Night Hush (14 page)

Shelby's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Heather smothered a smile and looked away, at least giving them the illusion of privacy. Unbidden, her gaze sought out Jace, who leaned against a wall with his arms and legs crossed. He watched her, concern in his eyes.

“You okay?” he mouthed. She nodded, wishing he would stop asking her that.

“I've seen you around the embassy,” Hugo said. ­“People like you. And, well, me, too. Would you have dinner with me some night?”

Shelby clapped a hand over her mouth as a giggle escaped. “Aren't you the king of poor timing? By tonight, we could both be drooling and puking.”

As he opened his mouth to respond, a shadow at the door sharpened his attention there, and he was abruptly once again the rigid Marine. Corporal Landry poked his head in.

“Sergeant, we lucked out. DTRA says there's a biochemical weapons expert in Ma'ar ye zhad right now. A Brit. He's on his way in now.”

Shelby's face whitened, and her hands tightened into fists. Heather moved to her side and whispered. “You okay?”

“Not really.”

 

Chapter Twenty-­One

C
ONFUSED,
H
EATHER PULLED
Shelby aside. “You know him?”

Shelby swallowed. “Yes. He's part of the team supporting President Cooper's 9/11 visit.” She ran both hands through her hair, gripping the ends hard. “I could just go back to work. Leave this to the experts. Where's Jed?”

Corporal Landry grimaced. “He went back to the embassy.”

“What? Why?”

The younger Marine shrugged. “He said he would check back later, when we knew something for sure.”

“But he's the one who suggested the quarantine!” Shelby cupped her own cheeks, lines forming between her brows. “And he was my ride back. I came in a taxi.”

Hugo straightened even more, something Heather would have thought impossible. “We'll make sure you get back in one piece, ma'am.”

She sighed and groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. “All right. Thank you, Hugo.”

With a flick of his head, Hugo sent the other man back out into the hall. “Listen, I hope I didn't cross any lines. By asking you out . . . ?”

Heather went back to the hospital bed. Na'il still appeared to be unconscious.

Shelby rammed the sheaves of paper back into the courier case, face bright red. “No, no lines,” she said. “But you have to understand how hard it is, being a woman in a country like Azakistan. Even inside the embassy, everything I do is scrutinized, cataloged, and judged.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “I appreciate the invitation. But I have to say no. I'm sorry.”

“Me, too. But I understand.”

With Na'il out of it, Heather found herself without anything to do, but unable to leave in case he regained consciousness and talked. Jace left, with the promise to return with food and coffee. Hugo helped to pass the time by relating stories of some of his adventures on this assignment, which had Shelby and Heather laughing helplessly.

“ . . . and I swear to God, he weighed four hundred pounds. We tried to get him onto the helicopter . . .”

The rest of Hugo's words disappeared as a man in uniform appeared in the doorway, tan beret in hand. Shelby took one look, then deliberately kept her back to him as Hugo popped to attention.

“Good morning, sir. Ma'am. I'm Gunnery Sergeant Hugo Bisantz, Embassy Security Group.”

“Major Trevor Carswell, 22
nd
SAS, Counter-­Terrorism.”

“Christina Madison. British Education Foundation.”

The female voice snapped Shelby's head around.

Curious, Heather gave her a once-­over, then stared. The woman standing next to Trevor was maybe four or five inches shorter than her own five foot ten. Her hair crackled and moved around her head like a living thing, curling down past her shoulder blades. Her face, though—­minus the hair and narrow shoulders, the woman was a dead ringer for the crown princess of Concordia, Véronique de Savoie. Heather remembered a news spot from her time in the hospital about the princess's goodwill visit to Mali, and her subsequent return to Europe to raise awareness for hunger in Africa.

The woman in the hospital room, however, wore an oversized T-­shirt and sweatpants that swam on her slender frame. Christina Madison turned her hands over to show empty palms to Hugo. Paper rustled as the British major gave Hugo a copy of his orders, which would also carry his clearance level. He wore a desert-­camouflaged uniform, pressed and crisp, with trousers tucked into tan boots. The princess clone looked around, nodding to Heather and Shelby.

“Ma'am, I need you to wait in the hallway with Corporal Landry,” Hugo said. Christina left without protest.

Hugo nudged his chin toward the silver case and filled Trevor in. It didn't take long. There was too much they didn't know.

Trevor's eyes gleamed with intelligence and understanding. Rather than open the case, however, he took three steps to stand in front of Shelby. She tucked her chin and crossed her arms, grasping each elbow with her fingers.

“Major,” she said coolly.

“Good morning, Shelby.” His tone was soft and questioning. “All right?”

“Just fine.” She dismissed him with a nod, turning toward the case with studied nonchalance. “What do you think it is? Anthrax?”

Trevor hesitated for a long moment, simply looking at her. Finally, he moved to the silver case. He took each vial out, checked the seal on the stopper, held it up to the light, and sniffed it. “Doubtful. These are almost certainly liquids.” He paused, then elaborated. “These types of opaque vials are generally used for chemicals in liquid form. You would have to swallow anthrax in its liquid form to come to any harm from it, so if it does turn out to be anthrax, none of you are infected. Even if the courier was exposed, you can't catch it, like a virus.”

Heather exhaled a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Good to hear.

“That's . . . a relief. What is it, then?” asked Shelby.

Trevor's somber voice seemed to echo in the room. “Polio. Cyclosarin. VX, or another nerve agent. Without testing them in a lab, I have no way of knowing.” Trevor replaced the vials in the case. “These are solidly sealed, so we're all safe for now. I'll have to take them to a facility equipped to deal with potentially hazardous substances. Given the circumstances, we have to fear the worst, I'm afraid.”

Hugo had taken up a post just inside the door, much as Corporal Landry had earlier. “I'm told that might be in Kazakhstan, sir. If that's true, I'm fairly certain the Regional Security Officer, Special Agent Johns, would authorize a helicopter to get you there as fast as possible.”

Snapping the case closed, Trevor took possession of it. “That would be helpful. The sooner the better, I should think.”

“Yes, sir.” Hugo started for the door, but Shelby beat him there.

“I'll make the call. That way, you can guard your prisoner.” She smiled brightly at him. “And I can update my boss.” She turned to leave.

Heather shook her head. Clearly, something had happened between the two. This was a solid example of why she didn't date ­people with whom she worked. It never ended well, and the drama and heightened emotions disrupted professional interaction, as it did here. It was good that Shelby was leaving.

But Trevor followed her out into the hallway.

“Shelby, wait.”

 

Chapter Twenty-­Two

September 5. 10:14
A.M.

Prince Nasser Hospital, Ma'ar ye zhad

J
ACE STEPPED OUT
of the elevator, juggling a tray piled with food and two cups of coffee. He needed to ensure that Heather had the chance to eat. Something about her made him want to care for her, to whisk her away to some private spot, just the two of them. And keep her there for a week. Make that two weeks. Preferably naked the whole time. He paused to savor the erotic images swimming through his imagination.

“Shelby, wait!” The SAS officer from the Secret Ser­vice briefing, Trevor Carswell, hurried down the hallway, trying to overtake the woman with swishing dark hair and war in her eyes. “
Miss Gibson.
”

The sheer command in his voice made her stop and turn.

“Yes, Major Carswell?” Her voice was glacial.

“I'm sorry I didn't wake you this morning. There was an emergency . . .”

The woman slashed the air with a hand. “Don't give it a second thought, Major. It's a matter of supreme unimportance.”

Jace almost felt sorry for the guy. He clearly didn't know what to do. Obviously the two had acted on their mutual attraction in the time since the briefing and had spent the night together. It also plainly meant more to Shelby than she let on.

“Shelby, let me explain . . .” the Brit started.

She glared at him and stepped closer. Jace nearly missed her next words. “Is that woman wearing your clothes?”

“Well, yes, but . . .”

“And was she in your apartment this morning?”

Trevor sighed, clearly frustrated. “Yes, but . . .”

“Then there is absolutely nothing more we have to say to one another.” She turned on her heel, brushing against Jace as she pushed past. “I have work to do, and so do you.”

The man hesitated, torn. In the end, though, he squared his shoulders, swept an assessing gaze over Jace, and turned away. Jace didn't take it personally. He obviously needed a few moments.

He followed the sound of voices back to the critical care room. A woman, this one shorter and with very curly hair, lingered in the corridor. God, how many ­people did it take to question one Azakistani national?

“Hi. Are you feeling as useless as I am?” the unknown woman asked. “Fetching lunch?”

Jace did a double take, looking at her closely for the first time.

“You look just like . . .”

She rolled her eyes. “I know. Princess Véronique of Concordia. Been hearing it my whole life.” She stuck out a hand. “Christina.”

“Jace. Good to meet you.” He tried to shake with the hand holding the coffee, and nearly spilled it on her.

“Right. Sorry. Stupid of me.” Christina dropped her hand. “I don't suppose that's for me? I sure could use some caffeine.”

“Sorry, no. Cafeteria's on the second floor.” He twitched his head at a sandwich, then jerked his chin at Corporal Landry, who scooped it up.

“Thanks!”

“Not a problem.” He cast a look at Christina. “Not letting you into the fun house, huh?”

“I'm not really a part of this,” Christina said. “I'm just waiting for a ride.”

“I'm sure we'll all be done soon.”

Jace set the tray and coffee cups down and handed a sandwich to Hugo Bisantz, who accepted it with a surprised look. “Thank you for thinking of us, sir.”

Heather sat beside Na'il, speaking to him in a quiet voice, her body language open and encouraging. Jace took a few moments simply to look at her. Long auburn hair hung down her back, with enough wave to make his hands itch to run his fingers through it. Her amazing blue eyes were serious as she listened to the injured man. Her oval face was classically beautiful, her nose adorable. Casual jeans and a stretchy top accentuated her long waist and those long, long legs he wanted wrapped around him. And just like that, he was hard again.

Trevor finally came back inside. He spoke quietly to Gunnery Sergeant Bisantz just before the Marine guard disappeared out the door. “The sergeant is finding us a room where we can talk.” He thrust out a hand. “Trevor Carswell. I'm with the 22
nd
Special Air Ser­vice. Don't know if you remember me from Shelby's briefing last week.”

“Jace Reed. First Special Forces Operational Detachment-­Delta.”

“That's what I thought. What's your connection here?” Trevor's gaze followed Jace's to land on Heather. “Ah.”

“I'm escorting Lieutenant Langstrom, that's all.” But he looked hard at the other man.

The Marine came back into the room. “Ladies and gentlemen. If you'll follow me, please.” The three of them, followed by Christina, trooped out of the critical care area and into an unoccupied private room. “The prisoner will stay in my custody until I'm instructed otherwise,” Sergeant Bisantz said. “From this point forward, only authorized personnel will be permitted into his room. This space is for your use indefinitely.” He left.

“Well,” said Heather. “Na'il is definitely hiding something. He won't answer any questions about the case with the vials. He insists he didn't open the courier's case. He is distant and hostile.” She looked at Trevor and Christina. “Where do you fit in?”

Trevor introduced himself again. “Biochemical weapons. I'm taking the vials to the lab in Almaty, Kazakhstan. The helicopter will be here in thirteen minutes.”

Christina stepped forward and offered her hand. “Christina Madison. CIA, but currently on assignment with the British Education Foundation, so if you could avoid mentioning me at all, that would be good.”

Heather shook it and turned to Jace. “He's in bad shape. The doctor isn't certain he'll survive the night. Whatever information we get from him, we'll have to do it fast. So far, he's not cooperating.”

Jace thought for a moment. “Who does he know at the embassy that we can talk to? Can we compile a list of friends and associates? Talk to his family?”

Trevor cleared his throat. “Shelby can probably help us with that. She's one of the deputy political counselors. She should still be in the hospital.”

Jace doubted that. More likely, Shelby had made a beeline out of there after she ended her argument with Trevor. He slid an assessing glance over Christina. Yep, those were definitely men's clothes. Amusement glittered in his eyes as he considered various scenarios that could have landed Trevor in his current predicament.

Christina intercepted his look and grimaced. “For the past two weeks, I've been a guest of the conservative Ma'ar ye zhad secret police. Keepers of the old ways, which is another way of saying repressive, oppressive, misogynistic control freaks.”

Heather blanched.

Jace was instantly at her side, gripping her arm lightly. “You okay? You need to sit down?”

Heather shook her head and pulled away from him. “No, I'm . . . I'm fine.”

Christina cocked her head, puzzlement flitting across her face. It cleared quickly. “Hey, I recognize you now. You . . .” She stopped, clearly ill at ease.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Heather forced a laugh. “Was also a guest, of sorts. Two weeks? I was only a prisoner for four days, and it seemed like a lifetime.”

Christina whistled between her teeth. “Hey, they just detained me. I was never charged. Someone didn't like who I was talking to. That's not the same as being a POW. I listened to the interview you did for NPR. It was . . . well.” She blew out a hard breath. “I at least got three squares and a reasonably comfortable cot.”

Heather's face lost even more color, and she swayed. Ignoring the others in the room, Jace pulled her into his arms and held her. Something Christina had said made her react—­the cot? Was that it? The implication had Jace gritting his teeth, the urge to hunt down and kill every man who had touched Heather strong enough to make him tremble with the force of it. She'd insisted that she hadn't been raped, but he still didn't know exactly what had happened while she'd been held captive. He swallowed hard.

Christina said something about not being allowed to use the telephone until someone decided to wake her in the middle of the night and return her cell phone to her. “I need to maintain my cover as a British aid worker, but I can't involve the Foundation in any way. Their reputation here has to be spotless, or they won't be invited back in. That was the deal . . . if I ran into any trouble, I was on my own. You know—­‘the secretary will disavow any knowledge . . . ?' ” She raked long fingernails through her curls, fluffing her hair. When she was done, it looked exactly the same to Jace. “So I called my old buddy Trevor for a local contact. I couldn't believe it when he said he was here. My lucky day!” She beamed at Trevor, who smiled back at her with affection.

Jace realized he was staring down at Heather's mouth, moving closer. She stopped him with a slight headshake and gently pulled out of his arms. He immediately missed her warmth.

“I'm fine,” she whispered to him.

Fine?
No, she wasn't. But he couldn't take the time to probe for more information. They had a puzzle to solve.

Trevor picked up the mysterious case. “Time for me to head for the roof. Let's get some answers.” He started to leave, then stopped short, a strange look crossing his face as he looked at Christina. “Uh . . . where do you need to be, princess? Back at your hotel?”

She looked surprised. “Oh. Yes, eventually. But if it's all right . . . that is, if either of you are going anywhere near the embassy, I sure would be grateful for a ride.” She divided a hopeful glance between Heather and Jace. “I should check in with Jay.”

Jay Spicer, the CIA station chief. Jace remembered him from the Secret Ser­vice briefing. “We have a car. The driver can drop you there,” he said. “We might be here awhile.”

Christina exited with Trevor. It was quiet in the room after they left. Jace kept an eye on Heather. “Are you all right?”

She rotated her neck, trying to work the kinks out. “I wish ­people would stop asking me that.”

He grasped her shoulders and turned her. When he settled his hands on her shoulders, she tensed, then calmed. He kneaded her trapezius, pressing the muscles to loosen them. It took several minutes, but she finally relaxed, allowing him to massage her neck and the base of her skull. A tiny moan slipped out, and his heart leapt in triumph as she melted against him.

“You have magic hands.”

“And don't you forget it.” He kept his tone light, teasing, knowing she remained one touch away from bolting. It was too soon after her desert experiences. Still, he couldn't stop himself from stroking his fingers through her hair. It felt amazing, soft and supple and almost alive. He dropped his nose to her neck to inhale. She smelled like cherry blossoms. His mouth watered.

Her head tilted forward, giving him better access. “I should get back to Na'il,” she whispered.

“In a minute,” he murmured. “Let me hold you.” He slid his arms around her waist and spooned her, surrounding her as much as he was able with his strength, his warmth. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

She turned in his arms, surprising him. For long moments, they simply stared at one another, awareness sizzling between them. She cupped his cheeks with her palms, but made no other move. He covered one of her hands with his own, bringing it down to rest over his heart.

“Heather . . .”

“Shhh.”

Her other thumb stroked against his bottom lip. He turned his head, capturing it and drawing it into his mouth. He sucked gently, scraping his teeth across the sensitive pad. She shivered. The naked longing in her eyes nearly undid him.

It took every ounce of self-­control he possessed to let her go when she stepped back. She looked down, her cheeks reddening. “You should go back to base.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

When she met his gaze again, the soldier was firmly in place, the warm, desirous woman nowhere to be found. “You're a distraction I don't need, and even if you have nothing better to do at the moment, I have a job to do.”

Stung, he slouched back, lips tightening. He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets, then immediately yanked them out again. “I'm also doing a job, Lieutenant,” he bit out. “In case you haven't been paying attention, that man in there”—­he jabbed a finger in the general direction of Na'il's room—­“might be planning an attack against the President of the United States. And my unit is supporting the Secret Ser­vice for the duration of his visit. I'm here as their representative.”

He pushed past her and started out the door, smarting from her sudden turnabout. “Let me know if you learn something.”