Intimate Strangers (15 page)

"I don’t understand." Her smile faded.

"I know you don’t."

She hesitated, as if sensing the need to proceed with great care as she studied his hard profile. "It’s become apparent that your lives are linked by many shared experiences, not simply friendship. And it’s also obvious that some of those experiences were extremely difficult, perhaps even traumatic."

Nicholas reluctantly nodded.

"Then why don’t you start at the beginning?" she encouraged, the patience and compassion she’d acquired in her work with abused children guiding her now.

He finally looked at Hannah. The stark emptiness in his eyes chilled her heart, but she cared too deeply about his emotional well–being and loved him too much now to ever abandon him. Whatever his personal burdens, she intended to share them—all of them.

"You make it sound easy."

"That’s not my intention, Nicholas, but you have to admit that I’m operating at a slight disadvantage here. So, the best thing I can do for you right now is to listen."

She watched him thrust the fingers of his right hand through his still–damp hair. A stray lock escaped and fell back across his forehead. Hannah quelled the urge to reach out and smooth it out of the way, just as she forced herself to smother the urge to put arms around Nicholas and hold him.

"I told you before that I’ve worked all across the globe. My parents died when I was a kid, and I wound up spending my teenage years on my uncle’s ranch in northeastern California. I was bitter and angry in those days. There wasn’t any money for college, so when I graduated from high school I joined the Army. My superiors spotted me for exactly what I was—a cocky loner with a chip on his shoulder who knew his way around weapons. I received specialized training. For the next few years, I served in a variety of hot spots around the world."

Which translated into no home and no emotional bonds, Hannah realized.

"My missions were clandestine, and I ceased to exist in an official sense as far as the regular Army was concerned. My actions, and the actions of people like me, had to be deniable from both a military and diplomatic standpoint."

"You must have felt very isolated." A frisson of uneasiness worked its way up her spine.

He shook his head. "Not at first. What I really felt was invincible, and I didn’t take the time to consider that there might eventually be a price to pay for what I was doing. I even managed to con myself into believing that I was operating for some greater good. All I concerned myself with was my ability to slip into any country in the world, do my job, and then ex–filtrate without being caught."

"And what was your job?" She feared his answer, because she believed she already knew what his response would be. Her gaze dropped to his hand, which had closed into a white–knuckled fist.

He shot an angry look in her direction. "Do I really have to spell it out for you, Hannah? Do I need to say that I was a government–sanctioned assassin?"

She winced and then exhaled softly, but she didn’t speak. She felt as though he’d just smacked her, and she lacked the words to express the despair she suddenly felt for him. And, no, he hadn’t needed to tell her. She’d known the truth on an instinctive level, although she hadn’t wanted to admit it, not even to herself.

"I was very good, one of the best. Once a target was designated, I went in and eliminated that target. I told myself it was nothing personal, just a job my government needed done. I left my emotions and my morals, if I ever had any, on a shelf in my locker. It didn’t take me long to figure out how underpaid I was or how much more lucrative freelancing would be. So I left the Army and government service, knocked around Europe for about six months before I moved on to the Middle East, Africa, and Central America. There’s an international underground of people like me, so it didn’t take me long to work my way into the system. These people don’t hand out business cards, but they do congregate wherever there’s political instability or the possibility of warfare."

When he paused, Hannah said quietly, "If this is too painful for you, it’s not necessary to… "

"You need to understand," he cut in. "For Sean’s sake, and for your own."

She nodded. "Alright."

"I also did odd jobs for covert government agencies that most law–abiding citizens don’t even know exist. They’d used my particular skills when I was still in the Army, so they knew what I could handle out in the field. Soon after, I graduated into guerilla warfare in a collection of hell–holes, primarily in the Middle East, places I never want to see again. You already know I’ve accepted contracts from international companies that are inclined to employ hired guns when they can’t get what they want through diplomatic channels. I got the job done."

"So you became what people call a soldier of fortune?"

He barked out a harsh laugh. "Nothing so euphemistic or romantic, so do us both a favor and get that notion right out of your head. I was a mercenary when I freelanced—a killer for hire, Hannah. I helped to topple governments across the globe, some legitimate and some not so legitimate. I took out dictators, brokered arms, trained rebel insurgents, and I cleared the way for the commercial business interests of drug cartels and other upstanding citizens, but only for very high fees… some would say, exorbitant fees. All of those greedy, self–motivated assholes made me a very rich man, but I soon discovered that all of the money I’d stacked up in a Swiss bank account didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot while I was rotting in a terrorist stronghold in the Middle East."

"Nicholas…" she began, her heart breaking for him.

"Let me finish this. I thought a lot about my life and how little value it had when I was in that cell. Several months passed. The men captured with me were executed, one after the other. They were saving me for last—a beheading that would be shown live on an international broadcast of Al Jazeera Television. Sean and some of our friends rescued me. I should have walked away from the life then, but I didn’t. Vengeance drove me. I was determined to find the men who’d betrayed me. I lived for revenge, and I didn’t let anyone get in my way. It took a few years, but I finally tracked them all down and executed them."

Hannah remained frozen on the couch as he stood and approached the fireplace. Resting an elbow on the oak mantle, Nicholas stared at the fire. She felt helpless as she waited for him to continue.

"When I looked into the faces of those men, I saw my own reflection… I saw the man I’d become." He finally turned and looked at her, his features ravaged by regret. "I loathed what I saw, Hannah. I walked away then, but I knew I’d waited too long. People like me don’t fit into the world as you know it. Our defenses are too well–honed. We aren’t capable of trusting people, so we never really relax."

"When did it all end?" she asked quietly.

She hated the loneliness he’d endured, and she felt deep compassion for the mistakes he’d made. She realized how easily he could have died on some lonely battlefield, at some remote jungle outpost, or in some hell–hole terrorist encampment. But he’d found the strength and courage to turn away from the life he’d once lived, although he seemed unable to give himself credit for making that life–changing decision. Hannah felt unbearably sad, as well as a strange kind of emotional fatigue that comes with trying to cope with facts almost too shocking to grasp in one sitting.

"Five years ago. It took a lot of time and planning, but the short version is that we dropped out of sight one by one and came here."

"Are you telling me Sean lied to us, that he wasn’t a courier for the State Department? That he lived the life you’ve just described?"

"Sean started with State, but he worked only briefly as a courier before transitioning into diplomatic security for a few years."

"But who did he end up working for?" she asked.

He met her gaze. "Sean and I teamed up. He was my second in command."

"What did he do?"

"He did what we all did, Hannah. He tried to stay alive in every hot spot we were in, but he suffered in ways most people can’t even begin to understand."

"You said he isn’t comfortable around people any longer? Is that why he never came home again? Does he think he poses a danger to us or to himself if he leaves here?"

"Sean is the most fragile of our group." Soul–deep pain emanated from his voice. "A few of the men are suffering from post–traumatic stress disorder, but Sean’s case is the most advanced and emotionally precarious. One too many battles, and far too many deaths. He can’t forget what he saw or what he did. He’s lost in the past, and I don’t know if he’ll ever find his way back to the present."

"Why haven’t I seen Sean or the others since I’ve been here?"

"My holdings are extensive. I own tens of thousands of acres. We don’t crowd each other, and we avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Several have become high–powered financial investors, and some have started businesses, but all very low–key and with highly–trained security personnel."

Hannah watched him as he searched for the right words.

"We prefer our privacy. Most of us don’t trust ourselves not to react instinctively when we’re threatened, and the results could be deadly. Until you mentioned that people in town thought they’d spotted Sean, I didn’t even realize he’d wandered off my property."

"You watch over all of them, don’t you?"

He nodded. "We consider ourselves a family. I led our missions. A mercenary never completely gets out of the business. You make too many enemies along the way and the possibility of retribution is very real, but so far we’ve managed to neutralize the attacks that have been mounted against us." He shrugged tiredly, as if to indicate that this was the routine of his life and he’d accepted the leadership role without hesitation.

Hannah felt almost overwhelmed by the fact that he’d flirted with death on a daily basis, but she now understood all of the reasons for his suspicion of her motives and his insistence on such extensive security precautions.

"We still make the people we once worked for, especially the ones who haven’t yet decided if it would be wise to try to take us out, very uneasy. Safeguards and a certain amount of paranoia offset the potential threats."

Hannah said quietly, "You all live in a self–imposed state of exile."

"I’ve already explained that. We’re protected here. Even more important, people are protected from us, from what we’re capable of doing if we’re pushed too hard."

Hannah finally found the strength to get up from the couch. She longed to walk straight into his arms and ease his obvious distress. Instead, she crossed the room and paused before a wall of windows that offered a view of towering mountain peaks. She stood there for a very long time, her arms wrapped around her waist.

Although she felt the press of his gaze as Nicholas watched her, Hannah took the time she needed to gather her thoughts and to confront her conflicted emotions. She needed to make him understand that she cared too much about him to ever judge him, especially since he was his own harshest judge. What she wondered and worried over as she prepared herself to face him was whether or not he would ever find a way to forgive himself. If he didn’t, he would never be whole again.

She turned as Nicholas finished adding logs to the fireplace. He glanced at her as she approached him. The anxiety she glimpsed in his eyes nearly shattered the control she’d struggled for and found.

"Why in hell are you still here?" he demanded as she paused before him.

She flinched, jarred by his hostile tone. Stiffening her spine, Hannah uttered the first words that popped into her head. "I love you, Nicholas, even though you’re about to try and run me off."

"Don’t do this, God damn it!" he shouted.

"Don’t love you?" she repeated in a tone of voice that was far steadier than she actually felt at that moment. "Don’t feel sad that you barely survived a living hell? Don’t despair that you may never be able to trust yourself, or me, or the feelings I have for you? Don’t what, Nicholas? Don’t have any compassion? Don’t be honest? Don’t speak the truth?"

He seized her upper arms. "Don’t lie to yourself," he ordered, "and don’t lie to me. You cannot love a man who was a trained killer. No one can. What you think you feel isn’t rational."

"You’re wrong about yourself, and you’re wrong about me. I’ll feel any damn thing I want to feel, without your permission and without your approval, thank you very much."

"I’m nothing more than a novelty, like some strange animal you’d find in the zoo. You’re fascinated now, but you’ll feel nothing but contempt and revulsion for me once you’ve had a chance to think about what I am and what I’ve done."

"Don’t you lie to yourself, Nicholas," she flared, her temper emerging. "And don’t you dare to tell me what I’m feeling now, or what I’ll feel next month or next year or fifty years from now. You’re a man who lives with realities most people can’t even begin to comprehend and with restrictions that are necessary to ensure your survival and the survival of those whom you care about, but you are not some caged animal. You are not the monster you make yourself out to be."

Hannah paused, searching his hard–featured face, desperate to know if anything she’d just said had penetrated the veneer of his self–protection. "Yes, Nicholas, I feel sad. Yes, my heart aches for you, but I’m proud of you, proud that you saved yourself and the others. If you hadn’t, you’d be dead by now, and that would have been a colossal waste. You made the right decision when you abandoned the cruelty and violence of the life you once lived, but you screwed up along the way because you persist in exacting some insane daily ration of penance from yourself for past transgressions. You’ve cut yourself off from life and from your emotions."

"I can’t forget the faces," he admitted, his voice raw with the kind of pain she doubted he’d ever completely escape. "I can’t forget what I’ve done."

"Then don’t try to forget, but don’t make those people out to be saints, either." She seized the lapels of his robe when he began to turn away from her. "Listen to me, please. No one, not even God, would punish you in the way that you’re punishing yourself. Of course you have memories that still hurt you, but your gift is that you’re still alive. You’ve given yourself a second chance to become a better man, a man who places value on the right things, but if you keep hammering at yourself this way, what’s the point of having rescued yourself and the others in the first place?"