Hot Ice (51 page)

Johannesburg

Daklin slung an arm over the chair back next to him as Hunt walked around his outstretched legs. "If you continue pacing like a caged tiger," he told Hunt. "That ferret-faced little nurse will come back in here and ream you. Again. You just had sixty-some stitches taken in your hide, pal. Maybe you should do what they told you to do. Take a load off. Relax. You've scared the shit out of enough people that they'll hotfoot it in here to tell you the second there's news."

Hunt had to step over Daklin's feet again since the other man's long legs were stretched directly in his path. "Why the hell is this taking so long?" he demanded, ignoring his de facto babysitter's editorial comments. He rubbed a hand across his unshaven jaw. Christ, he hated the stink of hospitals. They all smelled the same. Antiseptic. Fear. Death. He turned around when he got to the far wall—eighteen paces—then went back the other way.

His skin felt clammy and his heart raced uncomfortably.
Admit it
, he taunted himself.
You are one shit-scared bastard
.

He hadn't had this fixation, and felt such a bone-deep fear about anyone's mortality, in twenty years. This kind of nerve-grinding fear was like riding a goddamned bicycle. The feeling was coming back to him in a sickening rush.

He closed his eyes briefly and prayed. He couldn't lose her.

This was taking too long…

"… before they stuff
you
in a bed and strap you down," Daklin was saying.

Hunt merely grunted. It seemed that every muscle in his body was rigid with unleashed tension. They refused to let him see Taylor in the isolation ward. Not until they knew precisely what she'd been sprayed with. Jesus bloody Christ. Like he gave a continental fuck about his own health. If she was contagious, he might as well be too.

Christ, she'd been so pale on board the chopper en route to Jo'burg, her eyes sunken, her lips tinged blue. He'd crouched there, holding her, praying, trying to breathe for her. Only when the doctor on board kindly pointed out that he might break every bone in Taylor's body holding her that tightly had he loosened his grip on her. A little.

He was scared. Deep down-to-the-bone fucking
terrified
that the doctors would come in here and tell him she was dead.

He pressed a fist to the monstrous ache compressing his chest as he again strode back the way he'd come. Over Daklin's feet, past the coffeepot, to the far wall, back again. The soreness in his chest felt similar to the dull pain he'd experienced the few times he'd been shot.

Hunt thought savagely that this ache—in his chest, in his gut, in his heart—wasn't going anywhere. Not until he'd seen for himself that Taylor was in full recovery. That she was back to her sweet, sassy, brave self again. He needed to see the clear blue of her eyes, needed to hear her laughter, needed to run his hands over that pale creamy skin to assure himself that every inch of the woman he loved was whole and healthy.

He wanted to press his lips to her throat and feel her lifeblood pulsing through her veins.

Oblivious to his surrounds, he absently stepped over Daklin's feet on every circuit. He had to see her. Touch her. Make sure… Hell.

Will
her to live, if that's what it took. This was one of those situations that he couldn't control, couldn't manipulate. He couldn't shoot his way out of this, or use any of T-FLAC's considerable resources. There was no gadget, no muscle, no
anything
within his power that could change the outcome of what would happen to her.

And his highly prized, much vaulted patience and control had gone down the chute—the longer the doctors worked on her. Nine hours was a lifetime.

He hadn't had enough time with her. Hell, they'd barely scratched the surface. He was being cheated here, goddamn it. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. He suspected even when he did, she wouldn't believe him. Everyone Taylor had ever cared about had left her. Her mother, when the going got tough, and her father, by being irresponsible enough to pull an armed robbery with two young daughters dependent on him.

There were millions of things he didn't know about her. Jesus. He didn't even know her favorite color, or her favorite books, or movies, or… a million other things, large and small.

Yet he knew the velvety feel of her skin. He knew she loved drinking champagne and eating chocolates before she went to bed at night. He knew she wasn't afraid of heights and that she favored very brief, very expensive lingerie.

How had this happened? he wondered. How had this woman crept into his heart where no one had trespassed before? How was it that she was everything he wanted and needed, when he hadn't known about those wants or needs until meeting her?

They'd had completely different childhoods, but they both lost their mothers too young. And they both had chosen work that kept them at an emotional distance from those around them. But he was fortunate in that he had friends. Taylor didn't have any close friends because of what she did.

She was bright. Self-reliant. And funny as hell. She should be surrounded by people who adored her.

Instead, she was alone.

Unacceptable.
He
could give her companionship, share with her his hard-won friendships with several T-FLAC operatives. He could give her… anything she wanted. Everything she wanted and needed. If he was given the opportunity.

What he found unconscionable—and terrified him the most—was that Taylor didn't expect things to be any different. She accepted the isolation of what she did. She didn't realize that she could have the thrill of her job, take care of her sister, and still have a life of her own. She didn't believe that she could have it all.

If…
When
she survived, he'd make her understand what he had to offer. He loved her enough to make up for the losses and the loneliness. He needed her. Needed her lush, pale body. Needed her warm arms wrapped about him. Needed her laughter to warm this crushing chill consuming him.

The pressure in his chest increased. He raked his fingers through his hair in frustration and clenched his teeth against the turbulent emotions ripping through him.

Please God
, he pleaded.
A soul is a soul. If you need one, take mine. A straight-across swap. Because I don't hold with that crap about the good dying young
… He'd repent for the guilt of taking Taylor into such a dangerous situation later. Right now he could think of nothing other than bargaining, pleading, or bullying God into keeping her alive.

He'd never get over the responsibility of involving her so deeply with Morales. But without her, they would never have been able to defeat two of the deadliest terrorist cells in the world. Thanks to Taylor, Daklin had deactivated the missile, and Las Vegas was free to continue sinning to its heart's content, never knowing how close it had been to total annihilation.

Damn it to hell, they'd been in there working on her for bloody
hours
. He did a U-turn and started back across the room just as a familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

"What's new?" Max Aries asked, strolling in.

Hunt frowned as though coming up from the pitiless blackness beneath the ocean. "Why aren't you in Poland?"

"Brought you this." Aries handed him a padded envelope. "And got the S.O.S you needed backup. Man, you look like hell." Max gave him a concerned look. "The situation there wasn't nearly as exciting as we were led to believe."

"Backup?" Hunt took the envelope, folded it a couple of times, then casually stuffed it into his back pocket. He gave his friend a puzzled glance. "We don't need backup. Op's over, pal.
Mano del Dios
is out of biz. Morales neutralized. Missile defused. We saved the world." He rubbed a hand across his jaw and got to the most important fact. "Taylor's down the hall in ICU." He shot Daklin a look. "Get your size thirteens the hell out of my way, I'm too bloody tired to have to take that extra step."

Daklin shot him a half smile and withdrew his legs.

"The doctors figured right away the substance Taylor inhaled wasn't anthrax," Asher Daklin informed Max.

Hunt tuned them out as best he could.

"Even the heroin-cornstarch mix was everyday fare around here," Daklin continued. "It's the ricin that they discovered in the mix that's the concern right now. We're waiting for the lab results."

Hunt went to the window and stared out at the parking lot. Cars came and went. People in the hospitals lived or died.

"Do they think Morales tampered with or altered the genetics of the ricin to include a virus of some kind?" Max asked behind him.

Hunt's fist clenched against the window frame. The ricin could be made even more deadly if someone had screwed with the genetics. If it was mutated, not only could Taylor die, but they could well be faced with a situation that would kill who knew how many people before it could be contained. There were a hell of a lot of fucking
ifs
. Even in death, José Morales was wreaking havoc. Hunt turned away from the window and resumed pacing. He'd seen a polar bear in a zoo in Russia many years ago. The memory had stayed with him to this day of that too-small cage and that large beast, frustrated and frantic to move. It had gone around and around in circles until it went mad.

He knew just how it felt.

"She makes him
laugh
," Daklin told Max as Max went over to the half-filled coffeepot.

"No way," Hunt's friend mocked. "Thought that was just a rumor."

"I shit you not," Daklin drawled. "Witnessed the impossible myself. Several times. He's got it bad."

Hunt glanced at his watch. Nine hours eight minutes seven seconds. He wanted to punch something. He needed to run ten miles or swim a hundred laps.

"Before you ask," Max said, drinking from his cardboard cup, "I put in a call to Paradise; Amanda Kincaid is fine, she and Kim are having a blast, and apparently Marnie showed up with A.J. for some R&R as well."

It took Hunt a couple of seconds for the words to be heard and computed. "Thanks for that. Taylor will want that news the second she opens her eyes."
Please God
.

"From what I heard, she saved your ass." Max handed Hunt a paper cup.

Hunt took the coffee, although he knew he wouldn't drink it. His lips curved into a stiff smile as he started another lap. "Taylor was, in a word, amazing."

Max took his own coffee and settled into the chair next to Daklin like he had all the time in the world. "Why don't you come sit down and tell me all about it?"

Hunt's laugh was hollow as he massaged the stiffness that had settled at the nape of his neck. "What? Now you're my
therapist
? No thanks. Swear to God, if I don't keep moving I'll detonate."

He vaguely noticed the inquiring glance Max shot Asher Daklin as he resumed his manic marathon. "Sixty-two stitches for a knife wound," Daklin filled Max in unnecessarily. "Four cracked ribs. The usual dings and dents. He'll live."

Max settled back in his chair. "Pretty much a hangnail for us tough guys. Of course, at this rate, he may walk himself to death."

Chapter Fifty-seven

The green-painted hospital room smelled like spring. A dozen vases held huge bunches of brilliantly colored blooms, many of which Taylor didn't recognize. Since the only people she knew in South Africa were the T-FLAC team, she presumed the flowers were from them.

She knew there were several men in the waiting room. The doctor had told her so. She hadn't asked if one of them was Hunt because logic dictated that he'd be long gone, on to his next assignment. And since she knew him to be a decent and honorable man, he'd left a couple of his buddies here to keep an eye on her. The thought made her want to cry.

Focus
, she told herself sternly.
Focus, get better, get out of here
. She'd known the separation would hurt like hell. This wasn't a surprise. She wasn't sad, she told herself. She was ticked off that Hunt hadn't at least had the decency to tell her good-bye face-to-face.

The door swung open then, and she almost got whiplash turning to see who had come in. Hunt. Carrying a brown paper bag. Her difficulty breathing had nothing to do with what she'd inhaled in the mine and everything to do with the sheer, unadulterated
joy
she experienced seeing him.