Diamond Bay (22 page)

"Don't make a sound and I
won't hurt you," the man
murmured in her ear, his voice
easy on consonants and pure liquid on the vowels.
"I'm looking for a man. He's supposed to be in this
house."

She clawed at his hand, trying to scream a warning even though
Kell might still be in the shower and wouldn't be able to hear her. But what if
Kell did hear her? He could be shot trying to help her. The thought paralyzed
her, and she sagged against the man, struggling to organize her mind and think
of something she could do. "Shhh, that's right," the man said in that
low, soft voice that made chills run over her body. "Open the door now,
and we'll go in nice and easy."

She didn't have any choice but to open the screen door. If he had
wanted to kill her he already would have, but he could still easily knock her
unconscious, and the end result would be the same: she would be unable to help
Kell if the opportunity arose. The man pushed her up the back steps with his
big body, holding her so securely against him that she couldn't struggle. She
stared at the gun in his hand. If he tried to shoot Kell, she could hit his
arm, throw off his aim. Where was Kell? She tried to listen for the shower, but
her thundering heartbeat made a roaring in her ears that blotted out sound. Was
he dressing? Had he heard the back door close? Even if he had, would he think
anything of it? They relied on Joe to let them know if anyone was close by.
Hard on the heels of that thought came another one, and pain welled in her
again. Had he killed Joe? Was that why the dog hadn't come around the house
when she went out to the garden?

Then Kell walked out of the bedroom, wearing only his jeans and
carrying his shirt in his hand.
He stopped, his face very still as he looked first at the man holding
her, then at her terrified eyes above the hand clamped over her
mouth.
"You're scaring her to
death," he said in a cool, controlled tone.

The hand over her mouth loosened, but the man didn't completely
release her. "Is she yours?"

"She's mine."

Then the big man let her go, gently setting her away from him.
"You didn't tell me anything about a woman, so I wasn't taking any
chances," he said to Kell, and Rachel realized who he was.

She held herself very still, fighting for control and taking slow,
deep breaths until she thought she could speak without her voice trembling.
"You must be Sullivan," she said with admirable calm as she gradually
relaxed her clenched hands.

"Yes, ma'am."

She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't this. He and
Kell were so much alike that it staggered her. It wasn't the way he looked, but
they both had the same stillness about them, the same aura of power. He had
sun-streaked, shaggy hair, and his eyes were as piercing and golden as an
eagle's. A scar cut across his left cheekbone, testimony to some past battle.
He was a warrior, lean and hard and dangerous… like Kell.

While she had been looking at him, he'd been giving her the same
treatment, studying her while she struggled for control. One corner of his
mouth kicked up in an almost-smile. "Sorry for scaring you, ma'am. I
admire your self-control. Jane would've kicked me in the shins."

"She probably did," Kell commented, his tone still cool,
but now with an undercurrent of amusement.

Sullivan's dark brows snapped down over his golden eyes.
"No," he said dryly. "That wasn't where she kicked me."

That sounded like a fascinating
story, but though Kell
still looked amused, he didn't
pursue it.
"This is Rachel Jones," he
said, holding out his hand to her in a quiet command. "She dragged me out
of the ocean."

"Glad to meet you." Sullivan's drawl was soft and raspy
as he watched Rachel immediately go to Kell in response to his outstretched
hand.

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Sullivan… I think."

Kell gave her a brief, comforting touch, then began pulling on his
shirt; it was an action that still caused him some difficulty, as his shoulder
was stiff and sore. Sullivan looked at the tender, red, newly formed scar
tissue where the bullet had torn into Rell's shoulder. "How much
damage?"

"I've lost some flexibility, but there's still some swelling.
Part of it may return as the swelling goes down."

"Did you get it anywhere else?"

"Left thigh."

"Will it hold up?"

"It'll have to. I've been jogging, loosening it up."

Sullivan grunted. Rachel sensed the man's reluctance to talk
freely in front of her, the same ingrained caution that characterized Kell.
"Are you hungry, Mr. Sullivan? We're having spaghetti."

That wild-animal gaze turned on her. "Yes, ma'am. Thank
you."
The soft
slurring of his drawl and the grave courtesy of his manners made such a
contrast to the fierceness of his eyes that she felt off-balance.
Why hadn't Kell warned her?

"I'll finish while you two talk, then. I must have dropped
the peppers when you grabbed me," she said. She started toward the door,
then turned back, distress in her eyes. "Mr. Sullivan?"

He and Kell were walking into the living room, and Sullivan
stopped, looking back at her. "Ma'am?"

"My dog," she said, a faint trembling in her voice.
"He's always there when I go outside. Why didn't he – "

Understanding was in those wild golden eyes. "He's all right.
I've got him tied up in that pine thicket. Had a helluva time outsmarting him.
That's a nice animal."

Relief made her weak. "I'll go untie him, then. You
didn't…hurt him in any way?"

"No, ma'am. He's about a hundred yards down, just to the left
of that little trail."

She ran down the trail, her heart thudding; Joe was right where
Sullivan had said he would be, tied securely to a tall pine, and the dog was
furious. He even snarled at Rachel, but she talked softly to him and approached
him at a slow, measured pace, calming him before she knelt beside him to untie
the rope around his neck. Even then she kept talking, giving him small, quick
pats, and the snarls diminished in his throat. Finally he accepted a hug from
her, and for the first time gave her a welcoming lick. A lump rose in her
throat. "Come on, let's go home," she said, getting to her feet.

She collected the peppers from where she had dropped them on the
back steps and left Joe prowling around the house. She washed her hands and
began preparing the sauce, listening to the quiet rumble of the men's voices
from the living room. Now that she had met Sullivan she understood Kell's
confidence in him. He was… incredible. And Kell was even more so. Seeing them
together made her realize anew the caliber of the man she loved, and she reeled
under the shock of that realization.

It was almost an hour before she called them to the table, and the
sun was a fierce red ball low on the horizon, a reminder that now her time with
Kell was truly running out. Or was it already gone? Would they be leaving soon?

Deliberately, to get her mind off
her fears, she kept the
conversation going.
It was remarkably difficult, with both men being the way they
were, until finally she hit on the right subject. "Kell told me that
you're married, Mr. Sullivan."

He nodded, a curious lightening of his expression making him seem
less formidable. "Jane is my wife." He said it as if everyone knew
Jane.

"Do you have any children?"

There was no mistaking the look of intense pride that came over
the hard, scarred face. "Twin sons. They're six months old."

For some reason Kell was looking amused again. "I didn't know
twins ran in your family, Grant."

"They don't," Sullivan growled. "Or in Jane's,
either. Even the damn doctor didn't know. She took everybody by surprise."

"That's not unusual," Kell said, and they looked at each
other, grinning.

"The hell of it is, she went into labor two weeks early, in
the middle of a snowstorm. All the roads were closed, and I couldn't get her to
a hospital. I had to deliver them." For a moment there was a look of
desperation in his eyes, and a faint sheen of perspiration broke out on his
forehead. "Twins," he said faintly. "Damn. I told her not to
ever do that to me again, but you know Jane."

Kell laughed out loud, his rare deep laugh making pleasure shimmer
through Rachel. "Next time she'll probably have triplets."

Sullivan glared at him. "Don't even think it," he
muttered.

Rachel lifted a forkful of spaghetti to her mouth. "I don't
think it's Jane's fault that she had twins, or that it snowed."

"Logically, no," Sullivan admitted. "But logic
flies out the window when Jane walks in the door."

"How did you meet her?"

"I kidnapped her," he said offhandedly, leaving Rachel
gasping, because he offered no other explanation.

"How did you get away from her?" Kell asked, provoking
another glare.

"It wasn't easy, but she couldn't leave the kids."
Sullivan leaned back in his chair, an unholy light entering his eyes.
"You're going to have to go back with me to explain."

Kell looked alarmed, then resigned; finally he grinned. "All
right. I want to see you with these babies."

"They're already crawling. You have to watch where you
step," the proud father said, grinning in return. "Their names are
Dane and Daniel, but beats the hell out of me which one is which. Jane said we
can let them decide when they get older."

That was it. The three of them looked at one another, and Rachel
gulped helplessly. Kell made a rough choking sound. In a perfectly
choreographed move three forks were laid down on the table and three people
held their heads and laughed until they hurt.

Charles read the hastily gathered intelligence report on Rachel,
frowning as he rubbed his forehead with one thin finger. According to both
Agents Lowell and Ellis, Rachel Jones was a good-looking but otherwise ordinary
woman, even though Ellis was enamored of her. Ellis was enamored of women in
general, so that wasn't unusual. The problem was that the report painted her as
anything but ordinary. She was a well educated, well traveled, multitalented
woman, but again the problem went even deeper than that.
She had been an investigative
reporter of extraordinary talent, nerve and perseverance, which meant that she
was more knowledgeable than the ordinary person about things
that were usually kept from public knowledge.
According to her record she had been very successful in her field.
Her husband had been murdered by a car bomb meant for her when she began
investigating a powerful politician's connection with illegal drugs; rather
than backing down, as many people would have done, this Rachel Jones had kept
after the politician and not only proved that he was involved with drug
smuggling and dealing, she had proved that he was behind her husband's death.
The politician was now serving a life sentence in prison.

This wasn't the rather unsophisticated woman Lowell and Ellis had
described. What particularly troubled Charles was why she had projected such an
image; she had to have a reason, but what was it? Why had she wanted to deceive
them? For amusement, or had there been a more serious motivation?

Charles wasn't surprised that she had lied; in his experience most
people lied. In his profession it was necessary to lie. What he didn't like was
not knowing
why,
because the why of something was the heart of it.

Sabin had disappeared, possibly dead, though Charles couldn't
convince himself of that. No trace of him had been found, not by Charles's men,
a fishing trawler, a pleasure boater, or any law enforcement agency.
Even though Sabin's boat had
exploded there should have been some identifiably human remains – if Sabin had
been on the boat.
The only explanation was that
he had gone overboard and swum for shore. It almost defied belief to think that
he could actually have made it in his wounded condition, but this was Sabin,
not some ordinary man. He
had
made it to shore, but where? Why hadn't he
surfaced yet?
No one had
found a wounded man; no unaccounted for gunshot wounds had been reported to the
police; he hadn't been admitted to
any of the hospitals in the area.
He had simply disappeared into thin air.

So, on the one hand he had Sabin, who had vanished. The only
possibility was that someone was hiding him, but there were no clues. On the
other hand, there was this Rachel Jones, who, like Sabin, was not ordinary. Her
house was in the prime search area, the area where Sabin would have most likely
made it to shore. Neither Lowell nor Ellis thought she had anything to hide,
but they didn't know everything about her. She had projected a false image; she
was more familiar than could have been suspected with undercover agents and
tactics. But what reason could she have for acting like less than what she was…
unless she had something to hide? More to the point, did she have
someone
to
hide?

"Noelle," he said softly. "I want to talk to Lowell
and Ellis. Immediately. Find them."