Eye of the Storm (23 page)

"So we're saying that Isabella finessed a meeting with Maurice. Which obviously worried him—" Simone shot a look at Tate "—since he called you about it. Then, after the fact, he discovered the missing information, and sent the postcards. Apparently also planning to call you in for another personal meeting." She frowned, wondering again why Maurice had called Tate at all. He'd never been a favorite, as far as she could tell. Maybe under the circumstances proximity had been the mitigating factor.

"I'm not following," Reece said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Sorry. There was a notation in Maurice's diary about a meeting with Tate after he met with Isabella."

"But there wasn't a meeting." Reece looked from Tate to Simone, his eyes narrowed in speculation.

"No. He never contacted me," Tate said, his gaze full of regret. "We think maybe he was killed before he could."

"Apparently, Maurice used his calendar as a sort of diary—recording impressions of a meeting after the fact. There's nothing recorded after his notation to meet with Tate. So it follows that he never actually set the meeting up, just planned to."

"But he
did
send the postcards." This from Marguerite.

"Yes, only he never made it to the rendezvous because Carlos got to him first." Reece summed it all up with one sentence, and for a moment nobody said anything.

"So I'm right. We need to head for Nicaragua," Tate said. "End this once and for all. We owe it to Maurice."

"And the others," Simone said, gripping the edge of the table in anger.

"So how do we find her?" Marguerite asked.

"I think that's fairly easy," Tate said. "If Reece is right, and the coup is only a cover, then I'm betting she's retreated to the safety of mountains."

"To
El Ojo de la Tormenta
," Martin said to no one in particular.

"So we head for Nicaragua." Simone looked to Tate, her mind made up. She owed it to her friends.

"Not so fast." Reece held up his hand. "We aren't even certain she's at the compound. And even if we were sure, she'll have security out the wazoo."

"It won't be the first time we've taken on the odds. And I'll tell you this," Tate said, staring daggers at Reece, "I haven't made it this far sitting on my ass and waiting for something to happen. Sometimes you have to go to the source. Stop the puppeteer and you take care of the puppets at the same time."

"Meaning Carlos and Isabella. Two for the price of one?"

"There's logic in what he's saying, Reece," Simone said.

"I can't say that I agree. But I'll defer to your experience." It was as close as she was going to get to his acquiescing. "However, considering that the alleged coup is all over the news, I still don't see how the hell you're going to get into the country, let alone the compound, without raising alarms throughout Central America?"

Tate shot a look at Simone, who hesitated and then shrugged. "It's possible. I still have contacts. And I suspect—" she held Tate's gaze "—that you do as well."

He nodded.

"So how soon do we go?" Simone asked.

"Yesterday would have been best," Tate said, "but I'll settle for tomorrow."

"Then we have much work to do." Marguerite stood up, gesturing for Tate to follow.

He hesitated, looking from Reece to Simone and then back at Reece again. "It will be best if you stay here."

Reece opened his mouth to argue, but Tate didn't wait for an answer, following Marguerite into the kitchen.

"He's right." Simone laid a hand on Reece's arm, feeling him tense beneath her touch. "You and Martin need to stay here. You're not trained for this kind of thing."

"And you haven't been active in almost ten years."

"Except for the last few days." Her tone was placating, but his frown didn't lessen. "Look, I know it's hard for you to let someone else be in charge. But we do know what we're doing. And Martin is in no shape to travel to Central America. If he stays, someone needs to stay with him."

"Marguerite can—" he started, but she interrupted.

"I'd rather it be you. I'd trust Marguerite with my life, but she's not exactly in prime condition. She's got to be nearing seventy, and I'd feel better if you were here, too. Besides, we can't ignore the fact that Carlos, or very likely someone working for him, is still out there. And although I think Tate is right, and our departure will draw him away from you and Martin, I can't be certain."

"I don't like any of it." His tone was stubborn now, but she knew she'd won the round.

"For what it's worth, I don't like it either. But it's the best we've got." She started to reach up to touch his face, but instead, she turned and walked away. The time for a normal life had passed. This was a time for war. Something had been started all those years ago in Sangre de Cristo.

And now the time had come to bring it to an end.

REECE LAY AWAKE, staring up into the eaves of Marguerite's attic. The room obviously served as a retreat for the older woman when it was not occupied by last-minute guests on the run. A half-finished watercolor sat on an easel near the gabled window, and another dozen or so canvases lay scattered about the room. Somehow the idea of Marguerite as a painter fit his view of her far more than the image of Marguerite as an elite CIA operative. But then what the hell did he know?

And of course it had been many years since Marguerite had worked black ops. There was certainly a commonality between her and Simone. She had the same stillness, as if she was focused internally as much as externally. Watching without watching.

He rolled over on a sigh. So much had changed, and yet surprisingly so much was the same. Simone had revealed an entire side to her life that Reece had never known, but he still felt like there were secrets. An invisible wall that separated them.

Only he had no idea why it was there. Just that Simone was still refusing to let him in.

Oh, maybe she'd cracked the door a little. Told him what she'd been forced to tell. But nothing more—nothing voluntary.

It shouldn't matter. But it did.

A few days ago all he'd been worried about was nailing Zabara and getting Simone to sign the papers. And now, he was lying here, papers signed and Zabara convicted, wondering how he could convince her to work with him to try to figure out what the hell it was that still stretched between them.

He could still feel her body moving under his. Smell the soft sweet scent that was some impossible combination of soap and shampoo and Simone.

God, he had it bad.

He swung out of the bed and walked over to the window, leaning against the overhang to peer out into the night. The window was open, and a cool breeze washed across his exposed skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind.

His grandmother had always said that goose bumps meant someone was walking over your grave. But Reece didn't think she'd meant it quite as literally as their current situation. Tomorrow, if everything played out as planned, Simone would walk away, taking the danger with her.

It made sense. She and Tate were certainly more prepared to deal with what lay ahead in Central America than either he or Martin, but some part of him, some chauvinistic part no doubt, hated the idea of letting her go on her own. He ought to be there with her. He'd begun the journey and somehow it seemed important that he finish it.

Again with the philosophical bullshit. Playing CIA agent evidently had that effect on people. His laugh was harsh, breaking the silence of the night.

"Something funny?"

He turned to see his wife standing in a pool of moonlight. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to admire the view." She let her gaze travel the length of him, a small smile turning the corner of her lips.

"I'm glad someone is having a good night."

She sobered immediately. "I...I shouldn't have come."

"Then why did you?"

She shook her head, her face in shadow. "I'm not sure really. I guess it sounds lame to say I couldn't stay away. But I'm leaving tomorrow and I—"

"Needed a little goodbye send-off?" He instantly wanted to take the words back, but it was too late.

Her face hardened. "No. Obviously it was a stupid idea." She whirled around to go but he was faster, crossing the room and grabbing her by the arm.

"I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I'm just confused, Simone."

"Join the club."

He loosened his hold, but she didn't leave. They stood for a moment, the only sound in the room the whisper of the curtains moving in the breeze. "Why do we do this to each other?"

"Because we don't know how to love each other anymore." She looked so sad.

"It used to be so damn easy."

"Or maybe we just never noticed the effort. Either way, it's different now."

"But not over." He held his breath, waiting for her to answer.

"You said that this morning. And for a moment I admit I wanted it to be true. But I've been over it and over it, and I don't see how it can be any other way. Surely you can see that. I mean, look at us. We're standing in a strange house in the middle of the night just hours before I head out on a mission with God knows what kind of results. What kind of life is that?"

"It's
our
life, Simone. The one we were given. You've got to admit the alternative's not so great." His attempt to joke fell flat; her dark eyes filled with pain.

"So what? We start over?"

"Is it such a bad idea? We love each other." She opened her mouth to argue but he stopped her. "Don't bother denying it."

"I wasn't going to." She tipped back her head, moonlight silvering her face and neck. "I was going to say that it's not enough to build on. We need more."

"What? A shared past? We have that."

"One built on lies."

"Not all of it." He slid his hands to her shoulders, needing the physical connection. "Stop fighting me."

"I don't want to." Her eyes were full of confusion now. "But there's still so much you don't understand. I'm not the woman you think I am."

"But I do know who you are. You're the woman I married. For better or worse and all that that implies. Look, sweetheart, nothing is guaranteed in this life. Nothing. So we have to make do with what we have. Maybe moments, maybe days, maybe a lifetime. I don't know either. I just know that I can't walk away. I can't."

"Me either." She whispered the last on a shudder, and he bent to kiss her, wanting only to take away the pain in her voice.

The contact was like sticking a match to kerosene, the instant inferno threatening to envelop them both. He pulled her closer, relieved when her arms threaded around his neck, her body pressed tightly against his.

It was as if they'd never come together before. As if they were discovering every part of each other for the first time. The tender place on her neck that made her shiver when he kissed her there, the soft, smooth velvet of the skin across her breasts, the growling sound she made low in her throat as she ground against him.

She was his world. Had been since the first moment he'd met her. And at the moment, nothing else mattered. He reached for the hem of the T-shirt she was sleeping in, sliding it up and over her head, tossing it to the floor, his hands aching for the feel of her.

Running his palms over her shoulders, he let them slide along the curve of her back, across her buttocks and up again until he cupped both breasts, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

He circled each nipple with the pad of his thumb, delighting in the fact that she responded to him so quickly. With a little cry she flung herself against him and they kissed, tongues tangling together, moving as if desire had choreographed the motions. Thrust and parry, accepting, repelling, drinking each other in as if they were parched.

The kiss deepened and he traced the line of her lips with his tongue, nipping the corners of her mouth before trailing kisses along her cheek to the soft lobe of her ear. He bit it gently, feeling her respond beneath his touch. They knew each other so well, and yet they didn't know each other at all.

There was something exciting in the idea. And frightening. He'd been right when he'd accused her of hiding behind her secrets. But he'd been hiding, too. Hiding from intimacy. From the idea of depending upon another person so deeply that to exist without them seemed all but impossible.

She reached down to cup his balls and it was his turn to writhe against her. There was so much he wanted to do to this woman. With a groan he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Bathed in moonlight, it seemed an almost magical place. A safe place.

He looked down at her for a moment, allowing himself to drink in her beauty, and then she lifted her arms, beckoning him, and he was lost. Bracing himself over her, he rubbed a knee against the moist juncture between her thighs, and then bent his head to savor her breasts. Kissing first one, then the other. Teasing her with his tongue before finally taking her into his mouth and biting her nipple, her responsive cry almost his undoing.

He tasted the other nipple and then trailed kisses along her stomach, tracing the soft skin between her thighs, finally allowing himself the pleasure of tasting her, his tongue thrusting where he longed to follow, sucking and pulling, nipping and teasing until he felt her rise off the bed in her release.

He slid upward again, lying with his head against her chest, cradled there between her breasts, listening to her heart beat, as she slid down from the rapture he'd given her. Then suddenly she moved, and they flipped over so that she was straddling him. Her fingers circled him, moving up and down, the sensations washing through him on a wave of pure pleasure.

She teased him with her hands until he couldn't stand another minute, and in one deft move he lifted her, sliding inside as he impaled her, the wet, hot moisture surrounding him like a velvet glove. Grasping her hips, he moved her up and down, setting the rhythm. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she took up the dance, pulling upward so that they were almost disengaged and then slamming home again with a force that threatened to send him spiraling out of control.

But he wasn't ready to surrender, and bending his legs, he pulled up to a sitting position, cradling her against him, rocking slightly so that he moved inside her, the motion sending her squirming against him, craving release.

He smiled, kissing her cheeks and her eyelids, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, each movement designed to drive her higher, to drive him higher. Their very stillness causing tremors of passion to ripple through them.

Then he kissed her. And with a cry she pushed him back again, pumping hard against him, the exquisite pain building inside him until he was meeting each and every thrust with one of his own, the two of them driving together, reaching out for that moment of bliss.

And then it was there. Just within grasp, and taking her hand, they found it together, the intensity threatening to shatter him into tiny pieces. But he held on—holding her, loving her, knowing that even if he never had this moment again—he would treasure it always.

*****

THE MOONLIGHT SPILLED across the bed like a silvery blanket, and Simone stretched with contentment and snuggled deeper into Reece's warmth. There was something so wonderful about waking in the middle of the night and not being alone.

She'd fought the impulse to come to him. Figured it was better not to complicate things more than they already were. But then she'd realized that maybe there wouldn't be another chance, and if she'd learned anything in life, it was that one had to seize the moment.

None of their problems had been solved. Hell, they'd scarcely been discussed, and yet somehow here in the moonlight she could almost believe him when he said they had a chance to start again.

"You're awake." His voice rumbled through his chest and her contentment spread.

"I was thinking about what all you said. About us. About starting over."

"And..."

"And I don't know," she said, lifting up on one elbow. His face darkened as he frowned.

"No. Wait," she said, putting a finger over his lips. "I didn't mean that I don't want to. It's more that I don't know how. We've started patterns that aren't easily broken, you know? I mean, technically we're divorced."

"Actually, the papers are still sitting on the table, unless the local PD decided to start delivering mail."

His words made her think of Laura and she fought a wave of grief.

"I'm sorry about Laura. She didn't deserve any of this." His deep voice was comforting, and she lay again across his chest.

"I just wish I could change things, you know? Fix it so that you and Laura and Martin would never have been involved in my problems."

"But life's not like that, Simone. It can't be orchestrated. Whatever's going to happen is going to happen."

"So you're saying we have no control over it?"

"We have some, but I think too often we make the mistake of thinking we're omniscient. That we can order our lives any way that we want. And in the end I think that's what hurts the most. Realizing that we never really had that kind of control in the first place."

"You're not talking about me anymore, are you?"

"No. I guess not. Or maybe I'm talking about us both. You wanted a fantasy life, and I wanted everything kept in its designated place. Not really all that different. I had a picture of who I thought you were and I didn't want that to change. Which, when you think about it, isn't all that realistic." He stroked her hair, his fingers soothing and exciting all at the same time.

"Maybe. But it doesn't mean you needed to have all this dropped on you out of the blue."

His laughter rumbled beneath her ear. "I can think of better ways to have found out. But the truth is, a part of me was trying to keep your secret even as I pushed to uncover it. A part of me didn't want to know, Simone. I was as afraid as you were of what it would do to our relationship."