Bait (11 page)

Gabe peeked into the bedroom. Good God! The thing was decorated wholly in deep yellows. Golden textured wallpaper, gold bedspread. Chandeliers, armchairs. Even the frame on the portrait was gilt. His lip curled. He much preferred the living room.

Christina stood by the bed, hands on her hips, looking around with an expression identical to Gabe's. “Barf,” she said. “I'm sleeping on the sofa.”

“Might be a tad crowded,” Gabe said. He appreciated the sentiment, though. He wouldn't voluntarily sleep here, either.

“Excuse me?”

The hostility in her tone alerted Gabe to the fact that he hadn't told her about his decision to sleep in her room. “Uh—­”

“No. Nope. Nuh-­uh,” she said. “You sleep with the rest of your team. I get some privacy.”

Gabe ran a hand along the back of his neck. He needed to coordinate with her better. “You're not going to be alone until we catch this guy. Might as well resign yourself to it.”

Christina's movements were jerky as she stalked past him. Gabe moved back, allowing her out of the barf-­worthy room. Against his will, his gaze dropped to her ass as she strode away. Damn, the woman had a delicious body. His breathing deepened and a light sweat popped out of his pores. He adjusted himself discreetly as he followed her into the much calmer tones of the living room.

“I don't even want to see the bathroom,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Probably all purple or orange or some shit.”

“You can't sleep in here.” Christina swung around to face him.

“I am.” But he knew he'd get no sleep with her so close by, tucked under yellow blankets, dreaming of him. Naked. He dreamt about her, too.

“But why?” There was an edge to her voice that Gabe could only identify as desperation. “I want to be alone.”

“I'm sorry; I should have told you. Just ignore me. I'm pretty good at disappearing.”

She snorted. “I'd notice you no matter what.” She clamped her mouth tight, as though sorry she'd let the words out. “I mean, you make a big road bump. And you annoy me.”

No, he didn't. She felt as drawn to him as he was to her. Neither were comfortable with that reality, but there it was. She'd probably slap his face if he said it, though.

Hell, he'd had worse from a woman.

“Christina,” he said carefully, “I think we have to acknowledge the elephant in the room.”

Alarm flared in her eyes, and he knew he'd been right. She didn't want them to be alone, in close proximity.

“This isn't a conversation we need to have. Ever.” She crossed her arms under her breasts.

“If it helps, I'm not happy about it, either.”

That got him a surprised look. He watched the play of emotions across her face. Would she retreat? Argue? Deny the attraction between them altogether?

She settled on battle. He waited, anticipation curling in his belly.

“Why do you hate the CIA so much?”

The question wiped the smile off his face. “That's none of your fucking business.”

It was the dead last thing he'd expected from her. He'd never tried to hide his distrust of her employers. And, by extension, her. So why was he surprised that she'd confront him about it? He backed away and turned, stalking toward the door, familiar feelings of rage and impotence swamping him.

It wasn't an unreasonable question.

Maybe she deserved the truth. He'd felt himself growing to like her, respect her, and it scared the holy hell out of him. He couldn't go through that kind of betrayal again.

No, she definitely deserved the truth.

Forcing himself to stop, to unclench his fists, he slowly turned to face her. He tried to pry his jaws apart to speak. “No, it's exactly your business. You have a right to know. Why I can't afford to trust you.”

She regarded him somberly, not saying a word.

He forced the words through clenched teeth. “The second CIA operative I trusted sold me out to a Peruvian drug cartel. For money. After . . . she was done seducing me.”

He found he couldn't meet her gaze, unwilling to see pity in her eyes.

“God, Gabe. I'm so sorry . . .”

He whipped his head up to glare at her. “Don't.”

She had moved forward, but now she stopped. “All right,” she said calmly. “Tell me.”

He took in a lot of air. Was he really going to confide in her? He took a step toward her, then another. “I'd been a Delta Force operator for about two years. I was sent to Huaraz to gather information on cocaine production by the Reyes Cartel. I linked up with two relief workers. Leanne Parker and Anthony Davidson.” He couldn't help the bitterness in his voice, but she didn't react. Just listened.

“Leanne and I . . . we became lovers. In love, I thought.” He had to stop, clear his throat. “Anyway, when I had what I needed about the cartel, I asked her to come back to the States with me.”

He forced himself to look at Christina. To finish it. “She, uh, left to go tell Anthony that she'd decided to go home with me. Next thing I knew, the Peruvian National Police broke down my door and threw my ass in prison.”

“Maybe it wasn't a betrayal.” Her voice was soft. “Maybe . . .”

“It was,” he said as matter-­of-­factly as he could manage. “I found out after I was released that Leanne and Anthony were actually CIA. The cartel bought them. They fed the cartel intelligence. They sold me out.”

She came right up to him, putting a hand on his arm. “Those two were despicable. That's not the norm. We're not all like that. Some of us believe in what we do.”

He shook his head, unable to speak.

“Gabe . . . you said Peru was the second time you trusted someone from the CIA. What was the first?”

He couldn't seem to get it together. He knew his face showed his vulnerability, his frustration, his anger. What good would come of telling her? And why the fuck did he even care, after all these years?

“The first admitted she only had me to secure her cover.”

Christina inhaled sharply. “Your mother? She—­”

“Lied to us for years.”

“No.” She shook her head in denial. “That's awful!”

“That's life.”

“No,” she said again, more strongly. “It's not. That's not how normal ­people behave.”

He tried a smile, but knew it came out as a grimace. “The CIA isn't normal.”

Her hand was still on his arm. He looked down at it. Her fingers tightened briefly, then dropped. “We're not all liars, Gabe.”

“Yeah? What is it you're doing here?” His arm swept out, encompassing the room. “Pretending to be something you're not.”

Hurt flashed through her eyes. Feeling like as ass, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm sorry. I know I'm being unfair.”

She cocked her head to one side, a hand on her hip. “You know as well as I do that ­people don't want to know the reality of gathering human intelligence. They'd rather pretend we get all our info from our allies or from satellite pictures. Your missions rely on intelligence gathered by agents downrange, right? But you're okay with that.”

He knew that. Still . . .

“All Uncle Sam asks of you is to die for your country,” she said bluntly. “And no one questions your patriotism. If I'm asked to go undercover and play a role, lie for my country, steal or cheat to accomplish my mission if necessary, I'm evil? I'm no less a patriot than you. I believe in my country and the good it can do in the world. Are you telling me you've never had to do those things on a mission?”

Of course he had. He couldn't count the number of times his team had slipped into a hostile area undercover. Things went sideways in missions. They adapted, improvised, and got the job done. No matter what.

She paced away from him. “I have a unique talent. I can blend in with the ­people around me. I go into a club and become a wild party girl. In class, I'm a serious student. At the gym, I fit in with the jocks. I am, or seem to be, what those around me are. I adopt their mannerisms, their speech patterns, even their habits. If they smoke, I smoke. If they slam back jello shots, so do I.”

Gabe folded his arms across his chest. “So no one ever knows if they're seeing the real you.”

She frowned. “When I'm on a job, that's who I am. It's all the real me, and none of it. It's how I'm pulling this off, and how I intend to succeed in keeping us all alive.”

Would she do anything to make sure an operation was a success? He knew he would. So how could he blame her for having the same dedication? Her honesty struck him in his gut. She was every bit as much a professional as he was.

She stared at him across a gulf that seemed impassable. He had to admire her spunk. Not many had the stones to stand up to him; yet here she was, in his face.

“Gabe? What happened to the two officers who betrayed you?”

One look in her eyes told him she already knew. He took a breath. “The Company promoted them. They work cushy desk jobs in Langley now.”

“How were you released from prison?”

He snapped his jaws together. “Why are you asking questions when you've already figured out the answers? My mother pulled strings.”

He'd been in that pigeon shit of a prison for close to a month. His teammates were gearing up for a prison break when word came down that the Associate Deputy Director of Latin American Operations, Judith Morgan, had arranged for his release. When he'd refused to see her upon his return stateside, she'd come to him, cornering him as he left the house. The conversation had been short and brutal.

“I'd rather have rotted in my cell than owe you anything.”

She'd looked at him with cool eyes. ­“People know you're my son.”

“Do me no favors. Ever.”

He'd gone back to his unit vowing never to work with the CIA again. Yet here he was. Again.

“Gabe. Where did you go?”

He looked up to find her directly in front of him. “Nowhere.”

“Mistrust compromises our job here. We have to work together, no bullshit. I've been honest with you from the start. But how about this? I promise I'll only tell you the truth from now on.”

She waited, her eyes steady. He edged closer to her. Her unique lime scent reached his nose.

“Do you wear perfume?” he blurted, surprising himself.

“No. It's probably Ronnie's shower gel.” She arched a brow. “Does this mean we've reached a temporary cease-­fire?”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Yeah.”

He leaned forward. The closer he got to her, the calmer he felt. She put out a hand, which bumped against his chest. Gabe forced himself to stay still but couldn't stop his body from swaying, allowing her palm to brush back and forth across his pecs. Damn, that felt nice. “How about a cease-­fire hug?”

He'd meant to sound teasing, but his voice came out hoarse and needy. Straightening abruptly, he took two steps away from her, turned, and bumped into the stupid lamp by the door. The thing looked like a salt shaker with a triangle of stained glass at the top. It teetered, toppled, and fell to the floor with a crash. Shards of glass flew everywhere. Christina gasped and jumped, clutching her hand.

He whirled back to her. “Are you all right?”

Blood stained her palm. “I'm fine. Just a scratch.”

The door to the suite slammed open, and eight hundred pounds of muscle swarmed in, weapons out. When they saw the tableau, they pulled up.

“What's up?” Tag asked.

“Broke a lamp.” Gabe stated the obvious. “No worries. Call it a drill.”

The four men shrugged and the weapons disappeared. They plopped down onto various surfaces. Christina went to the telephone.

“There seems to be a direct line to housekeeping,” she announced to no one in particular. Punching the button, she said, “This is . . . yes. I see. I have very clumsily broken a lamp. Would you . . . thank you. Oh, yes?
Merci bien
.” She hung up. “Someone's on their way up.”

Gabe crossed to her and grabbed her wrist. Her arm tensed. He gently but firmly pulled her fingers apart. They were bleeding. “You're cut,” he said.

“It's nothing. Some glass.”

“Embedded.” The shard wasn't huge, but it needed to come out.

Mace came to examine her palm. “I'll need tweezers.”

“I have one in my makeup bag,” Christina said. She tugged her wrist free. “I'll go get it.”

Gabe followed her through the bedroom and into the bathroom. Unlike the awful yellow room, it was tasteful in off-­white tones, larger than normal, with granite countertops, a walled shower, and a separate Jacuzzi tub. Christina shot a startled look over her shoulder.

“I can do it,” she blurted.

“It's easier if someone else does,” he said. “Trust me. I've been there.” Granted, his had been a two-­inch long chunk of wood lodged in his thigh, shrapnel from an RPG attack. Tag had the bedside manner of an elephant with a bullet in its ass, but he got the job done.

She ducked her head and opened a large case, extracting the tweezers and turning slightly toward him, all without ever lifting her face.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the toilet. Her face pinked, but amazingly enough she sat, perching gingerly on the closed lid. He placed the back of her hand on one rough palm, spreading her fingers so he could get a look at the glass sliver. It was long and sharp, but embedded shallowly. He worked it out by increments, careful not to break it off under the skin. When he had extracted the sliver, he held it up. “Pretend it's a bullet. You have a battle scar now.”

It was a clumsy attempt at teasing, but he knew it had failed when frost touched her eyes. Without a word, she slipped out of her expensive silk jacket and twisted on the toilet seat so that he could see the puckered red scar on her upper arm, about four inches below the sleeveless shell. Without volition, he reached out and traced the jagged flesh. A bullet had plowed through her skin there. Too deep to be called a graze, it had taken about two inches of flesh with it, leaving a scarred indentation. But there was no mistaking it. Christina had been shot.