Hot Ice (23 page)

"You should try to sleep," Hunt told Taylor quietly as she came out of the head. She'd changed into softly pleated gray slacks and a cream-colored, long-sleeve shirt that crossed her breasts with no apparent means of fastening. He preferred her naked.

Narrow-eyed, he watched her lithe walk with unconscious intensity. He'd been with her not ten minutes ago, yet seeing her now, hair wet, pale, slender feet bare, made his lungs feel constricted. He'd never seen anything so sexy in his life.

They'd made love again in the small shower stall while hot water pelted them and the plane went through fifteen minutes of turbulence. For Hunt, it had been an unforgettable experience.

The cabin was quiet, the lighting muted, and the drone of the plane's engines soporific. Yet he was wired. He'd had her twice, and wanted her again. The feel of her skin, the smell of her hair—all of it. Soon. Now. For the first time in forever, his focus felt blurred. He should've been thinking strategies and terrorists, and instead was drifting back to her.

Taylor tossed the matching jacket she carried over a chair back, then ran her fingers through her wet hair. She resumed the seat she'd had earlier. This time Hunt had chosen the plush chair beside instead of opposite her. As soon as she sat down, he handed her a glass of wine, noting how transparent the cloth of her blouse over her right breast had become where her wet hair soaked the fabric. She wore no bra. His pants immediately became as constricted as his breathing.

"Mmm, thanks," she murmured, accepting the glass by the stem. "I'll have plenty of time to sleep." She took a sip. "This is wonderful. I'm going to take a few weeks off."

The fragrance of her skin made his mouth water. She drew her feet up on the seat, then rested her chin on her bent knees and turned her head to look at him as he asked, "In Zurich?"

She took another sip of her drink. "I'm not sure. Maybe the South of France. It's nice there this time of year."

Not the South of France, he knew instinctively, and probably no vacation either. Not surprised she lied, he wondered why she'd bother. He leaned back, holding his own glass. "How many jobs do you average a year?"

The diffuse lighting made her skin look luminescent. He knew how soft it was to the touch. He knew how sweet it tasted. He resisted the powerful need to touch her. The strength of that urge, and the fact that he still
felt
that urge, annoyed him as much as it intrigued him.

She twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers, her attention on the light reflecting off the surface. "Sometimes one, sometimes, like this year, three or four."

"And you've never been caught?" He wished to hell the thought of Taylor incarcerated didn't bother him so much. Law of averages would catch up with her eventually.

"Once was enough," she said dryly. "Were you born in England? It's hard to tell, your accent is so faint most of the time."

"Born in Boston, moved to Essex when I was nine, moved back to the States, D.C, when I was fifteen, went to school in London when I was seventeen." He'd been recruited by T-FLAC while in college, and it was at their suggestion that he'd entered law school. He'd never regretted either choice.

"That's a lot of moving around."

"Father's a career diplomat."

"What about your mom?"

"She died. Cancer. I was seventeen. My father adored her—hell, everyone did. He never remarried." Hunt didn't add that his father had rarely smiled since. Genetic thing, since, come to think of it, he didn't smile much either. Until recently. Until her.

"Tough losing your mom at that age," Taylor murmured sympathetically.

"Yes, it was. She was an amazing woman. Funny as hell." He half smiled at the memories. "Brave—Jesus, toward the end… I consider myself fortunate to have had her for as long as I did."

"How long was she sick before she died?"

"Four and a half years ."They'd made the most of those years too, the three of them. Hunt felt his mouth curve at the memories. "She had a…
thing
for
National Geographic
and the Discovery Channel, and was an enthusiastic armchair traveler…"

Taylor leaned her elbow on the armrest between them. Her damp hair smelled of the fragranceless stuff all the operatives used. On her it smelled of flowers. "Don't stop." She brushed her hand over his.

"When she was diagnosed, she decided she wanted to see all those places for herself." He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the silky skin on the back of her hand. "We took her to Spain. She said it was to see the flamenco dancers, but we figured she wanted to check out the matadors. We pretended to be appalled." God, how she'd laughed at their teasing. "We went to Italy." He and his father had sat, pretending not to be comatose, through an opera at La Scala in Milan. "And another trip to Loch Ness, so she could look for Nessy." He shook his head at the memory. "Just as boring—and with dreary weather. Another time we packed up and went off to Easter Island to see the Moai monoliths along its coastline. And the last year… we returned to Boston. To wait.

"I gained an appreciation for orange Popsicles and 7-Up," Hunt said, remembering the rock in his chest as he watched his mother fade a little more each day. Watched his father die with her. "Both of which she'd always given to me when I was ill as a kid. They helped her with the nausea. She died in my father's arms."

"You really loved each other a lot. I envy you that." Taylor's voice was wistful.

"Yeah. I was lucky. Enough about me. Tell me about Taylor Kincaid, the child."

She smiled. "You have that big fat file on me. Didn't you read it?"

"From cover to cover. Several dozen times," he told her dryly. Her dark hair had started to curl a little around her shoulder. Her eyes, crystal blue, were clear as she watched him with a small smile curving her mouth. Looking at her made his heart twist strangely.

"Then you know my father was in prison."

"High Desert State Prison, Nevada." His voice was cool, nonjudgmental. "Armed robbery."

"Yes." Her eyes clouded. "It makes my heart hurt to think about him—"

"Jesus, Taylor," Hunt said roughly, reaching out a hand to brush his fingers lightly over her damp hair. "How can you be such a tough cookie and talk like that?"

She gave him a puzzled look. "I loved him."

"Where was your mother?"

"Worked days, partied nights." She shrugged, as if with that one motion she could slide away old memories. "She left when I was twelve. She didn't much like being a mother. It put a crimp in her social life big-time. We were better off without her."

She narrowed her eyes. "Did you make that up earlier when you told me my mother was dead?"

"No. Didn't you know? She died when you were in your early teens. A single-vehicle car accident in the desert just outside Las Vegas."

She shook her head, then looked down at her toes, but not before he noticed a sheen of tears. "I had no idea. I—We thought she'd just… gone. But I somehow always imagined she was out there—somewhere."

He should get up and walk away.
Now
. He didn't want to feel compassion for her. He didn't want his own fucking "heart to hurt" because she'd had a bloody lousy childhood. He picked up his glass, shifted to rise, then sat back. Because he couldn't leave her. In a few minutes. But not right now. "I'm sorry."

"No. Don't be. It's just… strange. I don't know how I feel really. Relieved. Angry. Sad, maybe."

"What about your father?"

"He was around. Pretty bewildered with raising dau—raising a daughter alone." The slip was infinitesimal. But there. "It wasn't easy for him. He was a building super in one of the big apartment complexes in Reno, so he could spend quite a bit of time with me. But, oh, Lord. His job bored him to tears. Still, he was pretty good at it." Her smile pierced his heart. Hunt was glad she at least had a few good memories.

"He liked fixing things," she continued, nodding when he held up the wine bottle to refill her glass. He poured, and she immediately took a large gulp. "Machinery that broke down, cars, air conditioners—he couldn't have cared less if old Mrs. Solomon's linoleum was coming up or if Mr. Engel's door hinge had a squeak. But, boy, give him a broken engine, or anything with moving parts, and he was a virtuoso. I loved following him around."

Light played against her cheekbones, making him itch to stroke them; it took a concerted effort to keep his hands to himself. "Is that how you got started? Watching your father?" God, he loved watching
her
. Expressions flitted across her freshly scrubbed face like clouds across the sky, and her eyes sparkled like moonlight on fresh snow.

And he was becoming dangerously poetic.

Hell with it. He gave himself the duration of the flight to indulge his fancy. After that it was business as usual.

"Him and his buddies. God…"Taylor smiled, looking poignantly young as she did so. "When I couldn't sleep, I'd go down to Uncle Hank's apartment, where Dad and his cronies were playing cards. I learned to play poker at seven, and started winning at nine."

"The early start of those nimble fingers of yours." His lips twitched. "Why aren't you a card shark?"

"No money in it. Not the way I played, anyway. Uncle Hank worked as a security guard at one of the big casinos. As a lark, he taught Pop to open the safe at his cousin's gas station. Not stealing anything—the cousin was there, just as a gag. Of course if my dad did it, I had to try too. It became a game for the three of us."

"Interesting game to teach a kid," Hunt murmured.

"Hey, some kids play with dolls, I played safecracker. Another friend of Pop's was an illusionist, close up. Sleight of hand, card tricks mostly. I was a willing pupil, and they loved teaching me more and more complicated tricks. Then they'd bet on me. See how fast I could open a safe, or get some poor rube to bet on spotting the mechanics of an illusion. I was a kid, and cute." She laughed. "And I was
good
. Man, I was good. Pop made a mint on me. I was dexterous and quick, and got a percentage of my father's take. I loved it."

She shook her head. "He was caught robbing the local 7-Eleven when I was fifteen. He took Hank's safecracking lessons seriously. Unfortunately," she added on a sigh, "he wasn't as gifted as I was. And I have no idea where the hell he got that gun. He was shivved then strangled in prison a few weeks after he got there."

"What happened to you? Social Services?"

"Are you kidding me? I wasn't going to wait for them to show up. I pulled my first job the day after Pop was arraigned. Some small-time hood had put the squeeze on Uncle Hank for payback on a racing bet—"

"Jesus bloody Christ. You robbed a
bookie
?" Admiration warred with pity that warred with the urge to protect. Damned if he didn't want to travel back in time and look out for her. Although, he admitted, a teenage Taylor would have fought his urge to help every bit as much as she fought him now.

"You bet. He was a lousy bookie, and a nasty piece of garbage. Had twenty grand in used bills in a child's play easy-to-open safe in his basement. I was in and out in six minutes."

Hunt shook his head. "Then what?"

"I went to a Goodwill store, bought a wig and a suitcase, asked Hank to get me a fake driver's license because I was still underage."

"You were only
fifteen
, for Christ's sake."

She shrugged. "I could look considerably older, believe me. From there, I went to Sacramento, applied for a passport, stayed at a motel for a couple of weeks, and when the passports came, left on the next flight for Europe."

Hunt wondered who she was protecting. "Who was the second passport for?" he asked easily, watching her eyes.

She looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?"

His jaw clenched, then he said easily, "You went to Europe alone? At barely fifteen?"

"Me and—" She yawned. "And twenty thousand American dollars."

No, darling
, Hunt thought savagely.
Not you alone. You and somebody important
. Who? A boyfriend? A lover? "Then what?"

"I bummed around Europe for a while, then ended up in Zurich and went to work for Consolidated Underwriters. The rest—" She yawned again. "Is history."

He rose, placing his half-full glass on the pull-down table beside him with care. Lust mixed with anger was a lethal combination. "Try to sleep," he told her flatly. "I'll wake you before we land."

She straightened, gave him a puzzled look. "What did I miss? What just happened?"

Hunt ignored her as he walked away.

He gritted his teeth as he moved rapidly to the rear of the aircraft. He'd fucked away the last remnants of his intelligence. Why the bloody
hell
had he permitted the intense, insatiable, unquenchable fever in his blood to win?

Why her? Why now?

It was a madness. As if he'd somehow cease to exist if he didn't have her. Right then. Right there.

His training, his life, his work—everything he did, he did with unrelenting control over his emotions. His choices were driven by logic, his actions carefully calculated. He never made a move without being certain he considered the possibilities and was satisfied with the projected outcome.

He'd
never
allowed himself to be swept away on a tidal wave of emotion. Until now. He raked his fingers through his still-damp hair. Jesus Christ. He'd lost his fucking mind.

He slammed open the door to the aft cabin with more force than necessary. The room was dark. He brutally flipped on the lights.

"A simple knock would've done it," Max bitched, opening his eyes. He'd been sleeping in the desk chair. Bishop, obviously immune to loud noises, snored in the narrow bunk across the small room. A second bunk was tucked up against the bulkhead, but Max hadn't bothered to lower it.

He narrowed his gaze on Hunt as he came over to lean against the desk. "My God. You're
smiling
." He rubbed his eyes and pretended to get up. "Alert the media. Huntington St. John cracked a smile."

Hunt raked his fingers through his hair, scraping it back away from his face with both hands. Much as Taylor had done a few moments ago, he realized. "Wiseass. I smile." Although the smile now felt more like a grimace to him.