Heart of a Hero (41 page)

“Do you think you’ll find an antidote in Ham?n?” Sarah felt a little awkward even asking the question.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Hunter. “The Cabal needs to control whatever it has created to be effective in the long term. For that it needs an antidote. And all the arrows are pointing to Ham?n.”

Sarah made the mistake of looking into his eyes as he spoke. The room and everyone in it suddenly faded to a blur and sound turned to a buzz in her head. She couldn’t break the gaze. Everything unspoken seemed to hang between them over the polished dark wood table.

“Thank you, Sarah.” Sauvage’s voice jerked her back. She looked up sharply. His eyes were cool. He made her feel like a kid who’d been caught out in class.

“That’ll be all for now,” he said. “We appreciate your help.” He turned to December, lowered his voice. “Get that Hamānian
defector’s name and get him onto São Diogo by nightfall tomorrow. We need to know
everything
he knows about the country and the lab compound. And we need to see if we can get to Du Toit without alerting the Cabal.”

This was it. She was being dismissed. It was all over…in more ways than one. With a strange sinking sensation in her heart, she stood, pushed her chair back. Hunter rose, too. Sarah moved quickly to the door. She couldn’t face him now. She reached for the door handle, just as Hunter leaned across her, barring her way. She caught her breath, stared at the tile floor. She couldn’t look up, couldn’t let his eyes suck her in again. He was too powerful and she was feeling too weak.

“Sarah,” he whispered against her cheek. “Meet me at the coffee shop down at the bay at seven this evening. Okay?”

She glared at the floor tile. No, it was
not
okay. Staying on this island was going to be sheer torture. Three days had gone by and he hadn’t even come over to the clinic to see her. Did he have any idea how much she missed him? How much her body ached for his touch? She slid her eyes slowly up to meet his. And her heart stalled. She suddenly couldn’t say no. She’d known he would suck her in. Perhaps the dark and defiant and illogical part of herself even wanted him to.

“Okay?” he insisted, his breath warm against her face.

She nodded in spite of herself.

“Irish!”

He ignored Sauvage. “See you at seven, then.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against her ear before turning to join his colleagues.

Sarah shivered, yanked open the door and stepped quickly out of the room. The heavy door swung closed behind her with a thud, suddenly alienating her from what was going on inside. She was not welcome, not part of the group even though she’d
played such a vital role. And why should she expect anything different? This was their job. Not hers. It served as a stark reminder of why she couldn’t live like this—on the perimeter of Hunter McBride’s existence. She needed to forge a future of her own. For her and Branna.

She fisted her hands with resolve and marched down the stone corridor, knowing in her heart she would not—
could
not—show up at that café.

18:30 Alpha. São Diogo clinic.
Monday, September 29

Hunter found her sitting in a chair by the window, watching their baby sleep in a white hospital cot. The setting sun was turning Sarah’s hair copper and painting a soft gold glow over Branna’s skin. He stood in the doorway and watched in silence for a moment, a voyeur savoring a vignette of Madonna and child. Purity and peace, he thought, fingering the pouch in his pocket—a picture of life and hope and future.
His
future.

He swallowed the hard knot of emotion in his throat and stepped into the room. Sarah glanced up and shock flared in her features. Hunter could immediately see in her eyes that she’d never had any intention of coming to meet him.

He’d feared as much.

That’s why he’d come here first. To save himself the disappointment, to cut rejection off at the head, to not give her a chance to say no. And he’d come as soon as he could get away from the war room. He’d been planning this moment for the last three days, but now, looking into her eyes, he had a sinking feeling she had already slipped from his grasp.

He nervously fingered the soft pouch in his pocket again. He couldn’t seem to think of the words he needed. Hell, even
guerilla warfare didn’t do this to him. He was actually afraid. And he knew why—he had something to lose now. If he hadn’t lost it already.

He said nothing, mostly because he was worried he was going to say the wrong thing. He moved over to the crib, kissed baby Branna on the forehead, aware of Sarah watching his every move. Then he stood to his full height, squared his shoulders, sucked in his breath and turned slowly to face her. He held out his hand.

She stared at it.

“Come,” he whispered, careful not to wake Branna.

Sarah hesitated.

He leaned forward, grasped her hand and coaxed her to her feet. She resisted, her brows lowering in confusion.

“You
have
to hear me out before you turn me down, Sarah,” he whispered. “Will you come?”

Her eyes flicked nervously to Branna, then back to him. She nodded.

He led her outside, sat on a stone bench and drew her down beside him. Dry pink bougainvillea petals rustled in the evening breeze and the Atlantic in the distance looked like beaten copper under the setting sun.

Hunter felt awkward, unsure of where to start. He had a sense he was only going to have one shot at getting this right. But Sarah spoke first.

“Hunter, I’ve put in adoption papers for Branna.”

This was already getting away from him. “You’ll just have to redo them, then.”

Possessive passion flashed in her eyes. “I want to give her a home, Hunter, a future. I want her to be my child.”

Everything he’d dreamed of was unraveling right in front of him. “She’s
ours,
Sarah. I want
my
name on those papers.”

She faced him squarely, lifted her jaw. “Look, I understand you brought her into the world and that you—”

Lord, he was hopeless at talking. He’d already walked into a minefield of his own making. He groped in his pocket, pulled out the pouch, shoved it into her hands, cutting her off.

Her eyes flicked between the pouch and him. “What’s this?”

“Don’t talk. Enough talking. Just open it.” His heart slammed hard against his ribs.
“Please.”

Sarah studied him for a moment. Then she looked down at the velvet pouch he’d pushed into her hands. Slowly she peeled back the midnight-blue fabric to reveal a small translucent, golden pebble. She rolled it slightly in her palm and it caught the bronze light of the setting sun. She knitted her brow. “What is it?”

“Diamond. I got it in Luanda. That’s where I’ve been these past few days.” He reached out, closed her hand tightly around the stone, not giving her the opportunity to hand it back. “I wanted you to decide on the cut. I…I want you to decide on the shape, Sarah.” He paused. “Like I want you to decide on the shape of our future. I…” He swallowed hard, took the leap. “I want you to think about being my wife.”

Sarah’s stomach bottomed out. Her jaw dropped and her head began to buzz. Her mouth went completely dry, words defying her. She couldn’t even begin to articulate the thoughts that raced through her brain. She could literally feel the heat of the raw stone trapped in her fist. A diamond in the rough—like him.

“I want you to marry me, Sarah,” he said again, as if she hadn’t heard the first time.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he placed his fingers over her lips. “Before you say anything, you need to know that I’m not going back into the field. I’ve already discussed it with the guys. No more fighting. I’m going to requalify as a surgeon—”

“You…you
can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t…just change. I mean…” She looked into his eyes. “Hunter, what I mean is that your job is who you
are.
You belong out there. I can’t even begin to expect you to change who you are for me. I don’t want that. You’d regret it in the long run, and if you’re unhappy, I’d also end up regretting it, too. I can’t let you to do this for me.”

She tried to hand the diamond back to him, but he tightened his fist around hers, pressing the stone into her flesh. “It’s not for you, Sarah. It’s for
me,
for
us
—for me, you and Branna.”

She studied his face, bewilderment swelling in her. “You…you’re dead serious, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am.” He took her shoulders in his hands. “See, Sarah, I’m not changing, I’m just going back to who I was—who I really am. And you helped me get there. You forced me to face something in myself. You showed me there’s something inside of myself that I just cannot hide from anymore. You made me pick up that scalpel again. You made me feel what it’s like to save a life again.”

His eyes glistened. “You showed me how to stop running, Sarah.” His grip tightened on her shoulders. “Do you understand how dead serious I am about this? I’m forty-three years old next month. I want you. I want Branna. I want to be a family. I want to be a doctor again. I want
you
as my nurse, as my wife—by my side. And I want to eventually work here, at this clinic. I want to be here for the islanders, for the FDS troops.” His mouth twisted with emotion. “Nothing in the world is going to change my mind, so please don’t turn me down, because then I’m going to be lost as all hell—and a bloody danger in the field.”

She couldn’t talk. Tears streamed down her face.

He wiped them away with the rough pad of his thumb and snorted softly. “I just realized how that must sound. This is not
only about me. I think I can offer you something, too. I can offer you a home. Love. Hell, I’d give you the world if I could.”

Sarah stared into his eyes. Was this really possible? She’d gone into the heart of Africa, found the courage to stare death in the face, and she’d come out with the child she’d dreamed of having. A man who loved her. A sense of home.

“I love you, Hunter,” she whispered.

He smiled with such relief that she could feel it in his limbs. “Well, at least that part is sorted out. Now will you have that diamond cut and set, and wear it while you think about when you’d like to get married?”

She laughed through her tears. Then cried, and laughed again. She opened her hand and looked at the pebble in her palm. Rough. Rare. Precious. She wiped her face, stilled, looked up at him. His face was all raw emotion—a rough sculpture of power and vulnerability. She closed her hand around the pebble. “You know something, McBride?” she said softly. “You’re damn good at keeping your promises.”

He raised a brow. “I am?”

She sniffed, wiped a tear from the end of her nose. “You made me a promise back on the Shilongwe. You promised that if anyone could get me home, you would.”

He smiled. “And you told me you had no home.”

She smiled back happily through her tears. “That didn’t stop you from getting me there.”

“No,” he laughed. “I guess it didn’t.” Then his face turned serious. “Would that be a yes, then?”

Sarah kissed the man she loved. “That would definitely be a yes.”

Dear Reader,

The operatives who work behind the scenes, gathering and analyzing information and acting on it on behalf of our country, deserve much more praise than they get. We hear about their mistakes and failures but never do we learn much about the extent of their success. I would like to thank them here for their contributions to our security.

My fascination for the various agencies grew out of a close association with individuals involved in the intelligence community. I witnessed firsthand how their jobs, frequent travel and the secrecy required of them impacted on the agents and on their families. I saw the courage of spouses who wait and the ones who go out, the camaraderie between those who watch each other’s backs in the field, and the personal and professional pride in a job well done even when they aren’t allowed to discuss it.

Though the characters I write about in my
Special Ops
stories are strictly imaginary, they meet the same reallife problems, the hopes, disappointments and dreams that our friends in intelligence encounter. Life is lived on the edge. Love is precious, yet too easily lost by a shift in priorities. Trust in a partner, on the job or at home, is not only nice to have, it is crucial.