hours. Her gun-metal Regal ate up the miles as
she pushed her speed as fast as she could, anxiety gnawing at her.
It should be all right to leave
him alone, but she wouldn't breathe easy until she was back home and could see
that
for herself.
Though it had just opened for the
morning, the local K mart was already swarming with customers who had all
decided to do their shopping before the worst heat of the day was upon
them. Rachel got a shopping cart and maneuvered it through the crowded aisles,
dodging the darting preschoolers who had managed to escape their mothers and
were headed, one and all, for the toy department.
She steered around browsers, idled behind a frail white-haired
woman who walked with a cane, then spotted a clear aisle and broke to the
right.
A package of underwear, a few pairs of socks and a pair of jogging
shoes, size ten, went into the cart. She had measured his feet that morning, so
she was fairly certain the shoes would fit. Two button-up shirts and a cotton
terry pullover shirt were piled on top of the shoes.
She was uncertain of what size pants to
get, but finally selected a pair of jeans, a pair of black denim cutoffs in
case the jeans were too uncomfortable on his leg and a pair of khaki chinos.
She was ready to head for the checkout counter when a tingle ran
up her spine, and her head lifted.
Glancing around, she saw a man casually examining some sale items, and
the tingle became a fullfledged chill.
It was
Agent Lowell.
Without breaking stride, she diverted her path to the women's
section. The men's clothes, though androgynous enough that they couldn't be
recognized as men's unless the sizes were examined, would be a dead giveaway
under close scrutiny. Unfortunately Agent Lowell was exactly the type to
subject everything to just such an examination. The undershorts, socks and
shoes, beneath the pants and shirts, could have no logical explanation.
Ruthlessly she went through the underwear section.
Several pairs of panties, all lace
and satin, were thrown on top of the pile. A frothy confection of a bra and a
matching half-slip were added; she hoped she could trust in the normal male's
aversion to handling female lingerie in a public
place to keep Agent Lowell from examining the contents of her shopping
cart.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw
him casually moving closer, pausing every so often to examine certain items
with absent interest. He was good; he slid through the crowds without
attracting notice. He tracked, while giving no appearance of being a hunter.