Mission: Out of Control (9 page)

She saw it then, pain flashing through his eyes. She held out her hand. “I'm a pretty good listener, if you want to air out your thoughts.”

A slow, measured smile crossed his face. “Fine. I'll tell you about it, on one condition.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Are you up to it?”

Will you catch me?
The thought brought a flush to her
face. Oh, brother. See, that was what wandering around the city of romance did to a gal. Tangled her brain with unattainable ideas. Still, she nodded.

“Good. Come with me.”

 

He had a plan, and it would only hurt a little bit.

The sun had begun to sink as he led her back to the square. He'd seen the way she'd eyed that seafood platter and, frankly, she needed something besides peanut butter.

Indeed, her eyes lit up just a little as they emerged onto the square and headed toward the restaurant. He found a table under an umbrella and pulled out her chair.

She smiled up at him, and again he felt that warm swirl inside. It was a lot nicer than the panic he'd felt when she'd said their tour of Prague had been a bad idea.

“You know what I want,” she said to him when the waiter appeared, and he ordered her a big plate of seafood.

“I'll have pig's knuckle,” he said, winking at her.

Winking? Oh, good grief. He needed to get himself under control. Ever since he'd gone rogue and offered to show her the city, he'd experienced a sort of out-of-body view of himself wooing her.

He was just trying to get her to loosen up. Be herself.

Not Vonya, not Veronica. Herself. A person he had a feeling he might know even better than she did.

“The clock is going to chime.” Ronie pointed to the crowd gathering, and they watched as the clock rang the
dinner hour and then the apostles rotated through the doors, ending with the golden rooster crowing.

She was smiling. Her smile, when it was authentic, could stop the world. And he longed for her to take off that cap and let him see her dark hair. Thankfully, she'd taken off her sunglasses, and the glow of the sunset lit up her incredible hazel eyes.

For Pete's sake, this town had gone right to his head.

“Okay, you got me here. Now, what's going on with you and Lyle?”

He'd hoped she'd forgotten that part. “He's a nice kid.”

“Yes? And?”

“And he constantly wants me to play with him. Why is that, anyway?”

She shook her head. “It's about spending time with you. He doesn't have a father, and it doesn't take a genius to see he likes you. You're Superman to him. It's not going to hurt you to let him in your life.”

But, oh, it could. He froze, closing his eyes against the voice from the past.
Hey, mister, kick me that ball!

“Come back to me, Brody.” Her touch jerked him out of the memory and he took a breath.

“What's going on?” she asked softly.

He blew out the breath and laid his hands on the table. “I… It's just a long story.”

She leaned back and smiled.

It seemed that he just might do anything for Ronie's smile.

“I met him in Darfur. We were there for four months, helping with a refugee camp, protecting the health-care
workers and distributing aid. It was a mess—no organization, families coming and going…” And aid workers. Shelby flashed into his mind and he blinked her away.

“There were kids everywhere—most of them orphans, a few with families. We didn't know who belonged to whom, or where they lived. Sometimes they'd hike for days to get food for their families—we'd see them hanging around, and then they'd take off again for weeks.”

She leaned forward, settling her chin on her hand.

“It seemed they were always kicking around a soccer ball. Sometimes the guys and I would play with them, you know, just to pass the time.” He watched the crowd behind her, glad, suddenly, for her in-plain-sight disguise. Otherwise he'd never let her sit out in public like this, unprotected.

“Simone was one of the kids who came in and out of our lives. We'd be playing soccer, then the next week he'd be gone. Then in a few days, back again. That last time, I didn't notice how long he'd been gone. It was chaos anyway—things were getting dangerous and the UN decided to pull out the aid workers. We were packing up to leave and Shelby just had to check on—”

“Shelby?”

He looked at her, at those sweet eyes, and swallowed.

And she knew. He saw it in the way her expression changed. A sort of sadness filled her face—which was strange because she certainly didn't care about his former—or, for all she knew, current—girlfriend. Right?

He drew in a breath. “An aid worker I knew. She wanted to help a patient, Mani, who had gone missing from the camp. Apparently, the woman lived in a village
close by. So I let her convince me to borrow a Jeep and we took off. When we got there, soldiers were in the middle of a raid, setting homes on fire, killing women, stealing the boys. We got to Mani's tent and discovered her there with her two children, still alive. Shelby and I tried to get them to the Jeep but we were chased by a bunch of…of…” He wiped his mouth, staring up into the twilight.

“A bunch of…?” Ronie slipped her hand over his. He squeezed it, thankful for the increasing darkness.

“Soldiers. No—kids. Armed with AK-47s. The kind that get recruited into the army.” She stiffened.

Well, it was the kind of visual that might horrify anyone. And it got worse. “They surrounded our truck, shot Mani and then Shelby. Then a boy pointed a gun at one of the kids, and I just—I couldn't let that happen.”

“So you shot him.”

He nodded, wincing, turning away from one memory right into the next. “And then suddenly, there was Simone. He had a gun, too, and had come up beside me. He pointed it at my head.”

Her mouth opened, and she closed it fast, her eyes big.

“I had those two kids, and Shelby was bleeding out. I knew if I didn't get away—”

“No one would live.”

He nodded and let go of her hand. “So I grabbed his gun and threw it away. And then told Simone to run.”

“But he didn't.”

“I think he wanted to. I saw the fear, even the hope, in his eyes. And then I heard men shouting and knew we'd
run out of time. I picked up the two kids and threw them in the car. I grabbed Shelby—her blood was everywhere. By that time, Simone had picked up his gun and turned it back on me. He pulled the trigger.”

“And you shot him.”

Why had he thought he could just spill out this information, that it wouldn't turn him inside out and destroy their evening? No—he'd never really intended to deliver the sordid truth until she'd mesmerized him with that smile, those eyes. And here he was, about to become a blubbering idiot in front of her. “I didn't know what else to do.” He shook his head. “Shelby died on the side of the road, while I tried to field-dress her wounds.”

She reached for his hand again and, heaven help him, he let her take it.

She squeezed and held on.

R
onie wanted to cry for him, but that wouldn't do either of them any good. She saw it all—saw him staring at this boy he'd come to care about, raising his gun and pulling the trigger.

She wanted to scream for him. Instead she held his hands in the fading twilight, wanting with everything inside her to put her arms around him and make it better. As if.

“Brody, I'm so sorry.”

He wouldn't look at her.

“It doesn't help if I say you didn't have a choice, right?”

He shook his head.

She sighed. “I forgive you for not loving Lyle like I do. But if you ever wanted to give him a chance, you might be surprised.”

He glanced at her then, a look in his eyes that made her want to cry.

She leaned back to let the waiter deliver her a heaping pile of shrimp, scallops and noodles, but she'd lost her appetite. She picked at her food, watching Brody pick at his.

Wow, did she want to make this better for him. “Thank you for telling me your story, Brody. I…I really do understand the feeling of being helpless, caught—wishing you could change the past.”

He looked up at her then. “I know you do.”

A band had begun playing inside the restaurant, the smooth sounds of jazz spilling out into the languid night. Overhead, the orange lights of the Gothic cupola looked down on her like the eyes of a jack-o'-lantern. Around the square, lights from the other restaurants sparkled.

Brody pushed his plate away. “Want to get out of here?”

“Not really, but—”

“You have to keep your part of the bargain, remember?” He raised an eyebrow and the look of mischief in his eyes had her pushing away her own food. Oh, this man could be dangerous to the spy girl inside.

Speaking of which…how could she betray him tomorrow night after everything he'd just shared with her? Maybe he didn't have to know she'd ditched him.

He took her hand in his. She'd started to think maybe it belonged there.

They disappeared into the winding, cobbled streets of Old Town. Strangely, no fear crept up her spine as they wandered in and out of dark shadows. She held on, drawing close, letting herself breathe in his husky, masculine smell.

What on earth was she thinking? At best they'd end this trip civilly. Most likely, after tomorrow night, he wouldn't speak to her again.

Maybe he'd even quit.

She took a shuddering breath.

“You okay?” He looked back at her. He had eyes that could turn a girl weak. Somehow she managed a nod.

“Good. Because I want to see the girl who threw a roll at me the first day I met her.”

“Second, actually.”

He grinned. “Actually, I think I'm just meeting her now.”

Oh. Wow.

He pulled her into a café with tinny electric music and a few people on the dance floor. He led her toward the back, toward stairs that wound under the café. “What's this?”

“Frankie's Underground. It's a blues club.”

Her mouth opened in surprise. “Thought you'd approve,” he said.

More of a cave than an underground room, the bar seemed chipped right out of the earth, with six or seven barrel tables and a couple of musicians shoved into a corner.

“I love it.” She slid onto a stool.

He motioned to a waiter. “A couple of tonic waters.”

The waiter nodded.

“You come here a lot?”

“When I'm in town. This guy here can play Coltrane like nobody's business. But they also do a good Otis Rush. And they're always happy to let others take the mike.” He grinned at her again.

“Uh…wait. You don't think… Brody.”

He patted her on the shoulder and went up to the guitarist.

She turned, shaking her head, but he was already
gesturing to her—no, pointing. Like she might be some wannabe blues singer—

He returned. “Do you know ‘Downhearted Blues'?”

“You didn't.”

He held open his arm, gesturing to the stage. “Don't get shy on me now, Vonya.”

She shook her head but a swirl of delight made her slide off her stool. She looked up at Brody. “You want Vonya?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “I want to hear the real Ronie Wagner.”

The real Ronie Wagner.

She walked up to the mike and grabbed it with both hands, looking over at the guitarist who'd moved to the keyboard. He wore an Irish cap and a black vest over a tight black T-shirt, and looked younger than her.

She nodded, took a breath, looked out at Brody and let the words curl out.

“Gee, but it's hard to love someone when that someone don't love you…”

Her voice sounded tinny and weak. She took a breath and dug deeper.

“I'm so disgusted, heartbroken, too. I've got those downhearted blues…”

Yes. She smiled at Brody as he leaned forward in his seat, perching his chin on his open palm. She lost herself in the slow, sultry rhythm, using her voice like an instrument, her tones sliding through the room.

“Once I was crazy 'bout a man—he mistreated me all the time…

“The next man I get has got to promise me to be mine, all mine!”

Brody sat up, actually looking uncomfortable. She threw her head back.

“Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days. It seems like trouble going to follow me to my grave.”

When she finished, she turned to the keyboardist. “Do you know ‘It Had to Be You?'”

He nodded, and she began to sing her own version of the standard, improving a few lines just for Brody.

“Why do I have to do…just as you say?”

She winked at him. He shook his head.

“You always have to have your own way.”

He crossed his arms.

“What is the game we have to play…”

As she sang Brody got up from the table. Oh—he wasn't leaving, was he?

“Why did it have to be you, to make me sing the blues…”

No, he was walking toward the stage. She grabbed the mike from the stand. “I wandered around until I finally found the man who could make me be…”

“True,” he said with a smile, his hand closing over hers.

“And sing the blues!”

Brody wrestled the mike from her. “I think we've had enough from—”

“Some other big guys just might try to send me goodbye—”

“No wonder Tommy won't let you sing your own songs.”

“Hey, I'm a great lyricist. Usually.”

The music played on. He looked at the keyboardist, who nodded at him, and he put the mike to his mouth.

“But nobody else could give me a thrill…'cause…um…”

“You love me…still.”

He shot her a look. “Are those the words?”

She shook her head, still warm from the feel of his baritone coursing through her. She'd left the real lyrics behind a long time ago. But it was all just for fun. Right?

“I love you…” he sang, his smile gone. He turned and put the mike back on the stand as the musicians finished the song. “Thanks, guys,” he said, and reached out for her hand.

Then, without a word, he pulled her through the cavern, up the stairs and out into the street.

“Brody.”

“Don't talk.”

He led her down the darkened street, his hand tight in hers. “Brody, what's the matter?”

He stopped then, rounding on her as if he had something to say. But whatever it was, the words didn't make it past his mouth.

Because then, just like that, he kissed her, hard and fast, practically inhaling her as she leaned back against the stone wall of some ancient building. Brody?

He had the most amazing smell, and a late-afternoon stubble that made her bring her fingers to his face.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd kissed a man, and even so, she'd never been kissed like this, like the world had dropped away around them.

Her hands found the collar of his shirt and she held
on, tasting the seltzer on his lips. He was so very strong as he grasped her upper arms and—

Pushed her away?

“Oh…” He held up his hand as if stopping something. “Oh, no. Oh, Ronie.” He turned away from her, rubbing the back of his neck and stepping out into the street.

She flattened her hands against the wall, still trying to sort out what had happened, and why she hadn't had the urge to slap him—being in his arms twice before had elicited exactly that response.

But for a second there, she'd felt…normal. Even whole. Like this amazing, uncomplicated, kind man wanted her. The real Ronie Wagner. Not the pop star or political heiress but the girl who made up crazy lyrics and sang the blues.

“Brody—” Her voice shook.

“I'd better get you back to the hotel. You have rehearsal in the morning and your big show tomorrow night.”

Her big show. Yes. “Listen—”

“No.” He turned. Was he actually shaking? “No. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I just…I wasn't, I guess. Whoa.” He held up his hands in surrender and even backed away from her as if she might have a contagious disease.

And that felt great. She looked away before she started to cry.

“I'm sorry, Vonya. I should have never taken you out today. This went way too far.”

Vonya.
She nodded, praying the wind might dry her eyes. Yes—way, way too far.

“Can you forgive me?”

Yes. Because now, at least, she didn't have to spare a moment for guilt. Vonya could betray him and not even look back once.

 

Oh, he'd hurt her but good.

Brody stood in the stage wings, watching her on the stupid swing, and couldn't get the feel of her in his arms out of his mind.

Soft and sweet and willing to kiss him. And she'd even tasted sweet, the tonic water on her lips. She was small—he'd never realized, really, how small. Breakable, even.

And when she'd kissed him back, the world had stopped whirring and come to a complete, delicious, full stop. He could have stayed there in her arms forever.

“Brody, look alive. She's going back for her next costume change.”

“Right.”

Luke knew. He had to know, from the way Brody had come into the room, sat on the bed and cradled his head in his hands.

“Please don't tell me…” Luke had said finally, flicking on the light.

“Turn that off. Go back to sleep. Don't ask me anything.”

Luke turned off the light. “I don't know why you're beating yourself up. You two are perfect for each other. You're both convinced you don't have time to fall in love. And you, pal, believe you don't deserve it. Which, by the way, you're wrong about.”

Brody scooped up a pillow and threw it. Luke added it to his pile.

But really, he did think that—anyone who let a woman he cared about talk him into a blunder that cost her her life… No, maybe it wasn't about deserving. It was about not being that stupid ever again.

Your love gives me wings…

He walked around the back of the stage to the stairs underneath. After the song, she'd drop through a hole, then dash to the dressing area. He liked to be there, just in case.

Who was he kidding? He just liked being around her. Even as Vonya. Her creativity, her energy, her laughter—it all made him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt since long before Shelby. Okay, maybe never.

The music stopped, the applause thundered through the musical palace and Vonya appeared, running down the stairs. She hustled past without looking at him and slipped behind the dressing curtain. Leah helped her into her final costume, one of his favorite outfits—a black flapper dress with a white wig, feather boa and headband. It went with her “Cha Cha, Love You” song. At least that was what he called it since those were the only words he understood.

Still, it was his favorite, and the closest thing to capturing her true voice, in his opinion.

She shimmied past him, and he wished he could stop her and apologize. But the show had to go on.

She let the lift bring her onto the stage to more applause, and in a second she was belting out the last tune.

For a moment, he was back in the cavern, listening to those husky tones, feeling them winding through him.

He'd simply been taken with her voice—the way it
took over his thoughts, made him move to the stage. He'd never grabbed a microphone in his life.

This was what a woman did to a man. Made him think with his emotions.

He moved back to the wings to watch.

The worst part of all this had to be that he had absolutely nothing, nilch,
nichevo,
in common with Vonya. Shelby had been a healer, a rescuer. Vonya—he wouldn't call her Ronie again—was nothing but sheer chaos. Out of control.

Okay, there was Lyle. And the orphanage. And that Zimbalan tour that the media had made a fuss over. He'd spent the night looking her up on Google—and not because he couldn't get her out of his mind, thank you, but because he had to know just why she'd hang out with a guy like Damu.

He'd discovered plenty of pictures of her during the tour. A few had even made him smile, like the one of her trying to balance pineapples on her head. And, well, he supposed camouflage pants, a pair of high heels and a black netting top could be considered normal for Vonya. At least she had that body leotard under her outfit.

Which, he'd realized, she wore most of the time. Even in D.C., if he'd looked closely instead of assuming.

Okay, so he had made some very inaccurate assumptions about Vonya. From that first moment until now.

He remembered the woman he'd seen on Martha's Vineyard, and the woman her father had described. Did he even know his daughter?

Which led him to more Google searches, all the way back to her sister's death. Savannah had died of cancer at the age of twenty, and he'd found a number of pictures
of her posted on an outdated MySpace page set up by Ronie.

Ronie had inherited her flamboyance from her sister, apparently, and had posted shots of her sister dressed in crazy getups—in fact, he'd seen a few of them on Ronie. And then there were shots of her singing, even at drama camp.