A Kiss to Kill (7 page)

“Hush, now,” he murmured.

The words triggered an irrationally calming memory of a similar deep voice.

Hush now.

During the worst of her torture at the hands of her captors, when she’d been beaten nearly blind and to the brink of death, the man she’d called the Voice had come to her once, with soothing words and drugs to dull the pain.

But
he
hadn’t let her go, either.

“It’s okay,” Gregg said.

No! It wasn’t okay!

Thanks to him, it would never be okay again.

She fought and fought, until she exhausted her strength and ran out of tears. And still he just held her. It wasn’t a soothing embrace. Nor was it cruel. It was more like . . . awkward.

“Hush, sweet girl.”

If she didn’t know better, she might think he was actually trying to comfort her. The idea of
that
stunned her into stillness, broken only by a long, hiccup-punctuated exhale.

He bunched his hand in the hem of his T-shirt and tried to raise it to wipe the tears from her face. But because of his broad chest, the shirt wouldn’t stretch up past her chin. So he pulled it over his head, then used it as a big, soft hankie, daubing the wetness from her cheeks, eyes, and nose.

Shock swept through her, as did the scent of him from the shirt that caressed her face. His naked chest brushed against her bare breasts as he moved, sending her nipples into tight spirals. She held her breath, resisting the irrational urge to pillow them up against her abductor.

He paused. His focus slipped down to her breasts then up again, hesitating for a heartbeat at her lips. For a split second she thought he might actually try to kiss her.

Her stomach clenched. She turned away.

His hands dropped abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he said, and she wondered bitterly to what he was referring—touching her naked breasts, making her cry, selling her to terrorists . . . What?

She shuddered out her choked breath and closed her stinging eyes. “Go to hell.”

He gave a soft, sardonic laugh. “Sure. Now, why don’t you lie down and get some sleep.” He went to the dresser, swiped up a new black T-shirt, and yanked it on. Thank God.

She pressed her mouth into a quavering line. “I want to go home.” The trembling statement came out sounding so pathetic she scarcely recognized herself in it. That had been happening a lot lately. The pathetic part.

“Sorry. Not going to happen,” he said.

Anger finally overran her fear. “Haven’t I suffered enough for you?” she demanded.

He gazed over at her impassively, but the tic in his cheek twitched again. “There’s no phone. The door is locked and all the windows are barred. There’s no way out of here, so you might as well make yourself comfortable. The good news is, no one else can get in, either.”

He turned to leave the bedroom.

“Gregg?”

At his name on her lips, he halted at the door. The shadows of the other room touched him like gray fingers reaching out to caress him. He didn’t turn around.

“Why?” she asked. Her voice cracked on a roil of surfacing emotion. “Why did you do it, Gregg? Why did you give me to those animals? For money? Al Sayika blood diamonds? How much did they pay you? How much was my life worth to you?”

Even under the T-shirt she could see the muscles in his broad back coil and tighten. Like he wanted to turn and beat the crap out of her. Or someone. But he just walked out, his body quickly swallowed by the dimness of the curtained room beyond.

“Tell me!” she yelled after him, desperate to know the worst. He halted again. This time he did turn. A shaft of light from the closed drapes painted over his face. Her own tears welled anew and brimmed over onto her cheeks. “I loved you!” she cried. “Why did you betray me?”

He flinched visibly. His hands balled into silent fists.

At the gesture, horrible memories seared through her of the many beatings she’d taken at the hands of her terrorist captors. Pain razored across her heart at the idea that this man whom she’d once thought she loved could do such evil. To her.

As if it took a great effort, he swallowed and met her gaze. His blue eyes burned like the fires of Hell.

He said very carefully and deliberately, “I did not give you to them, Gina. It wasn’t me.”

SIX

IN
his logical mind, Gregg knew Gina really believed he was the one responsible for her kidnapping by al Sayika, and therefore for all the suffering she’d endured. For months he’d known that.

But hearing the accusation spoken so forcefully from her own lips nearly gutted him. It was all he could do to respond without putting his fist through a wall or smashing some piece of furniture into a million pieces—which would only serve to terrify her even more.

She didn’t believe him. He could see that clearly in her eyes. In her whole body.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need her to believe him—or to like him—to do what needed to be done.

“If it wasn’t you who betrayed me,” she accused, flinging a hand around her, “then why this? Why are you holding me against my will?”

He took a step toward the bed. She was still huddled on the far side of the mattress, clutching the sheet to her chest. But it had slipped, and he could see her breasts again, ripe and sensual, their tips dark and beaded with excitement.

In special ops, one of the first things a man learns is that fear produces the same physical reactions in a body as sexual arousal. It was a lesson he had taught Gina with painstaking care in their relationship as lovers. She had always been turned on by being just a little afraid of him. She’d liked his penchant for domination, responded hotly to his physical control over her. And he in turn had been incredibly aroused by having that power over her.

But that was before.

Now? Her eyes held a different kind of fear. One he wanted no part in arousing.

“I have to keep you here,” he said, forcing his gaze away from her bare body. “For your own protection.”

Her lips parted. “Protection? Are you kidding?
You’re
the one I need protecting from!”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not.”

But he
would
be if she didn’t cover herself. Her feelings for him might have changed, but his hadn’t. He still wanted her with a craving that gnawed at him like a wolverine. It had been pure torture stripping off her bloody clothes and washing her smooth skin of blood earlier and not awakening her by joining their bodies together as he’d always done when they’d shared a bed. He’d left her naked instead of dressing her, terrified of doing something they’d both have bitterly regretted. Just as he would now if she didn’t put on those damned clothes.

“Get dressed,” he ordered gruffly, mastering his need. Just as he’d mastered everything else in his life. “I’ll make you some lunch.”

He didn’t wait for her response, but went to the galley-style kitchen and opened a can of soup. French bread, a hunk of cheese, and steaming, fragrant tea completed the meal. He set it on his small kitchen table. When he looked up, he saw she’d dressed in the clothes he’d given her, and was clinging to the bedroom door frame, watching him.

“Come and eat,” he said.

She shook her head. She put out her bare foot and raised the hem of one leg of her sweatpants to show the silver heart and chain he’d fastened around her ankle. “What is this?”

“A gift,” he said after a short hesitation. How could he explain the complicated feeling behind the gesture? The powerful surge of possessiveness that had rushed through his veins, the protectiveness he’d felt as he’d locked the chain around her limb and claimed her with his talisman? And the sense of relief knowing that within the curve of the silver heart nestled a tracking device that he could activate if he ever needed to—providing she didn’t take a hacksaw to the thing and throw it out the window. “A symbol of my good intentions.”

She gazed at it suspiciously. “It doesn’t have a clasp.”

“No,” he said. “Let it be a reminder that I’ll always be with you. Not to hurt you. To
protect
you.” He didn’t add “even if you don’t want me there,” but it was clear in her face that she understood that much. But it was a pretty trinket, one he’d known she would like, and he could also see her uncertainty about its ultimate meaning.

She lowered the pant leg. “There’s a tracking device in it, isn’t there?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t want it.”

“I know. But do you really want to take a chance on no one finding you when the bad guys show up next time?”

She just glared.

“Now come and eat,” he repeated.

“I don’t think so,” she said without moving.

He controlled the annoyance that wanted to rise. “What? You think I’m going to drug you? Poison you?”

She gnawed on her lower lip, silently eyeing the food. Obviously, she did.

“Fine.” He bent to spoon up a mouthful of soup. Then another. He swallowed it down and tore a hunk of bread onto which he sliced a sliver of cheese, and ate that, too. He drank half the mug of tea, then refilled it from the same pot. “Convinced?”

“Protection from whom?” she asked, avoiding the question.

He regarded her. “Come over here and sit down and I’ll tell you.” He backed away from the table, all the way to the kitchen counter, and leaned his butt against it, folding his arms over his chest so he wouldn’t reach out for her.

She still didn’t move.

“Sweet thing, if I’d wanted to hurt you, I’d already have done so,” he said reasonably.

Her eyes cut up to him from the table. “Don’t call me that.”

He stifled a sting in his heart. She used to like it when he called her sweet thing. So did he. Because she was. Incredibly sweet. Sweet sounding, sweet tasting, sweet smelling, sweet looking. She was the sweet and soft to everything hard and bitter inside him.

Even now, with her beautiful dark eyes filled with such loathing and suspicion, she was still the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

“Whatever you want,” he said dispassionately, and pointed to the meal. “Now, eat.”

“When you’ve answered my question.”

Even though she still clung to the door frame, in her refusal he saw a glimmer of the old, strong, and stubborn Gina, and was gratified. He wanted her fighting, not cowering.

“All right,” he conceded, rewarding her. “Protection from the al Sayika thugs who tried to kill you this morning, and all the others that will follow, now that you’re out of Haven Oaks. They must think you can identify them. And they’ll keep sending assassins until you’re dead. I have to protect you.”

She shook her head. “Don’t even try. I know you’re al Sayika’s paid dog. You were there with them this morning! Besides, STORM is protecting me.”

He ground his jaw at the insult. Controlled his anger. “And a first-rate job they did, too.”

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, dismay crossing her face. “You killed him. Dez Johnson, one of the STORM agents. You only wanted me. Why did you have to kill him?”

He stared at her. Told himself it didn’t matter that she believed he was firmly on the side of evil. The truth was, her would-be assassins had distracted the more seasoned STORM guy and set a trap for Johnson, who’d been just new enough at this game to fall for it. Gregg hadn’t gotten to him in time.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said evenly. “But I did kill the terrorists. If I hadn’t, you’d be dead now, too.”

She stared back at him, then turned away with a shiver. She couldn’t very well deny the truth of it. She’d been there. Seen the attacker’s gun pointed at her forehead. And her own knife planted in his chest.

Which apparently convinced her Gregg wasn’t out to kill her. Not yet, anyway. Evidently, he had to rape her first.

She edged toward the table and warily sat down. He held himself very still, though God knew why he bothered.

“You’ve been following me,” she said, hesitantly picking up the spoon. There was only one, and they both realized in the same instant that he’d already eaten from it. She set it down again.

Clenching his jaw, he pulled a new one from the drawer. “Yeah. Ever since you were rescued in Louisiana,” he said, holding it out to her.

He held it steady as she regarded him, comprehension slowly dawning in her eyes. “Ever since . . . then you
were
at Haven Oaks.”

He nodded. “Got a job there as a groundskeeper.”

“But how? STORM security is . . .”

He gave her a patient look. “I worked CIA undercover black ops for over a decade, Gina. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I couldn’t get past a little security check.”

She paled, looked from him to the spoon in his hand. “I wasn’t hallucinating. I
knew
I’d seen you.”

He gave up and set it on the table for her, then returned to his spot against the counter. “Yeah, I let you see my face a couple times, hoping . . .” He pressed his lips together, remembering the look of abject terror on hers each time he had.
Fuck
.

She picked up the spoon, put it down. Picked up the bread instead. Put that down, too. “Why? Why watch me?”

“I told you. To protect you.”

Her eyes filled again as she shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why sell me out and then protect me? Out of guilt?”

“I told you, Gina. It wasn’t me who sold you to those monsters.”

He could see her struggle desperately against the assertion, unable to reconcile his denial with what she thought she knew.

A tear trickled down her cheek. “You drove me there, Gregg—to the place the terrorists kidnapped me. You said it was Zero Unit’s northeastern headquarters, but how do I know it wasn’t a complete setup? That you weren’t part of the plan all along?”

Thinking about that day sent liquid rage streaking through his veins. She was right; he
had
driven her to ZU-NE on the back of his motorcycle that afternoon, at the request of his commanding officer, Colonel Frank Blair, ostensibly to identify the body of a missing friend she’d been searching for. When they’d arrived, Blair had immediately handed him marching orders, sending him OCONUS on a three-week mission to Kurdistan. It wasn’t until Gregg returned that he’d learned Gina had vanished. And another week until he’d put all the pieces together. And realized he’d been used.

Blair had denied it, of course. Even after some fairly persuasive questioning.

And that’s when Gregg had gone AWOL. From Zero Unit, its handlers within CIA, and the whole damn world. It
had
been a setup, no doubt about it. But
he’d
been the one set up, to take the fall if Zero Unit’s involvement in a prominent American scientist’s kidnapping was ever discovered. If caught, there was no doubt in his mind that he’d fall victim to CIA’s usual tactic for ridding itself of an inconvenient operator—he’d disappear without a trace, to rot his life away in some stinking foreign political prison without the benefit of a trial. He’d seen it happen before, and it wasn’t pretty.

He must figure out who was really behind this. And soon.

“I guess you can’t be sure I wasn’t involved,” he admitted. “But I’d hoped you knew me better than to believe it.”

He’d spent the entire three remaining months she was missing trying to find her. Which hadn’t been easy. He’d been branded a deserter—though technically he wasn’t, because Zero Unit was not part of the military—and worse, the terrorists’ accomplice. Even now his face was plastered across every MP and law enforcement office’s Most Wanted board, not to mention every ZU operator, CIA officer, and Interpol agent in the world was looking for him. Tough to move around under those circumstances, even with Tommy and his other CIs helping him.

In the end, when he’d finally found a solid lead on who might have taken Gina and where she was being held, he’d been forced to phone it in anonymously to DHS because his own hands had been so severely tied. He hadn’t wanted her to spend one more minute with those al Sayika scumsuckers because of his own inability to mount a rescue.

Head bowed, she studied the bowl of soup before her. “How can I believe anything you say?” she quietly asked. “You’ve lied to me about everything—
everything
—from the moment we met.”

His heart squeezed. He opened his mouth to deny it, then snapped it shut. Lying was a way of life when you worked for the Agency. They’d met because she’d been his assignment. He’d been sent to stop her asking some very inconvenient questions about a woman who’d disappeared in conjunction with one of their covert operations. But once he’d seen her, talked to her, kissed her, made love to her . . .

“Our intimate relationship was not a lie,” he denied tightly.

She looked up. Accusation again swam in her big brown eyes. “Wasn’t it?”

“No
.
”

He pushed off the counter angrily, and she jumped, knocking her chair over as she surged to her feet and backed away from him in fear.

Fuck it
. He couldn’t take this another minute.

He stopped, exhaled, and said, “Eat your soup before it gets cold, then get some rest. I’m going out for a while.”

He felt her eyes on his back as he retrieved his spare weapon—a Beretta with the serial numbers filed off—from the bedroom and tucked it into an ankle holster. His SIG Sauer P226 Elite was already in its usual spot—in the front of his waistband under his T-shirt. Sliding on his black leather jacket, he grabbed his keys and went to the door. “I’m locking this from the outside,” he said. “There isn’t another key, so don’t bother tearing the place apart searching. But help yourself to whatever else you want.”

With that, he left the apartment, turning the key in the lock behind him with a firm
snick
.

Christ
.

It took him all four flights of stairs going down to the street to master his anger. Not anger at her. Anger at himself. That he’d gotten into this ludicrous situation in the first place. If he’d only just done his job—seduced her to shut her up as ordered, then walked away when the deed was done—and not gotten emotionally involved. Not let himself fall for her body and grow dependent on her adoration, not start to think maybe, just maybe, he’d finally met a woman whose warmth and love could banish the perpetual coldness in his heart . . .

Fuck it
.

None of that mattered now. His foolish, uncontrolled foray into the realm of emotions was over. All that mattered was keeping Gina safe from those who would harm her.