Midnight Rainbow (25 page)

           
 
Grant eyed her narrowly, but she gave him a
bright, glittering smile, determined not to let him see that she was shattering
on the inside.

           
 
Too soon, far too soon, they landed at
Dallas
and filed out of the plane through the
portable tunnel. Jane clutched the dirty, battered backpack, for the first time
realizing that his boots and fatigues were in it along with her clothing.
"I need your address," she chattered brightly, nervously.
"To mail your clothes to you.
Unless you want to buy a
bag in the airport shop, that is. We have plenty of time before our
flights." He checked his watch. "You have twenty-eight minutes, so
we'd better find your gate. Do you have your ticket?"

           
 
"Yes, it's right here. What about your
clothes?"

           
 
"I'll be in touch with your father. Don't
worry about it." Yes, of course; there was the matter of payment for
dragging her out of
Costa Rica
. His face was hard and expressionless, his
amber eyes cool. She held out her hand, not noticing how it was shaking.
"Well, goodbye, then. It's—" She broke off. What could she say?
It's been nice meeting you?
 
She swallowed.

           
 
"It's been fun."

           
 
He looked down at her extended hand, then back
up at her, disbelief edging into the coolness of his eyes. He said slowly,
"The hell you say," caught her hand, and jerked her into his arms.
His mouth was hot, covering hers, his tongue curling slowly into her mouth as
if they weren't surrounded by curiously gawking people. She clung to him,
shaking.

           
 
He set her away from him. His jaw was
clenched. "Go on. Your folks are waiting for you. I'll be in touch in a
few days." The last slipped out; he'd intended this to be the final break,
but her dark eyes were so lost and full of pain, and she'd kissed him so
hungrily, that he couldn't stop the words.
One more time,
then.
He'd give himself one more time with her.

           
 
She nodded, drawing herself up. She wasn't
going to break down and cry all over him. He almost wished she would cry,
because then he'd have an excuse to hold her again. But she was stronger than
that. "Goodbye," she said, then turned and walked away from him. She
barely saw where she was going; people blurred in her vision, and she
stubbornly blinked her eyes to keep the tears back. Well, she was alone again.
He'd said he'd be in touch, but she knew he wouldn't. It was over. She had to
accept that and be grateful for the time she'd had. It had been obvious from
the first that Grant Sullivan wasn't a man to be tied down.

           
 
Someone touched her arm, the touch warm and
strong,
a
man's touch. She stopped, wild hope
springing into her breast, but when she turned she found that it wasn't Grant
who had stopped her. The man had dark hair and eyes, and his skin was dark, his
features strongly Latin. "Jane Greer?" he asked politely. She nodded,
wondering how he'd known her name and recognized her. His grip tightened on her
arm.

           
 
"Would you please come with me," he
said, and though his voice remained polite, it was an order, not a question.

           
 
Alarm skittered through her, jerking her out
of her misery. She smiled at the man and swung the backpack by its straps,
catching him on the side of the head with it and sending him staggering. From
the
solid'thunk
' it made, she knew Grant's boots had
hit him.

           
 
"Grant!" she screamed, her voice
slicing through the bustle of thousands of people.
"Grant!"
The man caught himself and lunged for her. Jane
began running back in the direction she'd come from, dodging around people. Up
ahead she saw Grant coming through the crowd like a running back, shoving
people out of his path. The man caught up with her, catching her arm; then
Grant was there. People were screaming and scattering, and the airport guards
were running toward them. Grant sent the man sprawling, then grabbed Jane's arm
and ran for the nearest exit, ducking past the milling crowds and ignoring the
shouts to stop.

           
 
"What the hell's going on?" he
roared, jerking her out into the bright
Texas
sunlight. The humid heat settled over them.

           
 
"I don't know! That man just came up to
me and asked if my name was Jane Greer; then he caught my arm and told me to
come with him, so I hit him in the head with the backpack and started
screaming."

           
 
"Makes perfect sense to me," he
muttered, flagging a cab and putting her in it, then crawling in beside her.

           
 
"Where to, folks?" the cab driver
asked.

           
 
"Downtown."

           
 
"Any particular place
downtown?"

           
 
"I'll tell you where to stop."

           
 
The driver shrugged. As they pulled away from
the curb there seemed to be a lot of people spilling out of the terminal, but
Jane didn't look back. She was still shaking. "It can't be
Turego
again, can it?" Grant shrugged. "It's
possible, if he has enough money. I'm going to make a phone call." She'd
thought she was safe, that they were both safe. After the two peaceful days
spent in
Mexico
, the sudden fear seemed that much sharper and more acrid. She couldn't
stop trembling. They didn't go all the way into
Dallas
. Grant instructed the driver to drop them
at a shopping mall. "Why a shopping mall?" Jane asked, looking
around.

           
 
"There are telephones here, and it's
safer than standing in a phone booth on the side of a street." He put his
arm around her and hugged her briefly to him. "Don't look so worried,
honey." They went inside and found a bank of pay telephones, but it was a
busy day and all the lines were in use. They waited while a teenager argued
extensively with her mother about how late she could stay out that night, but
at last she hung up and stormed away, evidently having lost the argument. Grant
stepped in and commandeered the telephone before anyone else could reach it.
Standing close by him, Jane watched as he dropped in the coins, punched in a
number, then dropped in more coins. He leaned casually against the fieldstone
nook that housed the telephone, listening to the rings on the other end.

           
 
"Sullivan," he finally drawled when
the phone was answered. "She was nearly grabbed in DFW." He listened
a moment; then his eyes flicked to Jane. "Okay, I got it. We'll be there.
By the way, that was a dumb move. She could've killed the guy." He hung
up, and his lips twitched.

           
 
"Well?" Jane demanded.

           
 
"You just belted an agent."

           
 
"An agent?
You
mean,
one of your friend's men?"

           
 
"Yeah.
We're
taking a little detour. You're going to be debriefed. It was left up to some
other people to pick you up, and they decided to pick you up after we'd parted
company, since I'm no longer in the business and this doesn't officially
concern me.
Sabin
will pin their ears back."

           
 
"
Sabin
?
Is he your friend?"

           
 
He was smiling down at her. "He's the
one." He stroked her cheekbone very gently with the backs of his fingers.
"And that's a name you're going to forget, honey. Why don't you call your
parents and let them know that you won't be in tonight? It'll be tomorrow; you
can call them again when we know something definite."

           
 
"Are you going, too?"

           
 
"I wouldn't miss it." He grinned a
little wolfishly, already anticipating
Kell's
reaction to Jane.

           
 
"But where are we going?"

           
 
"
Virginia
, but don't tell your parents that. Just
tell them that you missed your flight."

           
 
She reached for the phone,
then
stopped. "Your friend must be pretty important."

           
 
"He's got some power," Grant
understated.

           
 
So, they must know about the microfilm. Jane
punched in her credit card number. She'd be glad to get the whole thing over
with, and at least Grant was going to be with her one more day. Just one more
day!

           
 
It was a reprieve, but she didn't know if
she'd have the strength for another goodbye.

           
 
The "
Virginia
countryside around the place was quiet and
serene, the trees green, the flowering shrubs well-tended. It looked rather
like her father's
Connecticut
estate. Everyone was polite, and several people greeted Grant, but Jane
noticed that even the ones who spoke to him did so hesitantly, as if they were
a little wary of him.

           
 
Kell's
office was
right where it had always been, and the door still had no name on it. The agent
who had escorted them knocked quietly. "Sullivan is here, sir."

           
 
"Send them in."

           
 
The first thing Jane noticed was the
old-fashioned charm of the room. The ceilings were high; the mantel was surely
the original one that had been built with the house over a hundred years
before. Tall glass doors behind the big desk let in the late afternoon sun.
They also placed the man behind the desk in silhouette, while anyone who came in
the door was spotlighted by the blazing sun, something George had told her
about. He rose to his feet as they entered, a tall man, maybe not quite as tall
as Grant, but lean and hard with a whipcord toughness that wasn't maintained by
sitting behind a desk. He stepped forward to greet them. "You look like
hell, Sullivan," he said, and the two men shook hands; then he turned his
eyes on her, and for the first time Jane felt his power. His eyes were so black
that there was no light in them at all; they absorbed light, drawing it into
the depths of the irises. His hair was thick and black, his complexion dark,
and there was an intense energy about him that seared her.

           
 
"Ms. Greer," he said, holding out
his hand.

           
 
"Mr.
Sabin
,"
she returned, calmly shaking his hand.

           
 
"I have a very embarrassed agent in
Dallas
."

           
 
"He shouldn't be," Grant drawled
behind her. "She let him off easy."

           
 
"Grant's boots were in the pack,"
Jane explained. "That's what stunned him so badly when I hit him in the
head."

           
 
There was the first hint in
Sabin's
eyes that Jane wasn't quite what he'd expected.
Grant stood behind her, his arms calmly folded, and waited.

           
 
Sabin
examined her
open expression, the catlike slant of her dark eyes, the light dusting of
freckles across her cheekbones. Then he quickly glanced at Grant, who was
planted like the Rock of Gibraltar behind her. He could question her, but he
had the feeling that Grant wouldn't let her be harassed in any way. It wasn't
like Sullivan to get involved, but he was out of the business now, so the old
rules didn't apply. She wasn't a great beauty, but there was a lively charm
about her that almost made
Sabin
want
to smile. Maybe she'd gotten close to Sullivan.
Sabin
didn't trust that openness, however, because he knew more about her now than he
had in the beginning.

           
 
"Ms. Greer," he began slowly,
"did you know that George
Persall
was—"

           
 
"Yes, I did," Jane interrupted
cheerfully. "I helped him sometimes, but not often, because he liked to
use different methods every time. I believe this is what you want." She
opened the backpack and began digging in it. "I know it's in here.
There!" She produced the small roll of film, placing it on his desk. Both
men looked thunderstruck. "You've just been carrying it around?"
Sabin
asked in disbelief.

           
 
"Well, I didn't have a chance to hide it.
Sometimes I put it in my pocket. That way
Turego
could search my room all he wanted and he'd never find anything. All of you spy
types try to make everything too complicated. George always told me to keep it
simple."

           
 
Grant began to chuckle. He couldn't help it;
it was funny. "Jane, why didn't you tell me you had the microfilm?"

           
 
"I thought it would be safer for you if
you didn't know about it." Again
Sabin
looked
thunderstruck, as if he couldn't believe anyone would actually feel the need to
protect Grant Sullivan. As
Kell
was normally the most
impassive of men, Grant knew that Jane had tilted him off balance, just as she
did everyone she met.
Sabin
coughed to cover his
reaction.

           
 
"Ms. Greer," he asked cautiously,
"do you know what's on the film?"

           
 
"No. Neither did George."

           
 
Grant was laughing again. "Go
ahead," he told
Sabin
. "Tell her about the
film. Or, better yet, show her. She'll enjoy it."

           
 
Sabin
shook his
head, then picked up the film and pulled it out, unwinding it. Grant produced
his cigarette lighter, leaned forward, and set the end of the film on fire. The
three watched as the flames slowly ate up the length of celluloid until it
burned close to
Sabin's
fingers and he dropped it
into a large ashtray. "The film,"
Sabin
explained, "was a copy of something we don't want anyone else to know. All
we wanted was for it to be destroyed before anyone saw it."

           
 
With the stench of burning plastic in her
nostrils, Jane silently watched the last of the film curl and crumble. All
they'd wanted was for it to be destroyed, and she'd hauled it through a jungle
and across half a continent—just to hand it over and watch it burn. Her lips
twitched; she was afraid of making a scene, so she tried to control the urge.
But it was irresistible; it rolled upward, and a giggle escaped. She turned,
looking at Grant, and between them flashed the memory of everything they'd been
through. She giggled again,
then
they were both
laughing, Jane hanging on to his shirt because she was laughing so hard her
knees had gone limp.

           
 
"I fell down a cliff," she gasped.
"We stole a truck… shot another truck…!
broke
Turego's
nose… all to watch
it burn!"

           
 
Grant went into another spasm of laughter,
holding his sore ribs and bending double.
Sabin
watched them clinging to each other and laughing uproariously. Curiosity seized
him. "Why did you shoot a truck?" he asked; then suddenly he was
laughing, too.

           
 
An agent paused outside the door, his head
tilted, listening. No, it was impossible.
Sabin
never
laughed. They lay in bed in a hotel in the middle of
Washington
,
D.C.
, pleasantly tired. They had made love as soon as the door was locked
behind them, falling on the bed and removing only the necessary clothing. But
that had been hours before, and now they were completely nude, slipping
gradually into sleep. Grant's hand moved up and down her back in a lazy
pattern. "Just how involved were you in
Persall's
activities?"

           
 
"Not very," she murmured. "Oh,
I knew about them. I had to know, so I could cover for him if I had to. And he
sometimes used me as a courier, but not very often. Still, he talked to me a
lot, telling me things. He was a strange, lonely man."

           
 
"Was he your lover?"

           
 
She lifted her head from his chest, surprised.
"George?
Of course not!"

           
 
"Why 'of course not'?
He was a man, wasn't he? And he was in your bedroom when he died." She
paused. "George had a problem, a medical one. He wasn't capable of being
anyone's lover."

           
 
"So that part of the
report was wrong, too."

           
 
"Deliberately.
He used me as a sort of shield."

           
 
He put his hand in her hair and held her for
his kiss. "I'm glad. He was too old for you." Jane watched him with
wise, dark eyes. "Even if he hadn't been, I wasn't interested. You might
as well know
,
you're the only lover I've ever had.
Until I met you, I'd never… wanted anyone."

           
 
"And when you met me…?" he murmured.

           
 
"I wanted." She lowered her head and
kissed him, wrapping her arms around him, slithering her body over his until
she felt his hardening response.

           
 
"I wanted, too," he said, his words
a mere
breath
over her skin.

           
 
"I love you." The words were a cry
of pain, launched by desperation, because she knew this was definitely the last
time unless she took the chance. "Will you marry me?"

           
 
"Jane, don't."

           
 
"Don't what? Tell you that I love you? Or
ask you to marry me?" She sat up, moving her legs astride him, and shook
her dark hair back behind her shoulders.

           
 
"We can't live together," he
explained, his eyes turning dark gold. "I can't give you what you need,
and you'd be miserable."

           
 
"I'll be miserable anyway," she said
reasonably, striving for a light tone. "I'd rather be miserable with you
than miserable without you."

           
 
"I'm a loner. Marriage is a partnership,
and I'd rather go it alone. Face it, honey. We're good together in bed, but
that's all there is."

           
 
"Maybe for you.
I love you." Despite herself, she couldn't keep the echo of pain out of
her voice.

           
 
"Do you? We were under a lot of stress.
It's human nature to turn to each other. I'd have been surprised if we hadn't
made love."

           
 
"Please, spare me your combat psychology!
I'm not a child, or stupid! I know when I love someone, and damn it, I love
you! You don't have to like it, but don't try to talk me out of it!"

           
 
"All right."
He lay on his back, looking up into her angry eyes. "Do you want me to get
another room?"

           
 
"No. This is our last night together, and
we're going to spend it
together
."

           
 
"Even if we're fighting?"

           
 
"Why not?" she
dared.

           
 
"I don't want to fight," he said,
lunging up and twisting. Jane found herself on her back, blinking up at him in
astonishment. Slowly he entered her, pushing her legs high. She closed her
eyes, excitement spiraling through her. He was right; the time was far better
spent making love. She didn't try again to convince him that they had a future
together. She knew from experience just how hard-headed he was; he'd have to
figure it out for himself. So she spent her time loving him, trying to make
certain that he never forgot
her, that
no other woman
could begin to give him the pleasure that she did. This would be her goodbye.

           
 
Late in the night she leaned over him.
"You're afraid," she accused softly. "You've seen so much that
you're afraid to let yourself love anyone, because you know how easily a world
can be wrecked." His voice was tired. "Jane, let it be."

           
 
"All right.
That's my last word, except for this: if you decide to take a chance, come get
me." She crept out of bed early the next morning and left him sleeping.
She knew that he was too light a sleeper not to have awakened some time during
the shower she took, or while she was dressing, but he didn't roll over or in
any way indicate that he was awake, so she preserved the pretence between them.
Without even kissing him, she slipped out the door. After all, they'd already
said their goodbyes. At the sound of the door closing Grant rolled over in the
bed, his eyes bleak as he stared at the empty room.