Secure Target (Elite Operators) (16 page)

“I’ve never had someone from Africa in my bed before,” she murmured, her lips curling with a hint of a smile.

“I don’t want to hear about anyone who’s been in your bed before,” he informed her, and meant it. The thought of another man’s hands grazing the slim, soft body that had encased and inflamed him only minutes earlier made his jaw tighten with a searing, possessive anger.

“That’s fair. I can’t say I’m all that eager to hear about your past relationships either.”

He smiled to himself over her head. He would hardly describe his occasional, typically one-off sexual forays as “relationships”.

“All that stuff over there—” He gestured to the cluttered sewing table in the corner. “Do you really make your own clothes?”

He felt her nod against his shoulder. “I really do. Remember the green dress I wore last night? I made that.”

“No kidding,” he replied, impressed. “That’s incredible. Do you ever sell them?”

“Actually,” she said shyly, “I’ve been working on a business plan to open a bridal boutique. I’ve even scouted out a few possible storefront locations in town. I just need to finish saving enough for the start-up capital. There’s no one local who can do bespoke garments alongside limited pieces and alterations, so I think there’s a decent potential for success there. And after the last couple of days, I think it might be time to stop planning and start doing.”

“That’s brilliant, Lacey,” he told her with a light squeeze. Could she surprise him any more with her hidden complexities? “My sister Heloise runs a little cake-baking business. She does it out of her kitchen while her kids are at school, so it’s not on the kind of scale you’re talking about, but she’s always in demand. People book with her months in advance for birthday parties, retirement parties, all sorts of events, and recently she’s ventured into wedding cakes. From how she’s fared it seems like, if you can identify a gap in the market, you can make a lot of money.”

She shrugged. “It would be more interesting than answering phones, that’s for sure.”

He planted an affectionate kiss on the top of her head. “It certainly sounds like a more constructive use of your many talents.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, placing her other hand on the center of his chest. “Can I ask you something?”

He put his hand over hers, capturing it against his skin. “Of course.”

“Why didn’t you kill Hardy when you had the chance? You could’ve shot him at the firing range.”

He took a moment to consider his answer, running the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. It was a question he’d asked himself several times, but he had never tried to articulate his answer.

“The police in South Africa haven’t always been associated with justice and safety, like they are here,” he began carefully. “In fact, some people would argue that they still aren’t, and the homicide unit’s earlier work on the Hardy case wouldn’t go very far to dispel that. There are a lot of problems with corruption, brutality and a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later. It’s not like America, where you’ve got a lot of high-tech equipment and top-notch systems. In South Africa the training’s not great, most jurisdictions have next to no resources, and even the cops who want to do the right thing are so busy just trying to keep the peace and prevent widespread rioting in the wake of major crimes that they don’t have the capacity to properly investigate anything.”

She nodded, letting her head drift back down onto his shoulder.

He fidgeted. He was on the brink of telling her something hardly anyone knew, and he felt deeply uneasy, both at the subject and his compulsion to disclose it, at his peculiar urge for her to know everything about him, good and bad, noble and downright ugly.

Finally he drew a breath, deciding this was a little like his jump training—there was no option but to leap headfirst.

“I grew up on a dried-up, failing farm in the middle of nowhere. We didn’t have a lot of money, and there was no man in the house, just three women and a young boy. We were robbed a lot.”

She tilted her face to his, aghast. “Not violently,” he clarified. “Just a lot of petty property crime. Break-ins at the house, livestock going missing, that kind of thing. We couldn’t afford to hire a private security firm, and the police were beyond useless. Sometimes it would take them three hours to come out to the house when we called, sometimes they didn’t come at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were being paid off by the criminals themselves.” He shook his head at the memory.

“Anyway, it was a frightening, vulnerable way to live, and I hated the police more than anything. So I went off to university with plans to become a lawyer and bring justice to the countryside.” He smirked, recalling that idealistic, fervent young version of himself.

“And now you’re a sharpshooting, skydiving commando chasing a serial killer around the world. What happened?” she asked playfully as her fingers traced lazy patterns across his sternum.

He clucked his tongue. “Commandos are in the military, not the police force. Basically I figured out almost immediately that I wasn’t cut out for a life of office work. I was far too rough around the edges, I couldn’t network to save my life, and I thought most of the other students were spoiled rich kids with no understanding of what their country was really like outside the high walls of their fancy gated communities.

“I joined the police with the express intent of trying out for the Special Task Force as soon as I was eligible, because it seemed like the only organization where I could really make an impact on life in South Africa.” He paused, sorting his thoughts into words. “But I also wanted to be a different type of police officer, a new type. I wanted to be incorruptible, committed to fairness, someone who respects and upholds the law, and most importantly, someone who was better than the criminals it was my job to take down. So I didn’t kill Hardy—”

“Because then you’d be the same as him,” Lacey finished.

“Yes. Exactly.”

She scooted up on the pillows. She traced the line of his jaw with her index finger, and then brought her face to his for a butterfly-soft kiss. Bronnik took her hand and brought it to his mouth, planting a kiss in the center of her palm. Then he drew her into his side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

He looked up at the ceiling. Hardy was in custody, no one had been seriously hurt or killed, and he’d just made love to the most captivating, challenging, exciting woman he’d ever met. He wondered if he’d ever been this happy.

As the conversation faded into a peaceful, comfortable silence, Bronnik noticed Lacey’s eyelids begin to droop. Wordlessly he pulled the duvet over her shoulder, smoothing the hair that fell over her cheek, and stretched out his long frame beside her.

With his arm draped protectively across her hip, he felt the warmth of her body along his chest. And as he drifted into a contented, blissful sleep, he thought he just might be in love with this girl.

The next morning was bright and clear, and Lacey was up early, disentangling herself from Bronnik’s arms, pulling on her robe and slipping into the kitchen. She felt energized and alive after last night, but in the harsh light of day she couldn’t shake an undercurrent of unease.

At some point in the preceding hours Bronnik had become more important to her than anyone she’d ever been with. She’d let him into more than her body—she felt opened, explored, occupied by this man.

But what could come of it?

She began to make breakfast, grateful she had sufficient provisions despite not having been home for a few days. She grilled bacon in the oven, popped bread in the toaster, set the coffee to percolate and cracked eggs into a bowl, and with every movement the futility of the situation seemed to become more and more definite.

Bronnik lived in South Africa, and soon he would go back there. She was a dental receptionist who’d never been out of the United States. She’d never even seen the ocean. No matter how much they enjoyed each other, they were living lives at opposite poles.

Impossible. The bowl of eggs was momentarily forgotten in her hand as she gazed out the small window over the sink. Her neighbor’s yard was littered with children’s toys, half-buried in the snow. She imagined Bronnik as a father, the strong muscles in his arms flexing as he tossed a laughing son into the air, his grin of delight as he let go of a flowered pink bicycle to watch his daughter ride away on two wheels for the very first time. In her imagination the children were blond, and the sky was blue and tropical.

Bronnik would surely want his kids to grow up in South Africa. He’d want them to speak Afrikaans and become part of the community that he clearly valued there, so that one day they too could contribute to the society for which he put his life on the line every day.

A heavy, suffocating disappointment settled like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

“Mm, smells
lekker
in here.” Bronnik’s voice startled her from her reverie. He lounged in the doorway wearing boxers, a T-shirt and a lopsided grin, his hair tousled by sleep.

She forced a grin on to her face.

Don’t do this
, she told herself sternly.
Enjoy the time you have with him.

“Something told me you weren’t the cereal-bar-and-oatmeal type.” With great effort, she shook off her worry and resumed stirring.

He crossed the room to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her and lowering his head to trail soft kisses down her neck.

“Come on, Bronnik.” She laughed. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Famished,” he murmured, and thrust his hand through the opening of her robe to cup her breast. He lightly pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and her body responded instantly, surging into heightened awareness, every nerve alert and aching.

He took the bowl from her hands and placed it on the counter, then turned her to face him as he untied the sash at her waist. Her robe hung open, and the sensation of the crisp morning air drafting across her most intimate places had her nipples puckering, her breasts swollen and yearning to be touched.

For a minute he held her at arm’s length and simply stared. It was a habit of his, she was coming to learn, and she adored it—no one had ever made her feel more beautiful, more desirable than he did when he just watched, his face awestruck and intent.

Suddenly he dropped to his knees before her, his lips grazing the gentle curve of her abdomen below her navel. She let her eyes fall shut, pressing her lower back against the edge of the sink. When she felt the heat of his breath on her inner thighs, her heart quickened, and molten desire pooled between her legs.

Seconds later, when Bronnik’s mouth closed on her throbbing core, warm and insistent and unyielding, she saw stars.

She dug her hands into his hair, losing herself in a chaotic mix of torment and ecstasy. He lapped at her aching, swollen nub, his tongue moving in an agonizing rhythm, bringing her to the brink again and again until, with a throaty, primal moan she couldn’t quite believe came from her own throat, she tumbled over the edge.

She felt her knees shake and give way, and then his arms were around her, holding her upright, pulling her into the solid wall of his chest.
This is what he does
, she registered in some remote, reeling part of her brain. He took her apart and then put her back together. He brought her to her knees and then hauled her over his shoulder. He gave her the chance to let go, because he was strong enough to hold it together.

She whispered his name limply, leaning heavily against him. She very much doubted her legs would support her if he moved away.

He kissed the top of her head. “My name sounds so much better when you say it.”

Lacey opened her mouth to reply when there was a distant ringing from the bedroom. Bronnik sighed—she felt the heave of his lungs under her cheek.

“My phone. I’d better go check, in case it’s important.”

She re-belted her robe as he hurried into the bedroom, the knot of worry finding its way back into her gut. She heard him answer and bent to take the bacon out of the oven before it burned. As she slid the tray onto the stovetop Bronnik shouted a sequence of words in furious Afrikaans, his voice harsh and enraged. There was a thud as the phone hit the floor, followed by an ominous pause. Lacey looked at the bowl of half-stirred eggs, which probably wouldn’t get eaten now. The sight of her own interrupted effort had sorrow gnawing at her stomach—all that bliss, all that desire, all that unparalleled happiness would end up as abandoned and distantly remembered as this stupid breakfast.

When Bronnik came back into the kitchen he’d pulled on his jeans. Whatever anger had possessed him minutes earlier was replaced by weariness. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days.

“Hardy’s escaped,” he said flatly. “Evidently, he’s on his way to Cape Town right now—he had the courtesy to leave a note.” He gazed at the floor unseeingly, his hands shoved in his pockets. When he raised his eyes to Lacey’s, they were distant and detached. She felt like the space between them had just grown from inches to hundreds of miles.

“Get dressed,” he instructed quietly. “I’ll give you a lift to your car.”

They rode to the dental practice in silence. It was just after the weekday morning rush hour, and the roads were quiet. Lacey was numb. On some level she was aware, and had been aware, that come Monday morning she’d be back at work, answering phones while Bronnik was on the other side of the world chasing Hardy. She knew this to be fact, yet she couldn’t believe it and couldn’t process it.