Just Like a Man (19 page)

"Adrian?" a feminine voice called from the bedroom behind him.

The summons was punctuated by the scrape of the glass doors he'd left open a crack, so that he would know when his companion was stirring. It was a signal that he was no longer alone with his thoughts, so he pushed his thoughts to the back of his brain, where they belonged for now and could stew nicely in their own juices.

"Is everything all right?" the soft voice came again.

He inhaled deeply of the silky Indiana evening and glanced over his shoulder to see a tiny blond creature emerging from his bedroom, wrapped in the top half of his silk pajamas. He did so hope she hadn't bothered with the bottom half. Because Michael wasn't the only one Adrian had plans for. He had plans for Tiffannee, too. Especially Tiffannee's bottom half.

"Everything's fine, sweetheart," he told her. He smiled when she reached up to push a length of pale blond hair out of her eyes, the gesture making his pajama shirt gape open to reveal a soft curve of her breast that made him hard all over again. He reached for her as he said, "In fact, now that you're here, everything is perfect."

When the ringing phone woke Michael the morning after the fund-raiser, he thought for some reason that it must be Hannah. He had no reason to infer this, since she'd told him only hours ago that there was no future in anything the two of them might pursue. But even in his sleep-fogged state, he knew the call would have something to do with her. In hindsight, he supposed it was hope that made him feel certain it was her. Unfortunately, as he'd learned on too many occasions, hoping something was true didn't make it so. It was a lesson he really wished he would learn.

"Raptor," a harsh male voice on the other end of the line ground out without greeting.

Even without hearing his code name, Michael recognized at once the voice of the One Whose Name Could Not Be Spoken. Which really wasn't a problem this morning, since Michael could think of more than a few names he'd like to call the guy.

"What?" he snarled in response.

There was a brief moment of silence, then, "Oh, did I wake you? I am
so
sorry."

The hell he was. Still, Michael could think of more than a few ways to make him sorry.

Although months had passed since he'd been activated for this assignment, he was still pissed off about having been pulled out of his life the way he had been, with no choice, no preparation, and no recourse. It had taken him five years—
five years
—to reach a point where he was reasonably comfortable that his past wouldn't catch up with him, and reasonably confident he'd be able to raise his son in a normal, safe, stable environment. Five years to erase his history and delete his former self so that he could move ahead with his future. Michael had finally stopped worrying that his time with OPUS would sully any possibility he might have at winning happiness. For himself and for his son.

And then just like that—poof—it was gone. All of it. His having been reactivated had opened up the door to all the mischief and malice that had once filled his life, and had invited it right inside. And with its arrival, every last ounce of security and sanctuary he'd won over the years had packed its bags and moved out. Now he would have to start again from scratch. Perpetually worrying, constantly second-guessing, always looking over his shoulder. All because of his connection—long ago severed—to Adrian Padgett.

"What is it?" he asked his superior, not bothering to mask his distaste for everything that had anything to do with this whole endeavor.

"It's been a while since you checked in," his boss told him. "Do you have anything to report?"

"If I had anything to report, I would have checked in."

Silence met his remark.

He sighed fitfully. "What?" he demanded.

"The Frost woman," the other man said. "I think you have something to report with her."

Heat erupted in Michael's belly at the mention of Hannah's name. "What about her?"

"You can use her," his boss said.

"I'm already using her," Michael replied, barely able to restrain his anger. Because he knew what he said was true, and he didn't like using Hannah the way he had been. "I'm watching her at home and at work both. But there's nothing to report there," he insisted.

"She has a relationship with Sorcerer. He likes her."

"Yeah?" Michael muttered. "So do more than a thousand kids at the school. You want me to put them under surveillance, too?"

"Don't be coy, Raptor."

Yeah, I got your coy right here, pal,
Michael thought uncharitably. But all he said was, "Coy?
Moi?"

"Use her," his boss instructed him again. "She has an in with Sorcerer that we don't have. You can work it to our advantage."

Maybe it was his sleep-muddled brain, or maybe Michael just didn't want to go there, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what his superior was telling him to do. "I'm not sure I follow you," he said. "What can I do that I'm not already doing?"

"According to one of our operatives working Sorcerer from another angle, you're in a position to… provoke a situation. Between him and Hannah Frost."

Michael narrowed his eyes. "Provoke a situation?" he echoed warily.

"Sorcerer can be made to become… distracted by her," the other man told him. "If you put the wheels into motion."

"Come again?" Michael asked. Because he really didn't want to think that his boss was telling him to do what he was beginning to think his boss was telling him to do.

"Oh, come on, Raptor. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yes."

There was an exasperated sound from the other end of the line, then his superior told him, "You and Sorcerer always got into more trouble over women than you ever did matters of national security."

"That wasn't my fault," Michael said.

"This time it will be."

"How do you figure?"

There was another one of those moments of weighty silence, then, "Go after the Frost woman," his superior said. "Pursue her romantically. It will piss off Sorcerer and make him compete with you. It could sidetrack him enough to buy us some time. It might even distract him enough that he'll botch whatever it is he's planning to do. The presidential debate is less than two weeks away, Raptor. And we still don't know what he's planning."

"Which means we still have almost two weeks to find out," Michael said. "Since when does OPUS bring ordinary citizens into its operations and put them at risk?"

This time, soft, less-than-happy laughter was Michael's reply. "Oh, come on, Raptor. Since when does OPUS give a damn about the individual—ordinary citizen or not—in the big picture? National security is everything. You know that. And if that means risking one person to save millions, that's what we have to do."

Of course, Michael thought. How could he have forgotten that about OPUS? It was, after all, something he'd learned personally. And it was yet another thing that had cemented his decision to leave.

"I categorically refuse to bring Hannah Frost into this," he stated unequivocally. "Especially the way you want me to."

"Yeah, and you categorically refused to come back for this assignment, too," his boss reminded him.

"I won't put her at risk," Michael insisted. "And I won't mislead her—or use her—any more than I already have."

"We don't have much choice, Raptor."

"You mean I don't have much choice."

More silence from the other end of the line.

"I won't do it," Michael said again.

"You will do it," his superior informed him. "You have to. You know it. You always do the right thing, Raptor."

Before Michael could object again, he heard a soft click and the buzz of an empty phone line. And he knew that what his boss had just said was true. He did always do the right thing. And this time would be no different.

On Monday, for the first time since assuming her position as director of the Emerson Academy, Hannah decided to duck out early and go home before the day was done. At first she told herself it was because she couldn't concentrate on anything and wasn't doing any good at work anyway. Then she told herself it was because she was exhausted, having spent the last two nights tossing and turning and not sleeping at all. Then she told herself it was because she wasn't feeling well, and had a migraine that just wouldn't quit. Finally, though, she made herself be honest, and admitted that she just wanted to be alone. Her nerves were still too frazzled after what had happened Saturday night, and her emotions were still too raw for her to associate with people.

She hadn't felt like herself since Michael had kissed her, and she hadn't been able to think about much else. Two days wasn't enough to recover from something like that. Of course, two centuries probably wasn't enough to recover from a kiss like Michael's. But one more day, she figured, wouldn't hurt anyone. Mondays were fairly uneventful around Emerson. It was only as the week wore on that the children became fractious—and the faculty and staff even more so. So when Hannah sat down at her desk to eat her lunch, and realized she had no appetite, she decided it was time for her to go home.

Dorothy, her secretary, looked concerned when Hannah announced her intention to leave early, but assured her they'd be able to handle things in her absence. Hannah had no doubt of that, which was another reason she didn't berate herself for falling down on the job this once. Still, she drove home absently, stopping and starting and turning corners on automatic pilot. It was a picture-perfect autumn afternoon, the sky thick and slate over trees awash in red and gold and orange, a brisk, bracing wind rippling the leaves like the pages of a book. It was cold enough for a fire, so when she stopped for gas, she bought a ricket of firewood, too. Because by then, all she wanted to do was go home, change into something comfortable, and tuck herself into the sofa with a cup of tea and a good book and try to lose herself for the rest of the afternoon.

But fate had something different in mind.

Because no sooner had Hannah freed her long hair and finished buttoning an oversized plaid flannel shirt over a thermal undershirt and blue jeans than someone knocked at her front door. She padded in thick socks to answer it, and wasn't nearly as surprised to see Michael standing on the other side as she figured she probably should be.

"Hi," she said through the screen door when she saw him.

"Hi," he greeted her in return.

And then neither of them said a word for several moments, each only gazing at the other as if unable to believe they really existed in the world. Michael had apparently had as much trouble focusing at work as she had, because he was dressed not in a suit, but in blue jeans and a thick heather-gray sweater, hiking boots on his feet where loafers would have been before. Framed by the pure golden backdrop of the impeccable autumn afternoon, and with the breeze sifting fondly through his hair, he looked almost like a fantasy standing out there.

She could scarcely believe she had kissed this man. He was so handsome, so big, so overwhelming, so very different from any man she had ever been attracted to before. And in that moment, she knew—she
knew
—she could no more resist him than she could stop the sun from rising the next morning.

"I guess I should ask you what you're doing here," she said. "But I think I already know."

And she told herself she was ready. Ready for whatever was supposed to happen between the two of them. Ready for whatever fate, or chance, or destiny, or whatever had in store. The pull she felt toward him was just too strong to ignore. Making love to Michael, she suddenly realized, was inescapable. She just hoped she could handle whatever came afterward, too.

And as she pushed the screen door open to invite him in, she couldn't help wondering if maybe this had all been predetermined somehow, by forces neither of them could comprehend or disobey. That they would both take off from work the same day, and that he would show up at her house within minutes of her own arrival… that defied explanation. Maybe this, she thought, was the reason she'd needed to leave work, and she hadn't even realized it. She'd needed to come home to welcome Michael. Into her house. Into her life. Into her heart. Maybe it really was as simple as that.

But his expression had changed some as she spoke, and as she opened the door to invite him in, he looked anything but inviting himself. Nevertheless, he entered, his body brushing hers as he passed her in the narrow doorway. He smelled of woodsmoke and windy afternoon, and his body pressing against hers as he pushed past her generated a delicious sort of friction that crackled through her entire body.

"So what made
you
decide to take the day off?" she asked as she pushed the front door closed behind herself. Not sure why she did it, she leaned back against it, her hands tucked behind her back, as if she were afraid he might try to bolt, and she wanted to block his path.

He didn't answer her right away, only stood at the center of her living room, hands shoved into the pockets of his blue jeans. "Actually," he finally said, "I'm working right now. And you're a part of that work."

She eyed him curiously. "What are you talking about?"

He opened his mouth to explain, but couldn't seem to find the words to do it. So, abandoning the attempt, he strode over to the fireplace and lifted one of the brass candlesticks at the end. As Hannah watched, confused now, he scraped something off the base with his thumbnail. Then he replaced the candlestick in its original position and returned to where she still stood leaning against the front door. On the pad of his thumb was a tiny metallic circle, so minute, it couldn't have even passed for a freckle.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked her.

She shook her head.

"It's a microphone."

She dropped her gaze to the speck again. "It's what? A microphone?"

He nodded.

She shook her head, not understanding. "What's a microphone doing on the bottom of my candlestick?"

"The same thing as the other ones," he said. "Recording every sound that occurs in this house."