Light of Day (7 page)

“I’m glad you like it,” he replied quietly. Her skirt had tightened over her long slender thighs, and the angle of her hands on the wheel outlined her full breasts and slender waist. Moonlight fell on her shoulders as the wind played in her hair, and there was a gleam of wild excitement on her features. It made him feel young to look at her, young and full of desire. In lieu of touching her, he lit another cigarette.

The drive to her house was not a long one. She parked and turned to him exuberantly. “Let me repay you. Come inside. I have a lovely bottle of wine.”

As she spoke, she leaned forward, and Samuel caught a glimpse of the full flesh hidden so carefully below her dress. He lowered his eyes to the pale orange tip of his cigarette, assailed suddenly with an acute and persuasive vision of Lila beneath him on the silken pillows of her living room, the flavor of wine upon her full lips. He swallowed, met her eager, wide-open gaze. “It’s impossible tonight,” he said. “Another time, perhaps.”

Her face sobered. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Samuel?”

“Yes,” he said simply, moving away from her. “I don’t want you involved.”

“All right.” She picked up her shawl. “Thanks for letting me drive. It was fun.” She opened the door and left him.

Inside her house Lila deposited her small purse and shawl on a table by the door, kicked off her shoes, then slumped on a pile of pillows without turning on a light. Her stomach quivered with the exhilarating drive and the distinctly sexual awareness she’d discovered with Samuel.

It shocked her a little to realize she would have fed him wine and more, wouldn’t have minded kisses leading to other pleasures. While she touted a carefree attitude, that breeziness had never extended to her bedroom. There had been men in her life—one or two, anyway—but the entire display of those encounters now seemed very pale in comparison to what Samuel did to her by simply talking.

She laughed as she realized she was staring into the darkness, twirling her hair around her fingers in dreamy excitement. Her attraction to Samuel was thrilling and new and delightful. Wherever that led her, she discovered she was willing to follow it.

Odd that she was able to so willingly contemplate becoming involved with a man who could obviously offer her no permanence. He was in danger, was perhaps dangerous himself. It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that she thought he was resisting his attraction to her.

Enough, she told herself, and struggled to her feet. It would take a few months for Samuel to make the changes necessary to get the restaurant going well again. There was time to explore the implications and delights of his presence in her life another day. Wincing against the pain clawing her lower back, she limped into the bathroom and started the water in the tub running hot.

* * *

The night deepened, quieted, cast a pall. Samuel restlessly smoked in his living room, unable to sleep. The intuitive sensation of things being slightly out of kilter that he’d had before the reception tonight had now tautened to a dull roar. He could not rest, could not think. Twice he’d gone to the kitchen for a stiff drink. Twice he’d felt the cold glass of the bottle under his palm before he vetoed the idea. He needed his senses to be unsullied.

Jamal Hassid, he thought. A hired gun with terrorist connections, who was now posing as a visiting professor. What could he want here? And what ramifications did his presence in Seattle hold for Samuel?

Over the years he had learned to handle the inherent dangers of working with The Organization even at his modest level—setting up information-gathering spots all over the world, safe places where agents could feel free to meet in privacy.

More than once those planned harbors had not worked out in the way The Organization had envisioned, and twice Samuel had been lucky to escape with his life. But he had not expected to encounter trouble in Seattle.

Who was Hassid working for?

As the night passed into the darkest hours, he had to admit he had been backed into a corner. No doubt Hassid had been hired to kill Samuel, and no matter who had hired him to do it, Samuel could not let him succeed, not with the fate of his brother hanging still in the balance. For if Samuel was murdered, The Organization would move in on Mustapha.

He made his phone calls, arranged a flight, packed his meager things. With a wince of regret, he thought fleetingly of Lila’s beautiful mouth and the promise of her malleable body. He remembered more: her laughing exhilaration behind the wheel of the car, the unguarded innocence of her eyes. He would have given a great deal to have been free enough to rest a while in her arms.

Closing the front door of his apartment behind him with more force than he intended, he headed out of the silent apartment building. As he neared the end of the hall, his sixth sense rippled hard. He slowed his steps, listening for a rustle that never sounded, a creak he couldn’t hear. Abruptly he reversed his direction, exiting through the back door and rounding the building to the other side. In cautious silence he reached his car, scanning the shadowed bushes for signs of movement. There were none.

He climbed into his car and started the engine. Perhaps he’d been too long alone, he decided. Watching his own back was more difficult than he cared to admit. His relief was a palpable thing as he angled the car out of the parking lot.

It was then that he saw the robed figure step out of the shadows with the unmistakable silhouette of a gun in his hands. Samuel stomped on the gas pedal, but he was too late. A bright flash showed against the night. In nearly the same instant, his passenger window shattered, and Samuel heard rather than felt the thunk of a bullet hitting his shoulder.

* * *

A violent pounding brought Lila to her senses. In the stuporous state of broken sleep, she peered at the red numbers of her digital clock. Four o’clock. Who could be at her door at four o’clock in the morning? She tossed a long paisley robe over her sleeveless T-shirt and hurried out as the nearly frantic pounding sounded again.

Her heart thudding in fear, she dipped to look through her peephole, cursing the darkness that made it difficult to see the figure behind the door. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a dark head and shoulders. Not Allen. “Lila,” said a voice, one that was instantly familiar.

She yanked open the door, flipping on the overhead hall light at the same time. Samuel stepped in hurriedly and closed the door.

“What is it?” she asked. He was a ghastly pale shade.

“This,” he said, tugging her head toward him and lowering his mouth to take her lips roughly. It was not a sweet or tender kiss. As Lila met it, she felt his teeth against her lips, his fingertips digging into her skull with barely contained violence. A swelter of hunger rose in her chest as his tongue swirled into the depths of her mouth, and she gasped for breath, her hands flying up to his barely stubbled chin to catch his face closer to hers.

In a moment he released her, his black eyes unreadable and grave. “I nearly missed my chance for that.”

There was no light comment on her tongue when she sought to answer him. Her whole body rippled with the awareness he’d brought to life in her limbs, and she swayed forward, her eyes upon his, to taste again the promise of that mouth.

Samuel paused and met her kiss gently. As she stared at him, his eyes seemed to melt and stir. After a moment she pulled away. “This isn’t why you’re here,” she said, suddenly sure.

His features were drawn, showing strain in the long lines around his mouth. “I need your help.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Drive me to the airport.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I must.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face.

“Will you help me?”

“Of course. Let me change my clothes.”

“My plane leaves in less than an hour.”

She nodded, already heading for the bedroom. In the stack of blouses she’d piled on a chair she found a recently ironed flannel shirt and a pair of worn jeans to throw over her T-shirt. Her high-top tennis shoes were the closest to the front of the closet, and she picked up a pair of heavy wool socks, as well. Grabbing her bomber jacket, she tugged a brush through her curls, splashed some water on her face and brushed her teeth quickly. “I’m ready,” she said, joining Samuel in the living room.

He stood up slowly, meeting her eyes. Lila led them outside.

It wasn’t until she saw the shattered passenger window, covered with a sturdy bit of plastic, that she thought to question his need for a ride to the airport. When he handed her his keys, he wordlessly asked her not to question him.

For one faint instant Lila wanted to run. She stared at him. If he could face it, then so could she. “You’re injured, aren’t you?”

The ghost of a smile played around his lips. “Mildly. Enough that I cannot shift the car.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes, Lila. It is only a chip in the collarbone.” He climbed into the car.

She joined him. A chipped collarbone, she thought. A bullet, angling off, could do that. He was lucky, she decided with a rush of gratitude, and threw the car into gear.

As she drove, Samuel was silent and Lila simply concentrated on doing exactly what was in front of her, shutting out any other activities of her brain. She let her hands rove over the polished wooden steering wheel and admired the old-fashioned instrument panel, let her body relax against the lushly designed seat. “When I was a little girl,” she said quietly, “my mother used to have an ancient chair covered with worn plush. You know the kind—those overstuffed monstrosities everyone in America had in their living rooms in 1925?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this chair used to sit right by a window that looked out at a cottonwood tree. I’d curl up in it with my legs and head over the arms and pretend it was an old grandfather telling me stories.” She smiled, touching the dash of the car fondly. “That’s how this car makes me feel—cuddled.”

He chuckled, and Lila spared him a single, surprised glance. She’d never heard him really laugh before. “I like them because they are so sturdy,” he replied. “They built them to be driven for a lifetime.”

“What are you going to do about your car?”

He sighed softly. “I don’t know. For now I will have you take it to the restaurant. By then you should be able to get a cab.”

The lights of the airport came into view. Samuel moved closer to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. When she had guided the car into the outlying stretches of the sprawling complex, he said, “Park a moment in one of these small areas.”

She did as instructed and turned out the headlights. She sat in the darkness, staring ahead of her, aware of a wild sense of loss the touch of his hand stirred within her. He said nothing for a time, his fingers moving lightly on her neck. “I want to kiss you, Lila,” he said, “but I cannot do it if you keep looking away from me.”

His face was inches from hers, and without waiting for him, Lila angled her lips to fit his. She allowed herself only the smallest of farewell kisses, then pulled away. “I’m very sorry you have to go.”

“Not enough,” he murmured, and dipped his head. His hand gently circled her throat, his thumb edging her mouth into position for the plunge of his tongue—not a sharp, invading thrust, but one of sweeping, tender exploration. Lila felt the muscles in her back go lax, and her chest bumped his arm.

When it ended, Lila knew she must look dazed. “Your eyes, Lila,” he whispered in his mellifluous tenor. “I will never forget your eyes.” He took a breath and released her. “Now listen very closely and follow my instructions, or you may put your own life in danger.”

His directions were simple and held a clarifying undernote—no one should know she had helped him.

“I think you should let me walk with you to the plane. You’ve got a bullet wound, for heaven’s sake.”

“No one said it was a bullet.”

“But I’m not a brownie anymore,” she returned, pointing to the shattered window. “I learned a few things since third grade.”

“My wound is stitched and patched—and hidden,” he added. He firmly shook his head. “You cannot walk with me, Lila. You cannot be seen.”

In the end he had his way. Lila pulled up near the dim recesses of a platform near the edge of the passenger-loading zones. Leaving the engine running, she waited for him to grab his bag, feeling sorrow and fear competing in almost equal amounts. At the last moment he ducked his head back in the car, favoring his bad right arm. “Thank you, Lila,” he said quietly. “One day we’ll drink that wine.”

She smiled. “I’ll put it away.”

Then he was gone. Lila pulled the big car out and away from the airport. “It figures,” she said aloud. The achy emptiness in her belly seemed out of proportion to the situation, though, and if she were honest with herself, she knew what she wanted to do was cry—another response that was a little weird, considering she’d only known him for a week.

With a little sigh she turned on the radio, the one thing in the car that wasn’t original. Static greeted her, and she turned it off again, unwilling to flip through the stations to find one still on at this time of morning.

At the traffic light outside the airport, she paused at the red light. As she waited, she saw a car moving fast in the opposing lane. It looked vaguely familiar, and she looked at it absently. When it slowed for the light, she glimpsed a flash of white and a dark face behind the steering wheel.

Her already nervous stomach dropped hard as she recognized Jamal Hassid, the visiting professor from the party. At the same moment, he caught sight of Samuel’s car.

Without an instant’s hesitation Lila stomped on the gas pedal. The car responded with all the power of its considerable engine. She raced straight ahead, taking a shortcut back toward the airport, a shortcut she prayed would get her to Samuel before Hassid did.

She parked and ran out of the car, heading for the terminal. At the door she dodged a sky hop with a dolly full of bags and dashed inside.

At the array of counters, Lila paused in frustration. Where could he be going? Which flight would he be taking?