Secret Agent Minister (9 page)

“Yes, and we’ll be at our destination soon.” As if on cue, the truck turned off the interstate and headed down a long and winding county road. He gave her an appraising look. “How are you?”

Lydia knew she must look hideous with her smeared makeup and ratty hair. “I don’t know. I need a mirror before I answer that question.”

“You look better this morning. No rash or hives, and your pulse and breathing are both back to normal. I think the antidote did its job.”

“I look like a drowned rat, and you know it.”

He touched a hand to her temple in a gesture she was beginning to both love and hate. “You look beautiful to me, because you’re not sick anymore.” The fatigue in his eyes told her he’d kept vigil over her all night.

Feeling petty and contrite, she lowered her gaze. “Thank you, for saving my life.”

He shrugged. “Part of the job.”

That felt like a slap in the face, and just because she was weak and sore and dehydrated and hungry, she retorted. “And I guess that kiss was just part of the job, too, right?”

He had the good grace to look away. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

Her heart held the leftover fire of last night’s rage. “Right.”

“But…I had to calm you down.”

“Well, that certainly did the trick, didn’t it?”

“Lydia—”

“Don’t,” she said, holding up a hand and blinking back tears. “Don’t try to explain or justify things. We’re in deep trouble and…I know things are not as they seem. Even between us. Being chased, running for our lives, being thrown into such a chaotic situation, makes us do things we’d never do on a normal, routine day. Things such as kissing each other. Bad idea. So you need to understand, if…when we get out of this, I don’t expect anything from you. Not one thing, except my old job back, of course. I do have bills to pay.”

He actually managed a smile then, his eyes sweeping over her with regret and what looked a whole lot like longing. “We will get back to our old routine, Lydia. Somehow. And then, the worst thing we’ll have to run from will be Mrs. Gordon’s prune cake.”

Lydia thought of ornery eighty-year-old Mrs. Gordon, bringing prune cake to each and every church function. Then she started giggling. Pastor Dev did, too. They both laughed so hard, tears were streaming down their faces when the truck came to an abrupt halt.

Lydia wiped at the tears, and wondered if they really were from laughing, or from a deep need to just sit and cry her eyes out. Maybe she was just too tired to think straight, but she thought the tears in Pastor Dev’s eyes weren’t from humor, either.

They both missed the life they’d left behind. Lydia’s heart ached with all that had happened, all that he’d tried to save her from seeing. Not only did he have the burden of his friend’s death back in Atlanta, but he had the burden of protecting her. And the memories of a past he’d tried to leave behind.

She couldn’t stay mad at him. He was still a good man, still her hero, even if he did regret kissing her. She reminded herself that she wasn’t supposed to complain, and she certainly wasn’t supposed to take one little kiss seriously. One little, heart-changing, mind-altering kiss.

He gave her a long look filled with a dark intensity that scared her. She sent him a hopeful smile as a counteraction. “I’m okay. And right now, I’m so hungry, I’d even be willing to eat prune cake.”

His eyes grew bright again, then he looked away at the rich green pastures of the Texas hillside while he swiped at his face with his dirty jacket sleeve. And when he looked back, his eyes were dry. And blank.

L
ydia relaxed in a luxurious robe, her face slathered in a mud mask, wondering how she’d gone from a drowned rat to reclining diva in a matter of minutes.

It was those women. The three with the big hair and the even bigger diamonds. Wishing she had her journal—which, along with Pastor Dev’s trusty briefcase full of gadgets, had been left behind at Kissie’s place—Lydia thought back over this morning’s events, trying very hard
not
to think about that kiss that had started them on yet another grand adventure.

At least they were safe here in this country club retreat deep in the Texas hill country. After they’d gotten off the watermelon truck—and Lydia felt as if she’d fallen off the watermelon truck—Pastor Dev had turned her over to some of the richest matrons in Texas—or at least from the way they talked and acted, Lydia had surmised that. Then after telling her he’d see her later, he’d promptly disappeared to give a “briefing” to someone.

Lydia herself had been briefed on what to expect, but this briefing was more of a flutter of chatter and chuckles coming from her three matrons as they each introduced themselves and gave her a little bit of background.

“Hello, darlin’, bless your heart.” This from Lulu Anderson. Lulu had old oil money to burn, from everything Lydia could glean. And she had the bouffant blond hair and expensively altered skin to back it. “You just come with us, suga’. We’re gonna get you all cleaned up and polished like a new set of pearls.”

Lydia could only nod as she was ushered into a big, sprawling Spanish-style ranch house. The interior was light and open, with cool terra-cotta tiles and soft leather furniture everywhere. Out back, a large pool bubbled and flowed in never-ending serenity in front of a beautiful view of the distant hills and vistas. Servants hurried here and there, following Lulu’s clipped, cultured instructions.

“We’re putting Miss Lydia in the French suite,” Lulu told an aging butler. “Hurry now, Alexandre.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, honey,” Sally Mae Barton said, her black hair shimmering in its chignon. “We know how to handle these situations.” Sally Mae reminded Lydia of an aging Scarlett O’Hara. And she seemed just as formidable.

“Are you all members of CHAIM?” Lydia, shocked and fatigued, asked.

“No, sweetie pie, not anymore. Now we’re just married to men who are.”

That caused Lydia’s mind to venture into a territory she probably shouldn’t be exploring at all. “So, CHAIM members are allowed to have families?”

“Sure, honey. Not only is it allowed, but it makes for a good cover.” The third woman wrapped a plump arm around Lydia’s shoulder. “I’m Rita Simpson. I’m an executive director with Mary Kay. You need a mask. Immediately.”

“Of course she needs a mask, and a long nap, too,” Lulu said, rolling her heavily lined blue eyes. “She’ll get all of that, and yes, Rita, you can give her a makeover and some complimentary samples.” She giggled. “Suga’, this woman has made a fortune with Mary Kay. She’s legendary around these parts.”

“Do you drive a pink Cadillac?” Lydia asked, fascinated with these prim, overdressed, overperfumed women. Rita looked young in spite of her shimmering white, precisely clipped hair.

“Of course,” Rita said with a dismissive shrug. “I’m on about my tenth one, I believe.”

Remembering her first foray into being a diva in New Orleans, Lydia held up a hand. “I don’t want anything too over the top. I just want to be clean and natural.”

“We can do clean and natural,” Rita said, her bright green eyes twinkling. “In fact, we have a whole line of products that’ll give you the natural look.”

Lydia wondered why she had to put on makeup to look natural, but she didn’t argue. She was too dirty and tired to refuse the kindness of strangers, after all.

They stood Lydia in front of a massive, intricately carved door. Lulu gave the other two a wink, then said, “Now, Miss Lydia, this is your room. You’re safe here. My husband, Alfred, hired the best security firm in Texas to make sure we are always safe here. If you open the door out onto the porch, an alarm will sound. So don’t do that just yet, unless you have to escape right quick like. The Pastoral gave us strict orders to keep you inside unless he himself can escort you out for some fresh air. No one else. Just him. He wants to protect you. Do you understand, darlin’?”

Lydia did understand. She nodded, but couldn’t manage to speak. She was just too tired to be mad at Pastor Dev’s commando mode right now. “Thank you,” she said.

“Let’s pray,” Lulu suggested, grabbing Lydia’s hands in hers. The other women gathered in a protective circle around Lydia, then closed their eyes. Lydia stood silent as each one prayed for her safety.

“Lord, help our men find the ones behind this horrible situation. Bring them to a swift and fitting justice.”

“And Lord, help this poor girl find some rest here in one of your safe pavilions. Protect our CHAIM warriors.”

“Also, Lord, help us to help Lydia understand…about CHAIM and about…masks…and about men, too, I reckon.”

“Amen.” Lulu looked across at Rita. “Was that mask part really necessary?”

“I figured it couldn’t hurt. A girl has to know how to look her best in any situation—and she is undercover.”

With that, Lulu gave Lydia a quick hug. “Go on in. You’ll be safe and you’ll have complete privacy.”

After the women brought her the softest robe she’d ever felt, Rita slapped something white and scented on her face, telling her to let it set for about ten minutes, then to rinse and pat her face gently.

“We’ll send in some coffee and muffins for now, then we’ll come back after your nap to get you up and ready for an early dinner out on the back patio.”

“When will I see Pastor Dev again?” Lydia asked, wondering if she would ever see him. Had he abandoned her here, locked in a big, sprawling house with these matronly “What Not To Wear” experts?

Lulu glanced over to Sally Mae and Rita, her carefully etched eyebrows lifting. “You’ll see him soon, honey. Meantime, we three might need to sit you down and explain what being in love with a CHAIM man involves.”

Mortified, Lydia tried to hide her embarrassment. “But—”

Sally Mae patted her arm. “No buts about it, honey. We know love when we see it. After all, we’ve each been there. It’s not easy to love a warrior, but it can be done.”

“Does it show that much?” Lydia asked.

“Only when you take a breath,” Rita replied, her eyes full of understanding.

Then the ladies had fluttered out like three butterflies, with waving hands and soft sighs and whispers.

So now here Lydia sat, on a brocade chaise lounge, with a mask drying over her features, wondering if Pastor Dev had a clue that she loved him. If everyone else could see it, why shouldn’t he? Or maybe he did, and he was just ignoring it right now. But he’d kissed her as if he knew exactly how she felt.

“What am I to do, Lord?” she prayed out loud, her words echoing out over the high ceiling of the fancy gold-and-cream bathroom. “I’ve tried so hard to hide my feelings, but being on the run is getting to me. I love him so much, but I was in love with the man I knew. Now I don’t even know him at all, and I still love him.”

But, Lydia thought as she leaned her head back on the soft, scented pillow, her heart knew a real kiss from a necessary-for-the-circumstances kiss. And that kiss back in New Orleans had turned from necessary to much-needed before it had ended. He’d needed her. She’d felt it in the way his lips had touched on hers, in the way he’d held her close. In the way he’d taken care of her and held her all night in the watermelon truck.

A kiss in the shower, a ride in a watermelon truck. It was all too unbelievable, even for Lydia’s romantic mind.

“He must think I’m a regular twit, a loose woman who’d throw herself at anyone, including her own boss and minister. What have I done, Lord? Why did I act so wanton and careless?”

Because you love him,
came the reply. But Lydia knew the reply hadn’t come from God. That would be hers alone. Because she did love Pastor Dev. And she wished with all her heart he could return that love.

Sinking down into the fluffy pillows, she waited for an answer from above. But she heard only the silence of her gold-encased prison. And the beating of her own treacherous heart.

Dev stared across the table at the three men who’d brought him to Eagle Rock. Three distinguished, retired soldiers from CHAIM, men he’d admired and served with over the years. Men who now wanted the same answers he needed.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” he said, worry and weariness causing him to sound harsh. “I know I was brought here for a reason. After all, it’s not every day that a man gets invited to Eagle Rock.”

Eagle Rock meant even more big guns had become involved.

Alfred Anderson leaned forward, his craggy face etched in a frown. In a deep Texas drawl, he said, “Pastoral, we know it’s been hard, being thrown back into the thick of things. But we can’t keep holding them off, and you can’t keep running—it’s like squatting with your spurs on. We gotta find out who’s behind these attacks and end this thing, once and for all.”

Dev knew what that meant. “But we’ve never attacked one of our own. And we still don’t have proof that The Disciple is behind this.”

Gerald Barton got up to pour himself another glass of iced tea, then he stood, tall and big-chested, his crystal glass in his hand. “But all indications lead to him. He swore he’d get even with all of us whenever he got out of the retreat.”

“The prison, you mean,” Dev countered. “We sent him to a locked, carefully watched facility. Eli knew what we were doing. Call it a spiritual retreat, but we locked the man away.”

“We had no other choice,” John Simpson said, anger coloring his words to match his ruddy complexion. “Eli was getting too bold, too careless. And we still don’t have all the clear details of what happened in South America. For all we know, his actions were what caused this tragedy.”

Dev hit a hand on the marble-topped table centered in the dark paneled library. “I turned the man in, John. I was the whistle-blower who caused Eli to lose his family. And for that, I can never forgive myself. I don’t really blame him for coming after me. I deserve whatever he wants to do to me.”

“You don’t deserve to die,” Alfred retorted, “and that young woman certainly doesn’t deserve any of this.”

Dev sank back in the oxblood leather chair. “No, Lydia is an innocent victim. And she’s the only reason I haven’t taken matters into my own hands.”

“Don’t be foolish, son,” Alfred said, a hand up. “You know what going off on a vigilante quest did to Eli. You’re too good a man to let that happen to you.”

“But I can’t bear it if Lydia becomes collateral damage. If…” He closed his eyes to the fatigue draining him. “I just couldn’t bear that.”

“Then there’s only one thing to do,” John said. “We have to draw Eli out, get the truth out of him. Whatever it takes, you need to meet with him face-to-face.”

“How can we make that happen?”

Gerald leaned forward. “Let’s review the situation, then go from there. We have to be sure. CHAIM is not in the mercenary business. We try to save people, not take them out. Harm none. That’s why we brought you here. To give you time to think clearly.”

Dev got the meaning of that statement. He was being ordered to chill out. “I’m clear on everything, gentlemen. Especially the fact that someone is out to get me. As angry as Eli was and probably still is, he was…he is my friend. I can’t believe he’d do this to me, to this organization. It just doesn’t add up.”

“But Eli has possibly compromised our entire operation,” John replied, frowning. “You yourself said he blames you for turning him in before he could go after those people down in South America. It might come down to you or him, Devon.”

“I won’t kill him,” Dev said, his tone brooking no argument. He’d die himself before he’d take another human being’s life. Especially that of his friend and fellow team member.

“Did your assailant in Atlanta leave any clues at all?” Gerald asked, turning to Dev.

“Nothing that I know of,” Dev replied. He lifted a thick file from the table. “We’ve all read over the official CHAIM report. Our operative in the Atlanta police department was careful to make sure we received a detailed CSI report. It was a clean crime. No prints, no weapons found. They used a silencer, and they got out quickly.”

“Then they realized their mistake,” John added. “And that’s why someone is still out there, trying to kill you.”

“Eli wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t send someone else.”

“He’s changed, Dev.” Gerald shrugged. “It happens. Eli was a good man in training, but his faith was always shaky. He might not pull the trigger, but he could order it done.”

Alfred nodded. “He only joined CHAIM to please his father. I don’t think his heart was ever in it.”

Dev nodded. No one knew who Eli’s father was, and Eli refused to ever talk about him. But the man had been a high-ranking official in the CHAIM link, until he’d been killed many years ago, somewhere in Africa. That had been the saving grace in Eli’s enforced seclusion and recovery. Out of respect for his father, and his loss, their superiors had been lenient and forgiving with Eli.

“Maybe Eli joined for all the wrong reasons, but then he lost his wife and unborn child, because of us,” Dev reminded them. “Because of me.”

“Or because of his own hotheaded carelessness,” John countered. “We just don’t know.”

Dev ran a hand down his unshaven face. “My gut tells me that there’s something more to this. And I can’t help but think it still involves the cartel we infiltrated in South America. It stands to reason that if Eli is out, the cartel leaders might be after him. And maybe they came to Atlanta hoping to send us a warning.”

“By killing you?” Gerald shook his head. “I doubt that. Why wouldn’t they just find Eli and end it once and for all?”

“Because Eli knows how to hide,” Dev said. “What better way to bring him out of hiding than by killing a team member and a friend—a former friend whom he now considers to be an enemy?”