The Farther I Fall (23 page)

To see Lucas,
her
Lucas, confident, cocky-verging-on-arrogant Lucas, giving her that hopeful, uncertain look made Gwen's bitterness start to melt away. “You're an idiot,” she said, but she smiled. “I'm sorry. I'm taking this out on you.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him close, burying her face against his chest. “Of course we'll work something out.”

“You know,” he said, “you
could
talk to Sam about staying on as my tour manager.” She opened her mouth to protest. “I know, you're going to say it's a shitty job, and it is, I won't argue.”

“No, it's not that,” she said. “I can't see Sam agreeing to keep me on. She gave me the job to get me out of her hair for a few months, and look how that turned out.”

Lucas smiled and stooped to pick her up, cradling her in his arms as she yelped. “Yes, absolutely terrible. Slept with the star, got framed for embezzlement, oh, and let's not forget: staged an armed rescue when the star got kidnapped.” He kissed her. “You know what you could do that would be even worse?” He laid her down on the bed and leaned over her, fingers finding ticklish spots on her sides until she couldn't stop giggling.

“What's that?”

He leaned down and kissed her ear, and the giggles stopped. “You could marry him.”

Gwen caught her breath. “You're mad. Bloody raving mad.”

“And you're still with me.” He grinned. “That must mean something.”

She squeaked and pulled him down and kissed him hard. The kiss changed into something deeper, with more intent. It was too soon, much too soon to think about something like marriage, but they'd get there. And they had plenty of time to talk about it.

Later.

***

Sam had managed to wrangle a few new dates into the schedule, to take advantage of some of the publicity around Lucas's kidnapping. They started in Memphis, the first show they'd canceled, the one when Maggie got hurt. Gwen had already planned to go over the entire rigging system with Cathy before the show, even though logic said that with no stalker to sabotage things, everything should be fine. Sally was still in jail in San Jose, and was likely to remain there until her trial date. There was no decision yet if either Gwen or Lucas would have to testify—that was a problem to worry about later. For now, there were a dozen things that needed doing.

“Gwen? I need some help out here,” called the new merch manager from the lobby. She jogged up the aisle, passing one of the techs, who was carting equipment toward the stage.

“Why didn't you use the stage door?” Gwen said as she passed.

“There's a truck out there blocking it,” he said, hoisting the amp with both hands. “Can you do something about that, please?”

Gwen grinned. “Sure, mate. Let me see what Karen needs first.”

Karen, it turned out, needed more space—again. As Gwen was going to take care of that, she got a text from Lucas:
The food in the green room is worse than usual. Anything you can do?

It was mad, absolutely mad, and Gwen was having the time of her life. She knocked on the manager's door before poking her head in. “Hi, it's Gwen. Listen, I'm afraid we've got a couple of small problems, but I bet you're just the man who can sort it out for me . . .”

Hours later, she was sitting perched in her usual spot in the booth, waiting for the show to start. The openers had been barely mediocre, and the crowd was restless. Craig glanced over at her. “Still have that gun on you?”

Gwen grinned. “Lee didn't approve it this time, so no. Lucas is going to have to win them over the old-fashioned way.”

“God help us,” he said, and Cathy laughed.

“I have faith in him,” Gwen said. It hadn't taken much to get Lucas to confess to some anxiety about going back onstage, but he'd seemed fine all afternoon; better than fine during soundcheck. Gwen had pulled him aside when they'd arrived at the theater. “Listen,” she'd said. “Nothing is going to happen to you, not while I'm here. I won't let it. Not again.”

He'd kissed her and smiled. “I know.”

Now, waiting in the dark, she wasn't nervous, exactly. Not really. If she was fidgeting more than usual with the diamond ring on her left hand, it was just because it was a new thing, not for any other reason.

As the clapping grew louder, the announcer finally came over the PA and introduced Lucas. Cathy threw the lights up with a blinding flash and there he was, center stage with his arms outstretched and head thrown back, drinking in the sudden screams in the audience.

He crossed to his instruments with his usual onstage strut, and Gwen smiled and sat back to listen. Lucas was back onstage and Gwen had helped get him there, and there was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.

A debut novelist who's been writing for a long time has an awful lot of gratitude stored up when they finally hit print, so bear with me.

First, I want to thank you, yes
you
, not only for reading this book, but for sticking with me through the acknowledgments. I've gotten so much encouragement from my readers, whether I was flailing around trying to write science fiction and fantasy or publishing fanfiction to the web. Everyone who has ever read my stories and given me feedback,
thank you
. You help keep me going and help me get it right. I'd be remiss (and a terrible best friend) if I didn't thank Dawn Honhera especially. We've been friends since the moment we met nearly thirty years ago (oh
god
we're old now), and she's the one I count on to be my first reader. She's always honest and enthusiastic and is one of the reasons this story got finished in the first place.

I've been fortunate to work with and befriend some amazing writers, and I have to mention just a few who were especially supportive as I worked on this book: Jo Leigh, one of my favorite romance writers and an endless source of information and encouragement as I worked toward publication; Jack, who in particular has been my rock and my whip-cracker, whichever was needed most; Karen, who listened to me flail about getting everything wrong; and finally to all the writers of #Antidiogenes, who put up with me through every draft of this story, and always cheered me on.

The old chestnut says to write what you know, but I never do. Lucky for me, I have friends who know things I don't. This story would have large gaping holes in it if it weren't for the British military background provided by Elizabeth and Sophia, and the music business dirt provided by an anonymous friend—she knows who she is, and I'm grateful she shared her secrets with me.

Lastly, there are the folks who took a chance on me. Jennifer Udden of Donald Maass is the best agent I could have hoped for, and finding her still feels like an unbelievable stroke of luck. Thanks also to Kristine Swartz and everyone at InterMix—here's to more books!

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review at Goodreads or any reader site or blog you frequent.

Keep reading for a preview of the next book from Lisa Nicholas

AS LOST AS I GET

Coming Summer 2015 from InterMix

“So I'm a friend of the Ambassador's, then?” Lee Wheeler looked at the folder in front of him, memorizing the details. Will Freeman, account manager for International Frontier Industries—the folder contained all the information and ID he'd need to take on this new life.

“An old friend,” Wishnevsky said with a grin. “His Excellency knows who you are, of course.” She was old enough to be his mother, but looked a good fifteen years younger than she was. “There will be several minor Colombian bureaucrats at this fundraiser. Try to keep an eye open for a potential recruit.” She'd been the CIA station chief in Bogotá for over a decade now, and what she didn't know about Latin America wouldn't fill a pamphlet.

It was good to be back in the field, even if it was a punishment detail, in the relative backwater of the espionage world.

Backwater suited him just fine. The ops he had been part of before were dangerous and exciting, but after the job in Oaxaca, his taste for adrenaline died just a little. “What are we offering?”

“The usual,” Wishnevsky said. “You know the routine.” She stood, signaling the end of their briefing. “Six PM tomorrow, sharp,” she said. “I hope you have a decent tux.”

“I can make do,” he said.

As he turned to go, she stopped him. “How's your brother?”

“Better,” he said. “The trial's over, and Lucas is back on tour.”

“That was a hell of a thing you did for him.”

“It was all his fiancée, Gwen,” he said. “I just pulled some strings.” Too many strings, and strings he shouldn't have pulled—which was how he wound up in Bogotá. “Still, they're both safe, and things have settled. It was time for me to get back in the field.” As if the choice had been his.

“I'm glad to have you,” Wishnevsky said. “Bill McKenzie's loss is my gain.”

“Believe me, he doesn't think so.” Lee grinned. “Come on. Let me buy you a drink, old woman. You can tell me about the bad old days when you still used passenger pigeons to carry messages and trade barbs with the Russkis.”

She laughed and swatted him on the shoulder. “Asshole. The last passenger pigeon died in 1910 or something. This old woman can still wipe the floor with you in hand to hand, you know.” The phone in her office across the hall rang. “I'll grab that, then we'll go.”

Lee took another look at his legend, the identity he meant to take on. The stakes were lower in Bogotá than his other field assignments; he'd be doing more office work than before, analysis, maybe some recruiting and running agents, but he'd be out of the stifling, overly-political air of D.C. He could forget that he'd tried to live a ‘normal' life, but more important, he could try to forget Oaxaca and Zoe Rodriguez.

It was time to move on. Zoe saw him as nothing but a reminder of her worst nightmare. If she never wanted to see him again, he couldn't blame her.

“I hope you can return that tux.” Wishnevsky was back, standing in his office door. Her expression was grim.

“What is it?”

“Explosion across town,” she said. “Word's not official, but my source says it was a bomb.”

“Who?” He wasn't sure at first if he was asking who was hit or who the bomb belonged to.

“No one's stepped forward yet. Too early. The explosion took out a chunk of an office building full of American NGOs.” Wishnevsky turned back to her office, and Lee didn't need to be told to follow her.

***

The phone call came just as Zoe was helping Maria finish the dinner dishes in the small house they shared with Susan, another doctor. Cell service in Inírida was spotty at best, so they had a satellite phone for emergencies and that was the phone that rang—Zoe's first clue that something was wrong.

“Hello?”

“Zoe.” Zoe barely recognized the voice as Christiane's, the regional head of Médecins International in Bogotá. “You need to close the clinic for tomorrow and move the staff to a situation yellow footing.”

“What's going on?” Her tone alerted Maria, who put down the towel to listen.

“There was an explosion. Our building—well, it's gone.”

Zoe's stomach tightened and she made herself sit down. “Oh my god. Is everyone okay? When?”

“No.” Christiane took a shaky breath. “This afternoon. We lost ten people. There were other NGOs on other floors, I don't know yet—” Her voice cracked, then she steadied herself. “We don't know who's claiming responsibility. We don't have any reason to think they were targeting MI specifically. But we're calling all the clinic directors and asking them to take precautions anyway.” Christiane's region covered all of Colombia and most of Venezuela. All of those clinics, closed, including Zoe's . . .

“Of course.” Zoe met Maria's worried eyes and shook her head. “What can we do? Anything?”

“Just stay safe. We're already working to keep supply logistics in place, but for now, just close the clinic tomorrow and stay safe.”

When they hung up, Zoe sat still and tried to control the way her heart wanted to race.

“What's going on?” Maria crouched near her chair. “You look faint.”

Zoe shook her head, trying to keep a lid on the panic—the panic that had nothing to do with the situation. “A bomb exploded in Bogotá. The MI offices.”

“
Dios mio
,” breathed Maria. “FARC?”

“They don't know yet.” Zoe's color must have returned, because Maria moved to sit in a chair.

“Are you all right?”

“Just shocked,” Zoe said. “We're going to yellow, and closing the clinic for tomorrow. Just as a precaution. I need to call the local staff, let them know.”

“Zoe.”

“I'm fine—”

“Come on,
chica
. I'm not blind. You flinch at loud noises, you hate walking on the street, and I know you're having nightmares.”

“I'm okay,” Zoe said, with a little less conviction. “It's just—the transition back to working in the field is a little harder than I thought, is all.” Maria didn't look convinced. “I promise you, if it was something talking about would help, I'd talk.”

“I know a little something about the bad things that can happen,” Maria said. “Talk to someone. If not me, somebody.”

“I will. I promise.” She squeezed Maria's hand. “Thank you. You wanna help me divide up these phone calls?”

The next day they were left with nothing much to do. Maria called her obstetrics patients to check on them. She and Susan, the clinic's two volunteer doctors, took the closing in stride. Thankfully, they'd had no patients in the clinic overnight.

By about noon, Susan was going stir-crazy, and she convinced Zoe to go out for a walk with her. Zoe would rather have stayed inside behind a locked door, but the idea of Susan wandering by herself with her limited Spanish was even more frightening than leaving the house.

The crowds were too much. Zoe envied Susan's easy enjoyment of Inírida's market square. Susan was content to move from stall to stall buying whatever produce looked good, practicing her Spanish as if nothing unusual were going on.

She came back from one of the stalls holding two delicious smelling
arepas de huevo
, and handed one to Zoe. They were hot out of the fryer, cornmeal dough crisp around the edges. Suddenly, Zoe was starving, the crowds momentarily forgotten. “Maria says she's going to teach me how to make these,” Susan said as they walked to the next stall.

“God help us,” Zoe laughed around a mouthful of savory corn cake and egg. She swallowed. “Warn me, will you, so I can be out. Or so we can alert the fire department.” She looked up ahead of them and her stomach slammed shut. It couldn't be. There was no way she was seeing what she was seeing, and yet . . .

A man was haggling with one of the stall owners with a good natured smile on his face. His clear, fair skin and expensive-looking clothes marked him as an American; she would have known that even if she hadn't known who he was. His dark hair wasn't as close-cropped as it had been the last time she'd seen him, but was still gleaming and perfect.

The last time she'd seen Lee Wheeler, he'd brought flowers to her in the hospital and made uncomfortable small talk until visiting hours ended. The time before that, she'd been clinging to his hand while orderlies tried to wheel her away on a stretcher.

She had to get out of here.

“Zoe?” Susan touched her arm and she jumped. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I—I think it's the heat getting to me a little. I should—”

“Oh my god, Zoe? Zoe Rodriguez?”

Damn it
. She turned around and there he was, tall and breathtaking and terrifying. “What are you doing here?” he said. “I thought you were in Miami.”

“I've been here a few months, at the MI clinic in town.” She made herself smile, acutely conscious of Susan's curious expression as she looked between them.

Lee turned to Susan with the full wattage of his smile. “Hi, sorry. I was just surprised to see her here. I'm Will Freeman.”

“Susan Carpenter. Nice to meet you, Mr. Freeman.” She glanced between them and said, “I need to grab something for us for dinner tonight. I'll just be a moment or two.”

Zoe tried to communicate
no don't leave me alone
but failed.

When Susan was out of earshot, Lee leaned a little closer. “Thanks for not blowing my cover,” he smiled. He wouldn't stop smiling at her, and it was confusing. The rush of adrenaline didn't feel like fear, exactly. “I shouldn't have even said hi, but . . .”

Zoe hid some of her confusion and discomfort by throwing away the last of her
arepa
. She wasn't hungry anymore. “So . . . I should call you Will, then?”

He raised a finger to his lips. “At least in public. But look at you! You look fantastic. And you're back in the field?” It was impossible to miss the admiration in his eyes. She felt utterly exposed, but a reckless, buzzing part of her brain liked it.

She smiled back, and it was almost real. “Thank you. And yes. It was time. I needed to be back.”

“Good for you,” he said warmly. They stood looking at each other, the pause in the conversation growing to an awkward length.

“Well,” she said, “I should—”

“Zoe.” Just that one word, her name spoken quietly. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“I am.”

His eyes, still so sincere (in her mind, she heard him saying
I'm Lee Wheeler, I'm with the CIA, and I'm here to rescue you
), still so vividly blue, stayed on her face. “I'm glad you're back out in the field,” he said. “I know that's where you want to be.” He took a breath. “But I have to ask: is there any chance you might get reassigned somewhere other than Guainía?”

“What? Of course not. I'm the clinic director. I've got volunteers counting on me, regular staff, not to mention the patients—”

“Look—” He stopped and ran a hand over his hair. “I shouldn't say anything. I know you're upset to see me—”

“I'm fine—”

“I get it. I don't blame you for not wanting to see me.”

She wanted to argue with that—the idea that he thought she didn't want him around made something twist in her gut.

“You know about the bombing in Bogotá?” he asked, and she nodded. He leaned in and her pulse jumped when he spoke into her ear. “We've traced some leads out here. I just want you to be safe. Get out if you can.”

The softness of his words threw her, as did the warmth of his breath against her skin. She pulled back to find his eyes uncertain.

“I—” Her heart was hammering in her chest now. “Thanks for telling me. I have to—I should go.” She turned and forced herself to walk away instead of running, not wanting to make a fool of herself. She caught up with Susan finishing up her shopping and practically dragged her out of the market.

I just want you to be safe.
The words followed her the rest of the day, and down into sleep and her troubled dreams.