The Spy Who Loves Me (16 page)

Her shoulder rubbed against the carpet, the thin shirt little protection for the raw skin. But the pain was lost in the cacophony of sensations that grabbed hold of her body and danced across her nerve endings. Everything seemed to spiral in, and she knew that if this whirlwind of sensations collapsed in on itself, her body would explode into a million pieces.

And oh, how she craved that explosion.

They rocked together, and he whispered her name, encouraging her to come to him, to come with him. Her body answered his call, desire building and building until it reached a pinnacle that was impossible to climb, and the mountain of pleasure exploded around her in a fit of colors and stars.

He collapsed against her, his body slick with sweat. The press of his weight felt comfortable, not confining, and she lay there, idly stroking his back, as she sorted through her thoughts.

They stayed like that arm in arm for a few more moments, their steady breathing the only sound in the still, warm room. Amber continued to stroke her fingers idly up and down his back, the rhythmic motion calming and relaxing.

Soon enough, Drake would come for them, and she'd be wired, her body running on instinct and adrenaline. Amber intended to enjoy this moment while she could.

He rolled to the side, lifting his head until his eyes met hers. “That had to have been the best captive sex I've ever had.”

Her mouth twitched. “You're a connoisseur, then?”

“Absolutely. I try to hit all the finer detention centers.”

“I see. And how does this one compare?”

He glanced around the room, and she followed his gaze, taking in the lush carpet, fine linens, and etched teak headboard. Finally, Finn shrugged. “So-so,” he said. “This doesn't quite top the Four Seasons Holding Facility,” he said. “But I suppose it'll do.” He traced a lazy circle on her stomach. “It's the personal touch that really makes this place stand out.”

“Naked women as an amenity?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

She closed her eyes, resting her head against the carpeting. “You're right, you know. We're just playing into his hands.”

“His?”

She frowned, wondering if he was playing dumb or if he really didn't know about Drake Mackenzie. “Surely you don't believe that woman is doing all of this.”

“No. She's someone else's pawn. And you're right—a man. Military, unless the uniform is bullshit. He was here earlier.”

Amber perked up. So far, she'd seen no evidence of Drake on the island. But if the man was in uniform…“What kind of uniform? Do you know his name? What he wants?”

“Navy,” Finn said. “And no, and no.”

She pressed her lips together, then nodded, accepting the answer, but not at all certain she believed it.

Amber twisted to her left and sat up, grimacing as her shoulder bore the brunt of her weight.

Finn's brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

She waved the question off. “I'm fine.” She flashed what she hoped was a bright smile. In truth, her shoulder was burning, and she feared that Finn was right about an infection. “Just need to stretch.”

Finn's eyes followed her as she headed to the bathroom. She'd hoped to find some alcohol or ointment, but the room was bare. Not even a toothbrush. Luxury, apparently, didn't extend so far as to include items that might be used as a weapon.

She shrugged out of Finn's shirt, then she craned her neck and tried to see just how bad the damage was. She couldn't see much, but what she could see told her enough. The wound itself was raw and oozing, and her entire shoulder blade seemed pink and hot. She cringed, the injury beginning to hurt more now that she was focusing on it.

“Amber?” Concern laced Finn's voice.

“Coming,” she called. She took three deep breaths, willing her mind to ignore the sensation of pain shooting from her shoulder. The Unit's training had been thorough, and she closed her eyes, letting James's soft maxim—
there is no pain except in your mind
—flow through her. As she knew it would, the pain dulled to a low throb. She took two more deep breaths, then two more, until the wound was only a memory.

She didn't have time to worry about injuries or infection. She'd deal with it after they got the hell off the island.

When she stepped back into the bedroom, Finn was running his hands over the door.

“No luck?” she said.

He turned, then shrugged almost sheepishly. “Just thought I'd try again. I've been over this room backward and forward. I know we're trapped, but I don't want to believe it.”

“They'll come get us soon enough,” she said, moving to sit on the bed.

“From one trap to another,” he said.

A sheer pink negligee lay in a crumpled pile on the floor by the bed. She picked it up, dangling it from one finger. “I see the traps haven't been altogether unpleasant.”

For the first time since Amber had entered the room, Finn's face hardened, hate filling his eyes. “She tried to seduce me.”

Amber nodded. She'd expected as much. “I can't say I blame her,” she said, wanting to lighten the moment.

A genuine smile touched his mouth. “Ah, but you're not trying to romance me for my secrets.”

Amber stifled a wince. Twenty-four hours ago, that had been exactly her plan. “What secrets are those?” she asked, keeping her tone light. “Your secret identity?” She still had to find out. No matter what she felt for this man, she still had to find out whom he worked for. If he was an ally or an enemy.

He flashed an ironic smile. “That's the joke,” he said. “I don't have any secrets. Not even a secret identity.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Just like you, I'm an open book.”

He spoke so earnestly she almost believed him. He was good. But in the end, she'd prove that she was better.

T
he guy without an earlobe rolled a television into Bernie's cell, then left, pausing in the doorway just long enough to say, “Enjoy the show.”

Bernie frowned, wondering if he'd crossed over into some sort of delirious state. His fever still raged, that much was sure. And they'd been stingy with the water and food. But even so, he didn't think he'd started hallucinating.

So why was he looking at a Sony television balanced on one of those black carts he hadn't seen since elementary school?

He didn't have time to ponder the problem, because the television sprang to life. And the image that popped onto the screen was enough to make him forget his own troubles.

Diana.
Wearing only a flimsy lace bra and tiny bikini panties. Her wrists and ankles were shackled to a stone tablet tilted at the slightest of angles. She struggled, but the bindings held tight.

In his cell, Bernie clutched the tatty blanket, his knuckles turning white from gripping it so very hard.
He'd
done this to her. They were torturing her because of him, and he was powerless to do anything but watch.

Sound and picture popped on with a sharp, staticky hum, and Diana's high-pitched cries grabbed hold of his intestines and twisted.

“Bernie,” she cried. “Why are they doing this? Bernie!”

“Diana!” He knew she couldn't hear him, but he had to do something. Had to go to her.

Had to help.

Tossing the blanket aside, he ran for the door, then threw himself against it, pounding with his fists on the cold metal.

“Shut up, bitch.” The harsh voice came from the television, and Bernie raced back, his stomach twisting at the image on the screen—a leather whip cracking across Diana's beautiful belly.

Her scream seemed to shake his cell. He saw no tears, but she blinked, her chin quivering. “Bernie,” she whispered, her voice low and weak. “Please, why?”

“Did I say you could talk?” Again, that cruel voice.

Bernie's eyes scanned the screen, but he could see no one. Only his darling Diana, and he was powerless to help her.

The camera pulled back, revealing a man dressed in a pressed white uniform, his back to the camera. He held a whip in one hand, and now he leaned over Diana, his mouth close to her ear. He traced the handle of the whip down, between her breasts and down to her belly button. Diana shut her eyes tight, but Bernie could see the way her entire body tightened with fear.

“Are you ready for another round, my pretty?” the man asked. He raised the whip then, dangling the tasseled end over Diana's firm, beautiful stomach. “Tell me what I need and I'll stop. Tell me,” he crooned. “Tell me everything.”

She struggled against the bonds. “I don't know anything. Please. I shouldn't be here.”

“Well, aren't you the unfortunate one?” He raised his whip hand, and as he started to strike, Bernie cried out.

“No!” he yelled, even though it was futile. He didn't even know where Diana was, much less if anyone could hear him. But it didn't matter. He couldn't watch this. Couldn't let the monster hurt her. “No, don't! I'll tell you everything.” In a spurt of anger, he threw himself against the television, and it crashed to the floor in a flurry of electronic sparks and beeps. “Everything!”

He collapsed in a heap on the floor. They were going to kill her. Diana, and then him. And there wasn't anything he could do about it. He was all alone.

All alone, and doomed.

The door slid open, and the uniformed man walked in. Bernie blinked, but the wash of relief was so overpowering that it erased all questions of how or where.

“Talk,” he said. “Talk, and the girl lives.”

And Bernie did.

Finn watched as Amber walked the room's perimeter, her eyes taking in every inch. She wore a black cocktail dress she'd found in the closet. Probably Drake's idea of a joke, but Finn appreciated it nonetheless. It was hard enough to focus when she was near him. It was even harder when she was near him and naked.

When she reached the touch pad, she swiped her hand over it. She'd done this twice before, and Finn had told her he'd done the same. As it had before, the door remained firmly closed and locked. “You're right,” she said. “The only way out is through that touch pad.”

“And our hands don't work.”

After a moment, her shoulders sagged. She ran her fingers through her hair, an unreadable expression crossing her face. “At any rate,” she said, “we're stuck.” She moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “So why do you think they're doing this?”

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

“Well, then
who
are they? I'd like to at least know who kidnapped me.”

“Terrorists,” he said simply. “Don't worry. I got you into this mess, and I'll get you out.”

“Finn, for Christ's sake, I have a right to know what you know. Tell me.”

He shook his head. “I honestly don't know. But I'll get us out of here.”

She scowled, then gave a curt nod. “Okay. How?”

It was a reasonable question, but Finn didn't have a reasonable answer. Agent Python would have an answer. Hell, Python's Rolex would shoot a precise laser from the diamond above the twelve. He'd cut an escape route through the door and pull the girl to safety.

Once in the passageway, he'd disarm a guard with a really keen martial arts move, take his AK-47, and race with the girl to the exit. Along the way, they'd plant enough C-4 to destroy the whole complex, then sprint to the tarmac, where they'd steal the plane and soar to safety, the island exploding into a pyrotechnical wonder below them.

The girl would throw her arms around Python's neck and cover him with kisses of gratitude. He'd put the plane on autopilot and they'd make love until they reached the mainland.

A nice fantasy, but not damn likely.

“Finn?” she said.
“How?
How are we going to get out?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I'm sorry, babe. I really don't know.”

She looked at him almost as if she didn't believe him, and he felt like the biggest failure on the planet.

After a moment, she stood up and started pacing the room. “What about weapons? If Beltzer or that bitch comes back, we can use one of their hands to open the door.”

From the look on her face, Finn had the distinct impression that she'd happily detach either of their hands from their wrists.

“I've looked,” he said. “There's not a thing here. There's not even a mirror in the bathroom.” He stood up, moving to the doorway. “I could wait here,” he said. “Attack as they enter. In the fray, you might be able to get out.” What she'd do once out was a question he didn't raise.

She nodded. “It's a possibility. But now that we're both in here, they have to know we're planning. They won't come alone. And I don't know that I'm in any shape to take someone down.” She rolled her shoulder slightly, and he saw the shadow of a wince touch her face.

He frowned, realizing he'd been an ass to forget her injury. Not that he'd let her do something so foolhardy even if she was all in one piece. He made a circular motion with his finger. “Turn.”

She complied, and he unzipped the dress, then pushed the material aside. The wound was bright red, oozing yellow, and warm to the touch. “It's infected,” he said.

“It will be fine.”

He tugged at her right hand. “It will after I clean it.”

“I've already looked in there,” she protested as he led her toward the bathroom. But she didn't otherwise resist, and he gestured for her to sit on the side of the tub.

“You should have said something,” he scolded. “My God, everything we did, every time I—”

“It hardly hurts at all,” she said.

“Bullshit.”

At that, she smiled. “It hurts some,” she amended. “But it didn't hurt then.” She licked her lips, cocking her head ever so provocatively. “I had other things on my mind to block out the pain.”

He shook his head but didn't reply. Instead, he scoured the bathroom, looking for anything with which to clean the wound. He might not be able to get her off this island, or even out of this room, but he was damn sure going to clean up her shoulder.

“There's nothing here,” she said.

Unfortunately, she was right. Nothing except a bar of French-milled soap sitting on the edge of the tub. Not even antibacterial, but it was the best he could do.

“Turn around,” he instructed.

“Finn…”

“Just do it.”

She rolled her eyes but complied. “I can take care of myself,” she said.

“I'm sure you can.” He soaked the bathroom's single washcloth with warm water, then rubbed the soap on it. Slowly, carefully, he washed the wound, working the soap into the ragged flesh, and then rinsing carefully with a plastic cup he'd found sitting by the sink.

Throughout the whole process, she never flinched or cried out. Hell, she barely even moved. And Finn wondered if maybe she'd been telling the truth. Maybe the wound wasn't that bad, and it really didn't hurt her.

“There,” he said, rinsing the last of the soap away.

She tugged her sleeve back up, and he reached down to zip the dress. Except for, well, everything, the scene was utterly domestic. A couple getting ready to go out. Sharing the bathroom. Getting dressed.

He half-expected her to go to the mirror and primp. Except, of course, there was no mirror.

He shook his head, banishing the ridiculous thoughts.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just hoping your shoulder is okay.”

“It's fine,” she said, getting up and moving into the bedroom. “Don't worry about it.”

He followed her, coming to a dead stop when he saw the man standing in their room. He put a hand on Amber's elbow, wanting her safely within his reach.

The man wore Navy whites, complete with a sidearm. Diana stood beside him, her arm linked through his. “We haven't been formally introduced,” he said. “I'm Drake Mackenzie. Welcome to my humble home. I do hope you find the accommodations adequate.”

“Astounding,” Finn deadpanned.

“And how nice to see you two looking so…relaxed,” Drake continued, not missing a beat.

“I do hope you enjoyed last night,” Diana added, her eyes on Finn. “Despite my absence.”

“I managed to muddle through,” he said.

“A pity that the time for
muddling
is over,” the man said. He lifted the gun. “Time to move on to other things.” He motioned to Finn. “Get dressed.”

Finn considered arguing but decided against it. He was already wearing his jeans, and now he shrugged into his shirt, buttoning it up, but leaving the shirttails out. Without taking his eyes off Diana or the man, he sat on the edge of the bed and put on his socks and shoes.

“As far as fashion goes,” Diana says, “this is your lucky day. We even have accessories.” She tossed a pair of handcuffs toward Finn. “Bracelets. One side for each of you.”

He scowled, but didn't fight it. Just snapped the cuff onto his right wrist and Amber's left. If he was lucky, she was right-handed. And since he was a leftie, that would leave them both with their favored hand free.

As Drake gestured toward the door, Amber met Finn's eyes. “Like I said, don't bother worrying about my shoulder,” she said. “We've got more important things to worry about.”

“That,” Diana said, “is a certainty.”

 

“She's
gone?”
James Monahan paced the situation room in the Los Angeles field office, his near-black eyes cutting into Brandon like hot steel through butter. “What the hell was she doing in Los Angeles in the first place?”