The Samms Agenda Page 4

  She practically heard his smirk, so she glanced over; oddly enough, his expression appeared as blank as a slate. He seemed to have snatched her from the jaws of death only to bait her with this maddening conversation. "No. I'm only interpreting your comments based on my experience. You think I'm wasting my time and talent."

  "That's your spin."

  "And what's yours?"

  "I only asked why you've chosen to write what you do."

  "Because, believe it or not, I offer an escape to a lot of women."

  He muttered in that strange foreign language again. "An escape from what? Bad hair days?"

  She was beginning to get a sense of where he was coming from. In fact, she'd bet all the money she had on her that he'd been screwed over by a material girl. "It's a visceral thrill for some. To read about experiences they'll never know themselves."

  "And that's what Peter Deacon gave you. Those experi­ences."

  "He did, yes."

  "And they were important."

  "To the veracity of my column, yes."

  "So you used him."

  "Yes. I did." She took a deep breath and spit it out. "I purposefully and willingly used a man. I admit it. And I en­joyed it. So stuff that in whatever it is you use for a pipe and smoke it."

  Julian wasn't sure why he'd badgered her for the admis­sion except that everything he'd seen of her in action con­tradicted his wealth of intel.

  And everything he'd seen during his stints in Egypt and Kenya made it doubly hard to overlook his instincts about women who put stock in material things. About the damage inherent to greed.

  He didn't like to be wrong. He was glad to learn he hadn't been. She was exactly the high maintenance diva he'd been led to believe.

  Funny then how he still wasn't convinced. How he didn't want to be convinced. How he wanted her to be different because of how much he wanted her.

  At least none of his SG-5 partners were on hand to toss his uncharacteristic behavior into his face.

  Julian Samms did not suffer fools lightly. Yet he was on the verge of becoming a big one because his dick had its own hardheaded agenda. "Another case of turnabout being fair play?"

  "How's that?"

  "He was grist for your fantasy mill, and you gave him le­gitimacy and . . . whatever."

  "We were never lovers. I told you that."

  "Knowing his reputation, that's a pretty damn hard story to buy."

  "I'm not asking you to buy anything. I'm telling you the truth."

  A truth he wanted to believe. The idea of Peter Deacon's hands on this woman turned Julian's stomach in inexplica­ble ways.

  He continued on State Route 9336, driving through the entrance into Everglades National Park, glancing in his rear-view mirror and breathing easier the longer the road behind them stayed clear.

  "I hate to be a nuisance, but do you mind telling me how much longer till we stop?"

  "Forty, forty-five minutes." Probably closer to an hour considering he wasn't driving the roadster.

  "And where are we're going?"

  "A safe house."

  "I see. And we'll be safe there?"

  "That's the idea."

  "For how long?"

  "Until it's safe."

  She collapsed into her corner of the front seat.

  Yesu. "Katrina, listen. I really don't know. I won't know until Mick checks back in. Rivers is a block-headed shit, but he's smart. And he's dangerous."

  "I know. I felt the sting of his bullets more than once."

  "I'd like to get you to a clinic, get your foot stitched up. But I'm afraid if I don't get you off the street then that foot will be the least of your worries."

  "You're welcome to do it yourself."

  "Say what?"

  "You've got sutures in your first aid kit."

  "I don't think you want me to do that. Unless you don't care that your foot ends up looking like Dr. Frankenstein's baseball."

  "Well, it is the ball of my foot."

  He laughed. He couldn't help it. A laugh that he hoped didn't sound as desperately hysterical as it felt.

  "Wow," she said, and grinned. "That was nice. You should do it more often."

  "Can't. Would ruin my ruthless bastard rep."

  This time Katrina was the one who laughed. "Did you earn that reputation? Or pick it out of thin air for my bene­fit?"

  If they hadn't been traveling well over the posted speed limit, he would've slammed on the brakes, climbed between her spread legs, and shown her what a ruthless bastard could do with a bench seat.

  He never should have laughed. That one slip in his armor had stirred the tension inside the car unbearably. He was al­ready running on adrenaline and dealing with close quar­ters and death's snapping jaws.

  He sure as hell didn't need this new intimacy. "It's for my benefit. Not yours."

  "How does my thinking you a ruthless bastard benefit you?"

  "Because now when I invite you into my bed you'll say no."

  "Do you want me to say no?"

  What he wanted was for her to take off her pants and sit in his lap while he drove. What he wanted was to take back the admission of wanting her, to regain the advantage lost with the show of weakness.

  But he didn't say another word. He couldn't. Not when all the things he wanted to say and wanted to do—to her and with her—would double the trouble they were in, would blur the focus making sure he stayed sharp, would keep him up nights remembering why her type wasn't his.

  Thankfully, she didn't seem much in the mood for con­versation herself. She simply stared out the window while he took them another thirty-eight miles into the park. A very long, very slow-going thirty-eight miles.

  The tension in the car nearly killed him. She was too close for his argument about not being his type to hold. Too strong for a woman he'd expected to be vulnerable when out of her league and her element. Too ready to give as good as she got the way he liked a woman to do.

  Wo cao, he thought to himself, knowing the sentiment to be true. He was fucked. The road continued until they reached the fishing camp on Florida Bay. He circled the bait shop and the motel's office, heading for the maintenance shed behind.

  "We're here."

  S i x

  Flamingo, Florida, Friday, 7:30 p.m.

  Where they were was the tip of the peninsula, deep inside Everglades National Park. The far end of nowhere. Isolated. Abandoned. Alone.

  Funny how she was neither worried nor afraid when ei­ther response, both responses actually, would've been un­derstandably appropriate.

  Instead, she wanted him to answer the question she'd asked all those miles ago. Because now she could think about nothing but his invitation, whether or not it would come, if it would be a test, an assessment of her character, a chal­lenge, or nothing more than a sexual proposition.

  Mostly, she wondered what she would say if and when it did come. Right now? She really didn't know.

  Once they'd left the main park road and circled behind what appeared to be a fishing camp, mangroves lined one side of the path, palms the other, creating an effective blind alley.

  That was how she felt. That she was traveling for-ward but with no idea where she was going.

  Until today, she'd been so bloody sure.

  Now here came this unusual man who, with a few caus­tic comments, pointed questions, and offhand remarks had cut to the heart of doubts first stirred when she'd learned the truth of Peter Deacon.

  "This is your safe house?" she asked as the trees gave way on one side to more prairie with Florida Bay beyond, and the structure came into view. It looked like the run­down camp's redheaded stepchild.

  Ignored and forgotten and dilapidated at that.

  Julian scoffed, a humorless sarcastic sound. "And here I thought you more than anyone would know not to judge a book by its cover."

  His slams were beginning to get on her nerves. Or maybe it was the fact that he'd wedged up against her defenses that had her on edge.

>   Then again, it could have easily been the near-miss shootings responsible for her mood.

  Whatever it was, she snapped. "It's hard not to in this case. My life is in danger, and those four walls don't appear capable of keeping out the wind, much less any gunshots fired my way."

  He didn't even respond. He did no more than park the car, grab the first aid kit and her pool tote out of the back­seat, and order her to wait. She watched him cross the dirt drive to the three front steps, unlock the door, and enter.

  He obviously felt they were safe enough for her to stay in the car alone, but she still couldn't shake the sensation of being watched.

  Ridiculous, she knew, because they were on the tip of no­where. If any eyes were trained on her, they belonged to Peeping Toms of the raptor or reptilian sort—a thought that had her second-guessing her decision to get out and stretch her cramped legs.

  Julian returned less than five minutes later, jogging out to open her door. She swung her right foot to the ground, propped her left on her knee, and eased the shoe back up over the bulky bandage.

  The reality of her injury set in when she stepped from the car. Her foot refused to bear but the slightest bit of her weight. She pitched forward, and grabbed onto the car door for balance.

  Julian stepped in and wrapped his arm around her waist. "You okay?"

  "Uh, not really." The admission escaped with a panicked bit of a laugh. And a wince. "I've obviously been sitting too long."

  "Judging by the lack of color in your face, I'd say it's more than that." He muttered under his breath, that weird dialect again. "Let's get you inside."

  He bent then, scooped her up like she weighed no more than a feather pillow, kicked the car door shut, and carried her to the shack.

  And, oh how right had he been with his reminder that appearances could be deceiving. Once through the door­way, she swore she'd just set foot inside a plush rental on any Florida vacation beach.

  The interior was painted a cheery sky blue, the main room's furnishings done in shades of mango, banana, pa­paya, and lime, the floor in a winter white tile.

  "You've got to be kidding me," she mumbled, glancing around at what was truly a cozy little cottage. "This is a safe house?"

  "You were expecting industrial cinder blocks?" Julian's chest rumbled as he spoke, reminding her of their respective positions.

  Not that she had forgotten so much as done her best to focus beyond his heat and his strength, his bulk and the sure beat of his heart.

  Now that he'd spoken, however, it was all brought back in a sizzling frisson of awareness.

  One too powerfully real and compelling to overlook.

  For now, however, until she'd had time to process the scope of their situation—the intimacy, the isolation, the fact that he was here to keep her alive and nothing more—over­looking was exactly what she needed to do.

  "I guess that's pretty close." She looked around again, took in the brightness, the cheeriness, the plush sofa and side chairs in a print that would pass for African tribal if not for the fact that it was done up in fruit tones rather than rich golds and browns. "I think of safe houses as being dingy and dreary."

  "You've been watching too much bad spy TV."

  He was probably right—though Alias hadn't been the same since Will Tippin's departure. "Uh, maybe you should put me down. Let the blood circulate back into my foot so I can see how bad it really is."

  He grunted, carried her through the small house to the bathroom where he'd stashed the first aid kit. He lowered her to sit on the toilet seat and braced her foot in his lap once he'd sat on the edge of the tub.

  From the kit he pulled sutures and an antiseptic swab, from beneath the sink a bottle of Betadine. She watched his efficient movements, mesmerized by his lack of hesitation, his certainty, his economy of motion, the wicked concern drawing down his brow.

  She looked away from the distraction of his face to that of his hands. Large capable hands with deft fingers that dis­tracted her in ways she preferred he not know. Ways totally inappropriate for the time and place and situation.

  Strangely, however, the pain in her foot took away none of the pleasure of his touch. Or perhaps she was able to bear the one because of the other.

  Whatever the case, it took her a moment to realize he was waiting on her.

  "You ready for this?" he asked. "It's going to hurt like hell."

  "I haven't been ready for anything that's happened today." She braced herself with one deep breath, curled her fingers into her palms and dug her nails deep. "This, at least, I think I can handle."

  Where the hell was Savin and why hadn't he checked in? Not that Mick would've had time yet to pick up Rivers's trail, but still.

  Julian wanted to hear from his partner, needed to hear from the other man, swore if he had to remain isolated for long with only Katrina for human contact he was going to go kuang qi de.

  And he sure as hell didn't like any of what that said about the self-discipline that had been as much a part of keeping him alive as had his ability to read the people in the crowds he infiltrated.

  Reading Katrina was throwing off his plans to hole up, to keep his distance, to wait for Savin to take care of Rivers, then deliver her back to her life.

  Dumping the crabs he'd boiled into the sink filled with the ice he'd picked up during a quick run to the bait shop for perishables, he grumbled to himself. The sick and twisted part of this whole scenario was that reading her should make keeping his distance easier.

  But the opposite was turning out to be true. He'd ex­pected to be turned off by the woman who expended cre­ative energy describing the details of her high-maintenance lifestyle for no reason but to feed the fantasies of others.

  Instead, he was turned on by a woman who'd shed silent tears while he'd sewn up the gash in her foot.

  It had nearly killed him, puncturing her already damaged skin, knowing that he was doing a shitty job because he couldn't keep his hands from shaking.

  Some kind of tough guy operative he was. Letting a long tall wisp of a woman knock him sideways.

  He tossed the boiled new potatoes into a bowl with salt and butter, sliced the meaty tomato he'd grabbed from the stand outside the shop, and called it dinner.

  Katrina was already sitting at the table around the cor­ner, her foot propped up in the seat of the vacant chair to her left, while she flipped through a two-year-old issue of Florida Wildlife.

  Julian managed to get the food, plates, and utensils, a bottle of wine, and two glasses out of the kitchen in only two trips. Returning from the second, he stopped to watch her situate the place settings as if she were some sort of fucking Martha Stewart.

  He dropped the bowl of potatoes with a thud. "We're not usually so formal here."

  She shrugged, gave a weak smile. "Old habits. Hard to break."

  He grunted. A less than human response but the only one he was capable of making, one appropriate when he consid­ered his vow to keep his distance and his very human weak­ness making that a hard promise to keep.

  He sat down opposite her and tossed her a red shop rag. "I couldn't find paper towels or napkins. I'll pick some up if I make another supply run before we leave."

  "This is fine. More practical than wasting all that paper." She spread the rag over her lap like she would a linen nap­kin then forked up a tomato slice. "Do you think we'll be here long?"

  "Shouldn't be. Mick's got a bloodhound nose." Why the hell couldn't she complain about something? Anything?

  "Have you worked with him long?" she asked, cracking open a crab leg.

  He watched the liquid run over her fingers, expected her to wipe or lick herself clean, groaned when she did neither, when she left the juices glistening on her skin.

  He cleared his throat. "Mick? Not really. He was pulled onto the team six months ago. The rest of us have been working together quite a few years."

  "Is this a private organization?" She stabbed a potato, bit into the whole of it while stil
l on her fork.

  "Private?"

  She nodded, chewed, and swallowed. "As in not military or law enforcement."

  Wo de tian a! "What's with the twenty questions?"

  She stopped eating then and met his gaze squarely, when as fierce as his frown felt, he'd expected her to flinch. He'd wanted her to flinch.

  Flinching meant he still held the upper hand, the advan­tage, was in full control of the situation. Her lack of flinch­ing confirmed his biggest fear of all.

  As far as Katrina Flurry was concerned, his control had been shot all to hell.

  "I'm making conversation, Julian. That's all."

  "I don't do small talk," he said, stuffing an entire potato into his mouth so he didn't have to do talking of any kind.

  She tilted her head to one side and considered him. "We could talk about something larger. Nietzsche or Chomsky or Aquinas or Spielberg."

  He sputtered. "Spielberg?

  "Ha." She winked, grinned. "Made you laugh." But he wasn't laughing now. Instead, he was making up his mind whether to eat her for dinner or dessert.

  Seven

  SG-5 Safe House, Friday, 9:00 p.m.

  "Twenty questions isn't such a bad idea, you know," Katrina insisted twenty minutes later as the food—the only real buffer between them—rapidly dwindled along with what conver­sation she'd managed to force.

  Julian frowned, stacked the empty tomato plate on top of his, which now held nothing but a pool of melted butter. "Say again?"

  "Something to do besides stare at the walls." Since he was obviously not big on talk of any size, and she didn't think he'd like her spending the rest of the night drinking him in. "The magazines aren't exactly my cuppa tea, not to men­tion being out of date."

  He canted his head toward the living room. "There are DVDs in the bottom of the TV cabinet. No cable, so no re­ception, but the movies are there."

  "As is the Playstation." Men and their toys. She cocked her elbow over the back of her chair. "Thanks anyway. But I'm not into video games, anime, or CGI-driven flicks."

  "Don't tell me you don't dig Tolkien," he said with a dis­believing snort. "At least this new version. I thought all you women were into the long-haired, pointy-eared British elves."