The Mercenary (25 page)

“Use the oxygen!” Marc inhaled deeply, his grip tightening. The sucking motion of the water caught her

legs and pulled her under, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she held on tight.

For a split second she wondered how Marc was going to hold that breath for however long it took to

get through the forty-foot tunnel and out to the open sea. Then she could think of nothing at all.

Their descent was swift. The smooth stone walls of the tunnel were the only thing holding them right side

up, as the force of the water pulled them downward in a violent spiral into the ocean.

Marc’s arms were

wrenched away from her body as they scraped against the sandy bottom. The oxygen mouthpiece was

wrenched from between her teeth by the force of the water. She had no idea which way was up.

Tory began to panic—her lungs felt as if they would burst. Forcing her eyes open, she allowed a little

precious air to escape her lips. The bubbles rose slowly past her left shoulder, and she used her last

ounce of strength to follow their ascent.

As soon as her face broke the surface, she gulped air into her starving lungs. High above came the

unmistakablewhop-whop-whop of helicopter blades beating the air. Spray flew off the surface as the

movement churned up water, and white spray frothed in her face as she looked around frantically for

Marc.

The pale gray of the sky blended into the dark gray ocean, making it hard to see. Swells lifted her, then

dropped her down in a jumble of arms and legs.

“Tory?”She heard Marc roar her name, and choking and gagging, she fought the tossing of the waves,

her hair blinding her as it slapped across her face.

He materialized behind her. His legs brushed hers as he trod water, holding her face above the churning

sea.

Overhead, the blades of the chopper stirred up a violent windstorm as it hovered closer to the water and

lowered the rescue sling. The harness brushed the top of her head. Looking up, she saw the underside of

the helicopter just thirty feet above them.

Marc snagged the harness before it sank beside her. Wedging his muscular thigh between her legs, he

managed to secure the harness under her arms and keep her afloat at the same time.

The second he gave a thumbs-up she was lifted from the churning sea. As soon as Alex had hold of her,

he sent the sling down for Marc. With Marc on board, her brother slammed the door shut and made his

way to the controls up front. A few seconds later, Angelo knelt beside her, helping to support Marc as

the chopper turned.

“Buon giorno,Signorina Victoria,” Angelo said cheerfully as his large capable hands checked Marc’s

forehead. “Lots of blood from a head wound, not to worry. He will have—what you say?

Il mal di

testa… a little headache, that is all.”

Tory collapsed. Alex would get them out of here. Back home. Back to her safe, predictable life. Back to

being a coward and proud of it.

So why wasn’t she happy?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IT WAS EXACTLY SEVEN WEEKS,three days and five hours since the rescue. And Tory still hadn’t

got her life back the way it had been before Marezzo and Marc Savin. She knew she would never be the

same again.

There wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t think of Marc, long for him. According to Alex, Marc

had recuperated and gone on to another assignment.

So he’d rejoined T-FLAC.

She was glad for him. He’d clearly missed his work.

She was terrified for him. She knew what that work entailed.

She became obsessed with watching the news. If there was a terrorist incident anywhere in the world

she pictured Marc right there in the thick of things.

She was all right when she went to work every day at the auto-parts store. But in the quiet times at night,

alone in her new apartment, she would think of him, dream of him, long for him.

Her breasts would ache and she would press her legs together. It took no effort at all to conjure up the

memory of his callused hands. It took no effort at all to climax—alone and lonely.

Before, she’d been

alone, but never lonely.

She remembered every moment with Marc and steeled her heart against the poignant memories. Her

rational mind knew that it would never have worked. Because even if he’d wanted her, really wanted her,

there could be no future for them. She would never be okay with what he did for a living. Tory came

home to her quiet apartment and hung her coat in the hall closet. The living room was frigid, but she tried

to keep the heat down, striving to save as quickly as possible so that she could buy another condo.

Maybe when she had a real home again she would feel more settled; at least that’s what she kept telling

herself. But she knew that wasn’t true. She turned on some lights to dispel the gloom.

Her grandmother’s

heavy furniture, taken out of storage, crowded the small space and suddenly she hated it.

Hated the bulk

and weight of the past hanging around her, suffocating her.

She vowed that as soon as she could afford to buy a home, she would get rid of all the bulky antiques

and knickknacks, all the uncomfortable old furniture. Even if it meant sleeping on the floor. She had about

six months to make it happen.

Resting her hand tenderly on her still-flat stomach, she went back to the kitchen to start dinner. She

wasn’t hungry, but the baby needed nourishment.

He was the best thing to come out of her adventure. Tory smiled sadly. The baby was the only thing that

had prevented her from going into a dramatic Victorian decline.

Desultorily tossing a small salad and heating a can of soup, Tory took her meal back into the living room.

She hadn’t heard from Alex in over a month. He was off on some mission, but she hadn’t felt any stirring

of fear. Since they could communicate in their own unique way, she knew that he was all right. At least

physically.

He hadn’t talked about the time he’d spent on Marezzo. Maybe he never would. He hadn’t left her a

letter this time. She doubted he’d ever do that again, either.

She’d talked herself blue, trying to persuade him to do something else, anything else.

Perhaps, she

thought without much hope, when he knew about the baby he would reconsider his dangerous lifestyle.

Tory picked at the salad and shook her head. Alex loved what he did just as much as Marc did. Neither

man would ever give up vanquishing the bad guys—not for her, and not for the baby.

So she would keep the little guy a secret as long as she could. Then she would swear Alex to secrecy.

Marc must never know.

Tory was pouring the rest of the soup down the sink when she heard a knock at the door.

She groaned.

It was that blasted man from upstairs who was always coming over on one pretext or another. He

probably wanted to borrow sugar again. He’d never gotten the clue that she wasn’t interested in going

out with him.

She flung open the door, her expression militant. She was going to make sure that this time her neighbor

took the hint.

It wasn’t her neighbor.

“I see the cast is off.” Marc’s pale eyes darkened as they moved across her face like a caress. “May I

come in?”

“Of…of course.” Tory stepped back. He was all her wildest hopes and all her dreaded fears. “You’re

looking…well. How are you?”

“Fine. What are you doing here?” She tugged at the hem of her lavender wool jacket.

Marc saw the

telltale pulse in her throat above the delicate lace collar of her cream blouse. Her hair was in a neat coil

on her neck, her tiny pearl earrings rivaling the sheen of her skin.

He closed his mind to the memories that had haunted him all these weeks. He remembered painfully

what her satin skin looked like under that prim little suit, how her magnificent hair looked loose, and how

it felt like a living flame when it touched his body.

His hands itched to reach out and touch her, instead he shoved them into his pockets as he remembered

the sweet weight of her plump breasts in his hands.

He hadn’t been able to erase the memory of her taste on his tongue or the scent of her from his mind.

He felt Tory’s eyes on his back as he moved restlessly about the room, picking up a small china dog and

putting it down again. His throat felt thick as he struggled—for the first time in his life

—to put what he felt

into words. Words that she would understand. Words that she would believe.

Tory watched him circle the small room like a caged panther. His limp was slight, but if she closed her

eyes for a moment she could still see what that gunshot wound had looked like. She bit the inside of her

lip to keep from crying out.

His black wool overcoat was open, showing the long length of his legs, and she dragged her eyes away

from the tight jeans.

Marc picked up a silver frame. “Your grandmother?” Tory nodded. What was he doing here? She itched to touch the silky darkness of his hair where it lay

against his collar. He had on a subtle, very masculine cologne; it teased her senses and made her long to

bury her face against his neck.

She desperately wanted him to hold her.

Flicking on the lamp beside her, she sat on the overstuffed sofa, pulling a needlepoint pillow into her lap

to keep her hands busy.

The soft lamplight cast half his face in shadow, hiding the pewter of his eyes and delineating the rigid line

of his mouth—the mouth that had brought her so much pleasure. He looked so good, his tall body

softened by the open coat. But she remembered with aching clarity the feel of his hot, naked skin against

hers.

The way his hands were stuffed into his front pockets pulled his jeans tight, and she had to swallow hard

as she dragged her gaze upward to rest on his face.

His tanned skin in the middle of winter meant he’d been somewhere sunny. “You went back to

Marezzo, didn’t you?” She couldn’t keep the accusatory note from creeping into her voice, her eyes

skimming the small white scar on his forehead where he’d been branded by the bullet.

She felt sick to her

stomach.

“The job had to be finished.” He circled the room again before coming to sit beside her.

She wanted to run her palms over his body to check for any more damage. She pressed her hands

between her body and the cushions on the sofa. It wasn’t any of her business if he wanted to get shot.

She dropped her eyes to her lap.

She started when she felt his finger under her chin. Her eyes wide, she drank in one last look at his

beloved face. There were lines of strain beside his mouth, lines of exhaustion and a look of…longing?

Which she didn’t try to decipher. She closed her eyes.

“Will you look at me, Tory?”

She opened her eyes reluctantly, and he filled her whole vision. More powerful than any memory. It hurt,

Lord, how it hurt. She bit her lip. She didn’t want this last look to be blurred by tears.

“God, I missed you.” His tone was husky as he cupped her face. She couldn’t help the way her neck

seemed to lose all strength as she leaned her head against his strong hand. His thumb stroked her cheek.

“I missed your snippy humor.” His fingers slid to the lace collar at her throat. “I missed your sweet smile

after we made love….” His hands opened the top two buttons of the silk blouse. Tory used a shaky hand

to hold his marauding hands still against her pounding pulse.

“I missed the way this stubborn little chin tilts up…just so.” His eyes were dead serious.

“I missed that

hidden fire that blazes out of control just for me.”

“Don’t,” she said shakily, her heart throbbing. She knew that hot look. She’d dreamed of that look. But

he wasn’t for her. “Don’t touch me. Please.”

He didn’t listen. He opened two more buttons until he got what he wanted. A vee of bare, silky skin.

Parting the fabric, he reverently touched the gentle swell of her breasts above her very utilitarian white

cotton bra. Tory shivered.

“You love me,” he said with utter conviction, his eyes on her face. Blood drained from her head, leaving

her weak and shaken. It was pointless trying to deny it.

“It doesn’t matter.” She pulled the throw pillow up against her chest, trapping his hand against her skin.

“I’ll get over it.”

“I won’t.”

Her head shot up as she looked at him in disbelief. Surely he hadn’t implied…?

“I love you, Victoria Jones.”

“Since when?” She pushed his hands away and tried to do up buttons but they slipped between her

nerveless fingers.

“Since I saw a sleepy woman spitting fire at me in my library that first day. Since I tasted these sweet

lips, since I touched you, since…forever.”

“That’s sex, not love.”

“That’s what I thought at first, too. Marry me, princess. Marry me, and I’ll show you how much I love

you, in so many ways. You’ll forget everything else.”

“I can’t. I’ll never be able to forget what you do for a living.” Tory said no even as she gave in to the

temptation. She touched him back, drawing her fingers across the rough skin of his jaw to gently touch

the scar on his forehead. “Every time you went away, I’d know…I can’t live with that….” He took her

hand, pressing a hard kiss into her palm. She curled her fingers inside his.

Her chest rose and fell. “I’d be terrified, especially knowing what really happens in your job when you

go on an assignment. I wouldn’t ask you to change for me. And I don’t think I can change enough for