People disappeared in that country all the time, and their bones were found bleached and brittle in old mines and ancient caves, with only DNA to figure out who was there. And MacGowan was one of the best in the world – there was no way anyone could keep him on ice for three years. No reason. If they hadn’t let him go, if he hadn’t escaped, then he was dead. It was that simple.
Apparently it wasn’t. And MacGowan was coming home, at last, to find out just how and why he’d been abandoned. Harry Thomason, the treacherous former head of the Committee, had held with the firm belief that it was every man for himself. Peter was a pragmatist, but in the end he believed you never left a man behind, not if there was any way around it. If he’d just pushed a little harder . . .
He wasn’t a man who wasted time with ifs. Even if he couldn’t leave England at the moment, he could see what he could do to grease MacGowan’s way home. Though whether that was simply speeding up a fight to the death was debatable.
For some reason the CIA was nosing around in Callivera, looking for MacGowan. He couldn’t imagine why – he’d gone over MacGowan’s file and hadn’t found anything that would excite the boys at Langley. As far as he could tell MacGowan had never interacted with the CIA. Their sudden curiosity made him uneasy.
Hell, everything was making him uneasy nowadays. Genny would tell him his spidey-senses were acting up. She watched too many movies, curled up on the sofa beside him while he read, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t bother telling her they weren’t spidey-senses; they were finely honed, well-trained instincts. When you were an operative with his level of experience you knew when something bad was going to happen.
You also knew when there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it, and that was now. All he could do was wait and see if MacGowan came to his senses.
He wasn’t holding his breath.
Beth came back into the room, closing the door quietly behind her before going to sit on the bed. Dylan was sprawled out, looking sulky as always, and she considered trying to engage him in conversation, just to distract him. And distract herself.
She could still feel Finn’s mouth on hers. His hard body pressed against every inch of her. Three years, she reminded herself. It meant nothing.
But it hadn’t felt like nothing. It felt like something that had been building between them since the moment he’d first handed her his hoarded chocolate in the darkness of the shack high up in the mountains.
She was a sensible, grounded woman. Her reaction to his kiss was pure instinct and had nothing to do with civilized behavior. He had come in and saved her life, defended her from rape and death, taken her from danger to safety, and while she was still in this fight or flight mode she felt ridiculously . . . beholden was an odd word, but it fit. She felt as if, God help her, she belonged to him.
Was it a Chinese saying? That if you saved a life, that life now belonged to you? She could see where that came from. She didn’t even want to think about where she’d be if he hadn’t gotten her out of there. And it had nothing to do with owing him, or ransom, or the money he was demanding. He would have done it without the money and they both knew it. It was part of the game he played.
And until she could get her head on straight, get her ass back to civilization, she belonged to him. Body and soul.
“You look like you just saw a giant spider,” Dylan said in a sulky voice.
It surprised a laugh from her. “It’s been an interesting few days.”
“Dude,” Dylan said, which Beth gathered meant he agreed. “You suppose they’re really going to bring us food?”
“If they don’t we’ll go find some,” she said firmly. “I’m not going to sit here and starve while he goes out to . . .” What was he going to do? It was early evening. He said he was going to make arrangements. Chances were he was going to get laid and eat steak while the two of them were trapped in this dismal hotel room.
Then again, if he came back stinking of some back alley whore, then the magic would have worn off. He would no longer be sending out those subtle and not so subtle waves of longing, and for her part she expected her fascination to end. After all, she’d decided sex wasn’t her thing, and it was crazy to let gratitude and proximity make her think otherwise.
Whores were one thing. If the man came to her stinking of steak she was going to kill him.
She got off the bed, restless, and paced toward the door. She coul
d hear voices coming up from below, and she tried the door. She opened it, peering outside, when she noticed the tray on the floor.
She snatched it up quickly – God knew what kinds of vermin were crawling around this place. Whatever they were, they probably lived in the kitchen as well, but she wasn’t going to think about it. “Beans and rice and some kind of meat,” she said, bringing the tray in and setting it on the table, kicking the door shut with her foot.
Dylan sat up, suddenly cheerful. “Is that wine?”
“You’re too young.”
He just gave her a look. “You want to know how long I’ve been drinking?”
“Not particularly.” Since he’d already straddled one of the chairs and poured himself a glass she didn’t bother to argue. She took the other seat, grabbed one of the plates and began to eat.
Dylan was looking at her strangely. “Aren’t you going to say grace?”
“You know I’m not really a nun,” she said sternly.
“Well, yeah, but aren’t you some kind of religious fanatic? I mean, you worked in that mission and all.”
She ignored the searing pain at the memory of Father Pascal and the long, busy, happy hours. The children. “No, I’m not some kind of religious fanatic. I just wanted to make a difference.” The food wasn’t bad – very spicy, and the wine was rough and almost medicinal-tasting, but since MacGowan probably wasn’t coming back for hours it probably wouldn’t hurt to drink enough to help her sleep. “So tell me about your family. What was it like to grow up in Hollywood?”