Authors: Nora Roberts
Why did it seem so easy? His mouth was hard and hot, his hands were anything but gentle. And yet it seemed so easy to be with him now, so natural. So familiar. Surely his taste was a taste she’d woken to before. If she ran her hands over his back, she knew what muscles she would find. If she drew in a breath so that the scent of him filled her, it would be no surprise.
Perhaps she had known his face for only a matter of days. But there was something here that she had known all her life.
He must be going mad. It was as though she’d always been there for him. Would always be there. The feel of her body beneath his wasn’t like that of any other woman. It was like that of the only woman. He knew, somehow, how her sigh would sound before he heard it, how her fingers would feel on his face before she lifted them to touch him.
He knew, he expected, yet it still stunned.
He could feel his pulse speed up until it beat in hundreds of points throughout his body. He could hear his own crazed murmuring of her name as he tore his mouth from hers to let it roam desperately over her face and throat. Then there was the need, growing to a rage inside him that was nothing like the desire he’d felt for other
women.
He wanted all of her, mind, body, soul. He wanted her now. He wanted her for a lifetime.
It was that shocking thought that stopped him. There were no guaranteed lifetimes, especially not in the game he’d chosen to play. He’d learned to live for the moment. Tomorrow was up for grabs.
Whatever she was doing to him had to stop—if he wanted to live to collect his hundred thousand.
He ached. He could have hated her for that, but he rolled off her with a carelessness that left her still and speechless. “The room’s clean.” He picked up the glass to drain the last of the vermouth. And wished it was whiskey.
Her breathing was uneven, and her limbs were unsteady. There was nothing she could do about that or about the unsated need crawling inside her. But she could hate him. With her whole heart and soul she could hate him.
“You bastard.”
“You asked for it, sweetheart.” He pulled out a cigarette and focused his mind on what lay ahead, instead of what had lain beneath him only moments before. “I’ve got some things to do. Why don’t you take a nap?”
She came off the bed slowly, with the look in her eye that he’d noted before. It occurred to him that it was fortunate for both of them that his weapons were out of sight and reach.
She’d been humiliated before. She’d been rejected before. But she didn’t intend to be either at his hands ever again. “Don’t you ever touch me. I’ll put up with your crude manners because I have no choice, but don’t you ever put your hands on me again.”
He wasn’t sure why he did it. Anger had a way of urging a man to make a wrong and reckless move. He yanked her against him, even enjoying her fast and furious struggles as he clamped his mouth down on hers again. She was wildfire now, hot, volatile and dangerous. He had an image, steamy and strong, of pulling her to the bed and letting violence feed violence. Before he could top one mistake with another, he let her go.
“I don’t take orders, Gillian. Remember that.”
Her hands curled into fists. Only the knowledge that she’d lose kept her from landing a blow. “There’ll
come a time you’ll pay for that.”
“Probably. Right now, I’m going out. Stay inside.”
When the door closed behind him, she had the small satisfaction of cursing him.
* * *
He was gone only an hour. Most of Casablanca was as he remembered it. The little shops along the Boulevard Hansali still catered to the tourist trade. The port was still busy with European ships. He had walked through the original Arab town, still surrounded by old rampart walls. But he hadn’t gone sightseeing. His contact in the bidonville, the shantytown near the shopping district, had been pleased to see him again and agreeable enough after an exchange of a few dirham to give birth to a certain rumor about a hijacked shipment of American arms.
Trace arrived back at the hotel satisfied that the first step had been taken and ready to start the next. The rooms were empty. He didn’t panic, not at first. His training was a natural extension of his mind, just as his arm was a natural extension of his body.
After unstrapping his revolver from his calf, he began to search both rooms and baths. The balcony doors were still locked from the inside, though the curtains had been drawn. She’d taken her things out of his suitcase. Trace found them neatly put away in closets and drawers. The cosmetics she’d bought to replace those she’d lost stood on the counter in the bath. There were bath salts the color of sea foam and a short cotton robe shades darker hanging on the back of the door.
Her purse was gone, and so were the notes inside it. The drumming at the back of his neck, slow and steady, was growing louder.
There was no sign of a struggle. It was hard for him to believe that a woman like Gillian would have submitted to anyone without a fight. It was just as difficult for him to believe that anyone could have traced them so quickly.
So where the hell was she? Trace thought as he felt the first twinges of panic. He ran a hand through his
hair and tried to think calmly. If they had her … If they had her, then he would …
He couldn’t think calmly when he kept seeing how Abdul had dragged her up by the hair. He couldn’t think calmly when he remembered how her blood had felt on his hands.
When he heard the key in the lock, he whirled. It took only an instant to pull back control. Before the knob turned, he was behind the door, gun pointed up, body tensed. As the door opened, he grabbed a wrist. And yanked Gillian inside. Both of them received a shock when he dragged her into his arms.
“Damn it, where were you? Are you all right?”
She’d drawn in her breath to scream. The collision with Trace had knocked the air out of her again. She managed to nod, and then, feeling the tension in his body, she soothed him automatically.
“I’m fine.” She ran a hand over his back. “Did something happen? I was only gone a few minutes.”
And in a few minutes his imagination had worked at top speed. Trace cursed himself, then her. “I told you to stay inside. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Furious with himself, he shoved her away. “I don’t have time to babysit, damn it. When I give an order, you’re to follow it.”
To think she’d felt a flow of concern, Gillian thought, berating herself. She’d even felt a warmth at what she’d thought was his concern for her. Both those emotions froze quickly enough. “I hired you to find my brother, not to spend every spare moment shouting at me.”
“If you’d show some sense, I wouldn’t have to shout at you. You’ve been cut once, sweetheart.” He could only hope the memory of that would shake her as much as it did him. “Keep this up, and I might not be around next time to make sure it’s not any worse than that.”
“You’re not my bodyguard. In any case, you’re the one who went off without telling me where you were going or how long you’d be.”
He didn’t care to be reminded why he’d left so abruptly. “Listen, sister, the only reason you’re here with me is because I might be able to use you to get your brother out. You won’t be of much use if they’ve already got you.”
“No one has me,” she tossed back as she hurled her purse on the bed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
He hated to argue with logic. “I told you to stay inside. If you can’t do what you’re told, you’re going to find yourself on the first plane back to New York.”
“I go where I want, when I want.” She planted her feet and almost hoped he’d try to put his hands on her again. “But, for your information, I did stay inside.”
“That’s strange. I could have sworn I pulled you into the room a few minutes ago.”
“That you did, and nearly dislocated my shoulder in the process.” She yanked a small bottle out of the bag she carried. “Aspirin, O’Hurley. There’s a gift shop off the lobby downstairs, and I had a headache. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m about ready to take the whole bottle.” She stormed across the room. The bathroom door shut with a resounding slam.
Women, Trace thought as he strode into the adjoining room. He rarely thought they were more trouble than they were worth, but he was making an exception in Gillian’s case.
After nearly a dozen years of fieldwork, he was still alive. And that was why he was considering retiring more and more seriously. The law of averages was against him. He was a man who believed in fate and believed in luck just as passionately. Sooner or later luck ran out. As it had for Charlie.
Lighting a cigarette, he stood at the window and looked out at Casablanca. The last time he’d been here it had had to do with smuggling. He’d nearly gotten his throat cut, but luck had still been with him. He’d been Cabot then, as well, the French businessman who didn’t mind a shady—if profitable—deal.
His cover would hold. The ISS had invented it with the meticulousness they were best at. His nerve would hold, as long as he remembered that the woman in the next room was a means to an end and nothing more.
He heard the water running in Gillian’s bath and checked his watch. He’d give her an hour to stew. Then they had business to attend to.
* * *
Gillian’s temper wasn’t the kind that flashed quickly and vanished. She knew how to hold it off and how to
nurse it along when it suited her. At the moment, she was reaping enormous satisfaction from keeping herself on the edge of fury. It save her energy and blocked her fear.
She told herself she wasn’t the least bit concerned about what was going on in the room next door as she changed into a simple blouse and skirt.
He probably intended to make her stay locked up in her room, eating a solitary dinner from room service. She attached a wide leather belt almost as if it were a holster. She’d be damned if she’d hole up here like a mouse. She might not be sure what she could do to help with Flynn’s and Caitlin’s release, but there had to be something. Trace O’Hurley was going to have to accept the fact that she was part of this thing. Starting now.
She moved to the door that joined the rooms and nearly ran into him.
“I was just coming in to see if you’d stopped sulking.”
Her chin angled. “I never sulk.”
“Sure you do, but since you’ve apparently finished, we can go.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again. He’d said
we.
“Where?”
“To see a friend of mine.” Eyes narrowed, he backed up to look at her. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Her automatic response was to look down at the wide circle skirt and blouse. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, if you’re going to tea at the rectory.” While she sputtered and slapped at his hand, Trace unfastened two more buttons. He stood back, frowned, then nodded. “Helps a little.”
“I’ve no desire to display myself for your benefit.”
“Personally, I don’t give a damn if you wear a cardboard box, but you’ve got a role to play. Don’t you have any gaudy earrings?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll get some. And darker lipstick,” he muttered before he stepped back. “Can you do anything with your eyes?”
“My eyes? What’s wrong with my eyes?” Natural feminine vanity began to war with bafflement as Trace strode into her bath.
“Cabot’s woman hasn’t come straight out of a convent, know what I mean?” As he began to root through her cosmetics, she shoved him aside.
“No. Just what do you mean?”
“I mean you need a little more paint, a little more cleavage and a little less breeding.” He picked up a smoky green eye shadow, examined it, then held it out. “Here, try for tart, will you?”
“Tart?” The word came out of her mouth with beautiful Irish indignation. “Tart, is it? Do you really believe I’d paint myself up so you can display me like a … like a …”
“Bimbo is what I had in mind. A nice-looking, empty-headed bimbo.” He picked up her scent and gave the atomizer a squeeze. It smelled warmer on her skin, he thought, and he quickly pulled himself back. “This is drawing room stuff. Is this the only perfume you have?”
She unclenched her teeth only because it hurt to keep them clamped together. “It is.”
“It’ll have to do, then,” he decided and sprayed it at her. “The hair, Doc.”
She touched a hand to her wig almost protectively. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Mess it up. The guy I’m going to see would expect me to travel with a pretty, empty-headed and very sexy woman. That’s Cabot’s style.”
This time her eyes narrowed. “Oh, it is, is it?”
“Right. And you have to look the part. Don’t you have anything slinky?”
“No, I don’t have anything slinky.” Her lower lip moved into a pout as she turned to look at herself in the mirror. “I wasn’t coming on this trip to socialize.”
“I’ve never known a woman not to have something slinky.”
If looks really could have killed, he would have dropped like a stone. “You’ve never known this one.”
Taking it in stride, Trace reached for her blouse again. “Well, maybe one more button.”
“No.” She pulled her blouse together. “I’m not parading around half dressed so you can keep up your image.” Teeth gritted, she snatched the eye shadow from him. “Go away. I don’t want you hovering over me.”
“Five minutes,” he told her, and with his hands in his pockets he strolled out of the bath.
She took ten, but he decided not to quibble. Anger had brought on a flush that she’d added to with blusher. She’d used shadow and liner liberally so that her eyes were big as saucers and had that heavy bedroom look.
He’d wanted flamboyant, and she’d delivered. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why it made him angry.
“Cheap enough for you, Monsieur Cabot?”
“It’ll do,” he said, already at the door. “Let’s go.”
She felt like a fool, and as far as she was concerned, she looked the part. Still, she had to remind herself she wasn’t being left behind to worry and fret while Trace went about the business of finding Flynn. Drawing a breath, Gillian told herself that if she was playing a part she should play it well.
As they stepped out of the hotel, Gillian tucked her arm through his and leaned against him. He gave her a quick, wary look that had her smiling. “Am I supposed to be crazy about you?”