Midnight Games: A Killer Instincts Novel (3 page)

The large stone terrace, where Lloyd had served dinner, was ringed by a steel railing and overlooked the endless stretch of dark, barren land in the distance. The glass table with its wrought-iron legs was laden with the remnants of the group’s meal—filet mignon, roasted potatoes, two different types of wild rice, a spicy brisket dish, several bottles of red wine, and a case of Bud Light.

The group sitting around the table was smaller than usual. Trevor and Isabel. Abby and Kane. Ethan and D, their resident taciturn asshole. And Beth and Holden, who were flying back to Montana in the morning. At one point, the compound’s three new canines had been part of the fun, but they were eventually ushered inside for barking at Kane each time he touched his wife.

“So what exactly did this mysterious undercover op of yours entail?”

Abby’s sharp inquiry jerked Trevor from his thoughts. There was no mistaking the suspicious chord in the redhead’s voice or the shrewd glint in her eyes as she stared Isabel down.

Across the table, Isabel’s expression remained relaxed. She reached for her wineglass and took a small sip. “It was the usual,” she told her former colleague. “Recon, intel, same old.”

“It took you five months to do some recon and gather intelligence?” Abby said skeptically.

“Yup.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

The entire table was following the exchange between the two women, Trevor growing warier by the second. Did Abby know something about Isabel’s last job? And if so, why hadn’t she mentioned it to him? God knows he’d been hounding Abby for information ever since he’d moved to the compound.

“What exactly is it you do, Isabel?” Beth McCall asked in that quiet voice of hers.

“Undercover work mostly,” Isabel answered vaguely. “I’m sent in to get close to a target or placed in a position where I can watch them, and I gather whatever intel I’m asked to acquire. The target’s routine, likes and dislikes, personality traits, all sorts of information.”

Information that Noelle or one of her girls then utilized in order to eliminate the target. But Trevor didn’t blame Isabel for omitting that particular detail. Beth didn’t seem like a woman who would understand or approve of contract killing.

“What do
you
do?” Isabel asked, smoothly steering the subject away from herself, the way she always did.

“I’m a chef at a French restaurant in Helena.”

Holden smiled as he reached for his beer bottle. “She’s being modest. Beth’s the
head chef
at a
five-star
French restaurant in Helena. And she cooked everything we ate tonight.”

Trevor felt like a borderline voyeur as he watched Holden and Beth exchange a tender look. The love and pride Holden felt for his wife were so obvious it was damn near poetic.

There was a time when Trevor had looked at the love of
his
life with that same smitten expression.

“You’re an amazing chef, then,” Isabel said warmly. “The food was delicious.”

“I didn’t prepare the brisket,” Beth said quickly, a sweet flush on her cheeks. “That was all Lloyd.” Her dark eyes focused on the empty dishes littering the table. “Actually, I should probably start cleaning up so he can bring out dessert.”

On Beth’s other side, Ethan immediately scraped back his chair. “You don’t have to do that. We can handle it.”

“I want to,” Beth insisted. Her tone brooked no argument, and Trevor realized there might be some fire beneath that shy exterior.

Holden confirmed it when he turned to Ethan and said, “Don’t argue with her when it comes to anything kitchen-related. She’ll always win.”

With Holden’s help, Ethan and Beth cleared the table, then disappeared through the glass doors leading into the kitchen.

The moment the trio was gone, Abby spoke again, her yellow-brown eyes glaring daggers at Isabel.

“I didn’t want to say it in front of Beth—that woman’s so damn sweet she’s giving me a toothache,” Abby muttered. “But don’t think you’ve got me fooled for one instant, Iz. I watch the news, you know.”

Isabel’s lips tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

D, who’d been smoking a cigarette by the railing, turned around with a raspy chuckle. “It means that yesterday morning someone put a bullet in Tengo Ekala’s head. Gee, Blondie, whoever could have done that?”

Trevor didn’t know what came as a bigger shock—D’s sarcastic revelation or the fact that the man had joined the conversation at all. D wasn’t usually so social. Of all the operatives who worked for Morgan, Derek “D” Pratt was the biggest enigma. With that close-trimmed dark hair, muscular tattoo-covered body, and perpetual scowl, he was downright terrifying at times. Not to mention incredibly hard to connect with.

But Trevor had witnessed a different side to D ever since he’d moved to the compound. Before, he’d thought D was a cold, heartless warrior with a penchant for bloodlust, but he’d soon realized there was more to the man than met the eye. For one thing, D was protective to a fault—he always looked after his teammates, including Abby, if his wedding gift to her was any indication. And when Luke had shown up with the puppies last month, Trevor would swear on his life that he’d seen D stroking one of those soft furry heads with infinite tenderness he wouldn’t have dreamed the man capable of.

“If you’re suggesting I had something to do with Ekala’s death . . .” Isabel just shrugged.

She fucking
shrugged
, which sent a jolt of disbelief to Trevor’s chest. “Jesus Christ, Isabel,” he said in a low voice. “Were you in Nigeria?”

“Yes.”

“You infiltrated Ekala’s camp?” The mere thought had his gut going rigid with shock and anger. Ekala was one of the most feared warlords on the globe, a sadist who’d earned that reputation thanks to his spine-chilling torture methods and trigger-happy soldiers.

And Isabel had buddied up to the bastard?

“Noelle assigned you a contract?” Abby sounded as horrified as Trevor felt. “Why?”

Isabel gave another shrug. “She didn’t have anyone else to send.”

“Bullshit,” Abby snapped. “She would’ve done the job herself before sending you, unless she was persuaded not to. For fuck’s sake, Izzy, you convinced her to send you, didn’t you?”

Isabel pushed back her chair and stood up. “Can we talk about this in private?”

Abby was on her feet before Isabel even finished her sentence. “Damn right we will.”

Those were the same words Trevor had said to Isabel about their own unfinished business, and he noted the irony in the fact that Isabel was alienating the only two people who actually gave a damn about her. Who actually
saw
her.
Her
, not the various masks she wore.

Frustration clogged his throat as the two women stalked off. Their stiff body language hinted there would be nothing polite or civilized about their impending confrontation.

Trevor understood Abby’s disapproval. Isabel wasn’t a killer. She protected people,
saved
them. She didn’t take lives unless it was absolutely necessary—or at least that’s what she’d insisted both times they’d worked together.

His blood boiled as he remembered all those annoying phone calls with Noelle. Why hadn’t the woman told him she’d sent Isabel on a contract job?

“Why did your lovely bride rush off with Isabel?” Holden asked Kane as he rejoined the group.

Beyond the terrace doors, Beth and Ethan were bustling around in the kitchen, while Lloyd placed a huge chocolate cake on a glass cake dish.

“Girl talk,” Kane said lightly. “And you don’t have to call Abby lovely on my account. We both know she’s almost as scary as this guy.” He hooked a thumb at D.

Trevor tuned everyone out, wishing he could be a fly on the wall for Isabel’s conversation with Abby.

Fuck. Something was definitely up with the woman. He’d thought the only issue they had to contend with was the way she’d fled Manhattan after failing to help a drug-addicted stripper, but to hop a plane to Nigeria and get tangled up with an African warlord? To put a bullet in the guy’s head?

Clearly there was a helluva lot more going on with Isabel than he’d thought.

•   •   •

Trevor didn’t get another chance to speak to Isabel that night. She and Abby had disappeared into Morgan’s study, and when the two women finally reappeared hours later, Isabel pleaded exhaustion and asked if they could talk tomorrow. Like the gentleman he was, Trevor had shown her to one of the upstairs guestrooms and bidden her good night.

He, on the other hand, couldn’t grab a second of shut-eye. He was too wired, and knowing that Isabel was right down the hall pretty much guaranteed he wouldn’t be getting any sleep. He didn’t know why he was so drawn to her. Why he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the day they’d met.

You were falling for me.

As the accusation he’d lobbed at Isabel buzzed in his head, Trevor stifled a groan and slid out of bed. It was three in the morning, but sleep was clearly determined to elude him.

Wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, he approached the window and gazed out at the darkness-bathed landscape. Dense forest, rolling hills, the dusty trail that led to the outdoor shooting range beyond the trees.

Funny how easy it was to tell Isabel what
she’d
been feeling, yet he couldn’t put a label on his own emotions. What exactly did he want from her? Sex? Well, that was a given—he was so attracted to her he couldn’t think straight. But what else? Did he want a relationship? To build a life with her?

He had no clear answers for those questions. If anything, each question only raised a new one. But he did know that he liked her. A lot. And that he wanted—no, he
needed
—to explore this thing between them, whatever it was and wherever it took them.

He raked both hands through his hair, suddenly craving a good stiff drink. Insomnia was nothing new to him; he’d had bouts of it ever since he’d joined the army at eighteen. Most women would go crazy dealing with a man who paced the bedroom floor half the night, or who lay on the living room couch at four in the morning blankly staring at a television screen—but not Gina. That stubborn woman would stay up with him, even when she had an early shift at the bank the next morning. They’d sit in the kitchen with their respective glasses of warm milk—or whiskey, when the milk didn’t achieve the desired effect. Sometimes she’d curl up against his chest and watch TV with him.

Agony burned in his throat. Ten years. He’d loved Gina for ten years, lived with her for eight, and after her death, not a day had gone by when he hadn’t thought of the woman he loved. Now, his thoughts of Gina were no longer as frequent, but when they came . . . Christ, when they came, they made him feel ravaged.

Swallowing the lump of pain, he yanked on a pair of cargo pants and left the bedroom.

Shafts of moonlight from the skylights in the front parlor cast a silvery glow on the off-white walls and the mahogany banister of the wide staircase. When he neared the living room, he instantly noticed the light spilling from beneath the closed oak doors. Looked like he wasn’t the only one suffering from insomnia tonight.

No way of knowing who was behind those doors either. He hadn’t heard a single footstep when he’d been lying awake in bed—every last person who lived on the compound moved like a ghost. Silent, invisible, deadly.

Opening the double doors, Trevor stepped into the great room and found Isabel curled up in one of the armchairs.

Her blond head snapped up at his entrance, blue eyes filling with wariness. “Hey,” she said. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nope. I had no idea you were even up.”

He lingered in the doorway, noticing that her gaze was now focused on his bare chest.

Damned if her appreciative look didn’t send a bolt of pure male satisfaction through him. After Gina died, he’d let himself go, totally unconcerned about his growing beer gut because the last thing a man felt like doing after losing the woman he loved was hitting the
gym
, for fuck’s sake. He’d also quit the team and become a hermit, and who could forget all the time he’d spent trying to figure out how he could kill himself without making his mom and sister suffer?

Christ, he’d been a pathetic mess.

It had taken more than a year to kick his ass into gear. He’d gone back to work, reconnected with his family, his men, and, yeah, he’d definitely been working out more.

The appreciation flickering in Isabel’s eyes made every last push-up, barbell curl, and brutal sparring session with D absolutely fucking worth it.

“Can’t sleep?” he said lightly.

She sighed. “Jet lag. My body has no sense of time right now.”

His bare feet padded on the hardwood floor as he made his way to the wet bar by the fireplace. He felt Isabel’s gaze on him as he poured himself a glass of single-malt whiskey.

“Expensive taste in liquor, I see.”

He set down the Bushmills bottle and turned to face her. “It’s the Irish in me. I can only drink fine Irish whiskey.”

A smile curved her lips. “You never mentioned your Irish roots before.”

“That’s because my family is as American as baseball and apple pie. My great-great-great-grandfather came over from Ireland, but other than a taste for their whiskey, I don’t have much of a connection to the culture.”

He flopped down in the chair opposite hers. Isabel started playing with the edge of the thin afghan she’d drawn up over her legs. There was a mystery novel in her lap, but she made no move to open it.

“I can’t believe Abby is married.” Her expression was indecipherable. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy for her. I’m really happy, but it’s just kind of . . . jolting, I guess. She’s always been the most emotionally detached person I know.”

“People change.” He shrugged. “People grow.”

“Clearly.” Her voice took on a faraway note. “It gives the rest of us hope, no? If someone like Abby can lower her guard and let another person in, then maybe . . .”

Trevor’s fingers tightened over his glass. “Then maybe what?”

He held his breath as he waited for her to finish that thought. If Abby could let down her guard, then maybe Isabel could? If Abby could let Kane in, then maybe Isabel could open her heart to
him
?