Angel of Desire (23 page)

Amazingly, he even wanted a family with Rachel. As they slipped through the shadows, Shade thought about all the times they'd made love these past two and a half days and wondered if perhaps, even now, she was carrying their child inside her. The idea gave him an extraordinary amount of pleasure.

That idea brought up another terrifying one. What if he couldn't keep her safe from harm tonight? Naturally he'd tried to order her to remain behind at the inn, where Zdeslav and Duha could keep an eye on her.

But, unsurprisingly, she'd refused. She was the most frustratingly stubborn person—male or female—he'd ever met. Shade decided that if by any chance her wild story about a celestial life was true, he knew why God was always pictured as an old man. Trying to reason with Rachel Parrish on a daily basis would undoubtedly turn any man gray.

They'd reached the heavily barred outer door. Shade knocked. Once. Twice. Then a third time in the prearranged code. The door swung open, the squeaky hinges sounding like a screech in the silent night.

Shade cursed inwardly as a dog patrolling the perimeter of the compound barked. The damn door should have been oiled. If such a foolish mistake cost Rachel her life…

"You made it," said the man who'd opened the door. He looked at Rachel with obvious surprise. "I thought you'd be alone."

"My plans changed at the last minute."

"Whatever." The man shrugged. "Here are the keys. Your friend is on the lower level. In the far cell block." He handed Shade a roughly drawn map.

"We'll find it." Shade shook the guard's hand. "Thanks."

"Just get the good doctor out," the man said. "Before they kill him."

With those less than encouraging words ringing in their ears, Shade and Rachel made their way down the dungeon hallways. The air in the prison was cold and rank. Yellow overhead lights cast flickering shadows on the damp stone walls. The only sounds were the scratching of rats in dark corners, the creaking of overhead timbers and the low moans from unseen men locked away in cramped, filthy cells. As they descended the stairway to the bowels of the prison, Shade broke out in an involuntary sweat. The place brought back memories too painful to ever entirely put behind him. He knew that, were he to close his eyes, he would see his torturers' faces, feel the sting of the whip and the electric prod that made his blood boil in his veins.

He also knew that, were he to live another hundred years, he would not forget the sound of the general's laughter as he'd writhed helplessly on the damp stone floor.

The bastard deserved to die. And during those long weeks of unrelenting torture, Shade had vowed that someday he would be the man to send the general to hell.

Which was exactly where the man belonged. The problem was, since falling in love with Rachel, his resolve had begun to crumble. It wasn't that he'd have any trouble killing Rutskoya. But if he did follow through with his original plan, he wasn't certain he could live with the disappointment he'd see in Rachel's eyes every time she looked at him.

Rachel's love versus his long-sought-after revenge. He weighed the choices, knowing, deep down inside, that he could not have both.

The dilemma was still unresolved when he suddenly heard the sound of a match being struck, followed by the smell of phosphorus, then smoke.

Grabbing hold of Rachel's wrist, he yanked her back around the corner, pressed her tight against the wall and put a warning finger against her lips. He'd taken his automatic pistol from his belt and unfastened the safety.

She nodded calmly though her eyes had widened with fear. She had a right to be afraid, Shade knew. If they were caught and she was taken prisoner…

No! He would not even allow himself to consider the possibility of his angel falling into Rutskoya's brutal hands. He would keep her safe, Shade vowed. After all, he intended to spend the rest of his life with this woman.

He had the advantage of surprise. There'd be time to get off two shots. That would be all he needed.

The guards' voices grew closer, echoing in the cavernous underground compound. Rachel's back was up against the
damp
, mossy wall, Shade's chest was pressed against hers.

Even this close, she could not see his face. But she knew his green eyes would be offering her reassurance. And love. Such knowledge helped her stay calm even as her nerves were stretched to the breaking point.

And then, blessedly, the guards turned another corner, headed in the opposite direction. When she heard their laughter fading, Rachel looked upward in gratitude. She had no doubt that their sudden change in direction was Joshua's doing.

Shade waited another long minute. Then nodded. He and Rachel continued past the rows of cell blocks until they came to an isolated one far from the others.

"It's time for reveille," Shade said softly, speaking for the first time since they'd entered the prison. The man lying in a fetal position on the floor struggled to sit up. Clad in filthy rags, he appeared frightfully thin. His dirty blond hair hung lankily almost to his shoulders, his face was swollen and covered with bruises. His nose had obviously been broken. But when he smiled, a bold, swashbuckling grin that lacked a top front tooth, Rachel realized that Conlan O'Donahue was a very handsome man.

"It's about time you showed up."

"What's the matter?" Shade asked. "Don't tell me you're getting bored here at club Rutskoya." His tone was flip but his voice was husky with emotion.

"The food stinks and the recreational activities aren't all they're cracked up to be in the brochures." Con looked at Rachel with obvious surprise. "Hello."

"Hello." They studied each other while Shade unlocked the cell door. "Marianne sends her love."

"You know my wife?"

"Not well, but I did spend the night at your house—"

"When? How is she?" Conlan struggled to stand up, but one leg crumpled and he fell back to the stone floor. "Does she know where I am?"

"We can catch you up on all the news of home later," Shade said. He entered the cell and lifted his best friend to his feet. "First, let's get the hell out of here."

Rachel rushed forward to offer support, and together the three of them made their way out of the cell, headed back in the direction she and Shade had just come. Although the tunnels twisted and turned like a labyrinth, Rachel had the feeling that they were nearing the stairs.

She was right. Unfortunately, as they turned the last corner, standing in front of them was General Rutskoya, flanked by a trio of armed guards.

"Hello, Shade." Looking amazingly calm, he was smoking a cigar. "Ms. Parrish." His gaze flicked over her with obvious disapproval. "I much prefer the outfit you were wearing this afternoon, my dear. In the future I shall expect more effort from you."

His implication hung between them. Rachel felt Shade stiffen beside her and prayed that he wouldn't do anything foolish.

Rutskoya's attention turned to Conlan. "You disappoint me, Dr. O'Donahue. Does your leaving so unexpectedly mean that you haven't enjoyed your visit?"

"You know what they say about guests overstaying their welcome," Con quipped with a sarcasm that allowed Rachel, for the first time, to understand how much Conlan O'Donahue and Shade had in common. They were both absolutely fearless.

The general was obviously not amused. His eyes hardened to obsidian, his mouth drew into a tight, dangerous line. "I must ask you to hand over your weapon, Shade."

Shade cursed but did as ordered. He'd been called rash in his day, but he wasn't about to attempt a reenactment of the shoot-out at the O.K. corral when he was outgunned four to one.

"I'm sorry, Shade.," Conlan murmured. Shade's only response was a shrug. Then, to Rachel's surprise, he released his hold on his friend. Despite the fact that he'd obviously lost a great deal of weight, Con still outweighed Rachel by at least fifty pounds. When she was unable to support him by herself, he folded to the ground at the general's feet.

Without blinking an eye, another guard pulled his foot back, prepared to slam a booted toe into Conlan's ribs.

All hell broke loose. With a roar, Conlan rolled into the guard's shins, knocking him to the floor. Conlan immediately jumped on top of him, relieving him of his pistol, which he pressed against the man's head.

During that brief distraction, Shade had pulled his spare pistol from his boot and was now standing beside the general, his arm around the man's throat, the pistol pressed against his temple.

"If everyone remains calm," he said in a quiet voice more deadly than the loudest shout, "no one will get hurt."

"Rachel?"

"Yes, Shade?"

"Take the guns and the keys from those other two goons and lock them in that cell."

With fingers that shook only slightly, Rachel pulled the pistols from the black leather holsters. She was unable to hide her distaste at being forced to touch such deadly weapons, but reminded herself that these men had been prepared to kill. She did as instructed, breathing a sigh of relief as Conlan pushed himself up from the floor, relieved her of the ugly guns and gestured for his prisoner to follow. Seconds later the three were safely locked behind bars.

Which left General Rutskoya.

"Go ahead," Shade suggested, reading the general's mind. "Try and make a break for it. I'd love the excuse to put a bullet right through your head."

"You'll never get out of the country alive," the general warned. "Not with these two slowing you down." He shot a scornful expression Conlan and Rachel's way. "A cripple." He spat at Con's feet. "And a woman."

"My brother," Shade corrected. "And my wife-to-be."

Damn, this wasn't how he'd intended to propose. Shade had planned the scenario in careful detail. Once they were safely in Montacroix, he was going to take her out for a romantic candlelight dinner. Then a night on the town at the royal casino, then dancing. Afterward, they'd return to her room, where he'd have arranged with Burke to have a bottle of champagne from the royal vineyards waiting on ice.

They'd drink a toast to the successful outcome of their mission. To life. And love. Then, while violinists serenaded them from the courtyard below the balcony, he would ask her to marry him. Rachel would undoubtedly cry a little, but she'd accept, and then they'd make love. All night long.

It would be, Shade considered, the perfect ending to a perfect evening. And a perfect beginning of their life together. So what the hell had he done? Blurted it out under the very worst of situations, like a lovesick schoolboy.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the stricken expression on Rachel's face was definitely not encouraging. Why the hell was she looking at him that way? She should be happy. Hell, didn't most women dream of marriage?

"Your whore, you mean," the general said evilly. "Women are easy to come by, Shade. Why don't you leave the bitch with me?"

"Shut your goddamn mouth," Shade growled. "Before I do it for you."

"Perhaps we ought to ask the lovely Ms. Parrish if she'd like to stay. She doesn't look all that eager to enter into matrimonial bliss with you, Shade," the general observed.

Damn Rutskoya to hell. He was right. What was wrong with her?

While Shade was distracted, the general proved that he hadn't gotten where he was by being stupid. There was a flash of steel as the stiletto he kept up his sleeve slashed at Shade. Only razor-sharp instincts kept Shade from getting his throat cut.

"Dammit!" Pent-up fury, along with a building fear that he'd misjudged Rachel, burst free. He swung, hitting Rutskoya with the pistol across the face. The ugly sound of bone shattering mingled with the general's scream of pain. He dropped the stiletto to cover his broken nose. Blood gushed from between his fingers as if from a geyser.

And then they were on the ground and Shade was sitting on top of Rutskoya, pounding his fists into the already battered face. Right. Left. Right. Left. Over and over again.

All the pain this brutal man had caused him flashed through Shade's mind. All the pain he'd caused Conlan, not to mention Marianne's distress at a time when she should be experiencing the joy of being pregnant.

All the innocent people the general has tortured and killed seemed to be crying out in Shade's head for revenge.

But one voice rang out the loudest. The clearest.

"Please, Shade," Rachel begged. "If you truly love me, don't kill him. Please. Leave the judging to others!"

Dammit, Shade realized he could deny this woman nothing. Amazingly, love for Rachel had so taken over his heart that there was no longer any room for hate.

He ceased his brutal blows and looked up at her. Tears were streaming down her lovely face. He saw both love and terror in her soft gray eyes.

"The only reason I'm not killing him here and now, the way he deserves, is because of you," Shade said. "I want that understood."

Wiping at the free-falling tears with the backs of her hands, Rachel nodded. The lump in her throat prevented her from speaking.

Believing she'd finally prevailed just in time, Rachel gasped as he lifted the pistol. But rather than shoot the supine general, Shade merely knocked the man unconscious.

"He deserves to die, dammit," Shade muttered as he dragged the general into an adjoining cell and locked it.

"That's not for you to judge, Shade," Conlan said quietly, unknowingly echoing what Rachel had been telling him for days.

Rachel turned to Shade. "Thank you." Her relief was so palpable, Shade felt as if he could reach over and touch it.

As they made their way out of the prison, Rachel was surprised to find that she was still on earth. She'd expected to be called home the moment her mission was accomplished.

They managed to escape the compound, driving to the railroad station. They could not risk returning to the inn, Shade explained. Not when there was a chance the general could be discovered before morning. Nor could they risk trying to drive out of the country in the recognizable Mercedes. The partisans would repaint the car and return it to Montacroix later.

When they arrived at the station, Franja, Zdeslav and Duha's buxom, gorgeous daughter, was waiting with a new set of papers and a change of clothing for Rachel and both men. Although the baggy cotton slacks and oversized peasant blouse were not as fashionable as the mistress clothes Liz had selected for her, Rachel was grateful to be able to rid herself of the uniform that stood as a symbol of such cruel military repression.