Summer Games (3 page)

Close up, there was no doubt that this was Chandler-Smith’s daughter. Well . . . not much doubt. In Cord’s world, nothing was one hundred percent sure but death.

“If you don’t want to call me Cord, I’m open to suggestion,” he added, amused.

Raine stared up at him, fascinated by the countless warm glints of blue in his eyes. When she breathed in, she smelled the sun, the grass, and the heat of another life close to her. A very masculine kind of life.

Suddenly she was aware of Cord as a man, all man, and all of that man was stretched out alongside her. His body was hard and warm, quick and dangerous, and his hair was as thick and black as her stallion’s mane.

The feeling of intense intimacy was as stunning as being knocked off her feet.

“You might not like my suggestions,” she said, forcing herself to speak, to push away the sultry, drugging heat stealing through her body. “You hear a lot of names around the stables. Especially during competition.”

“Olympic rider, hmmm?” Cord asked in a low voice, looking at the lithe body lying so quietly half beneath his. He was almost positive he knew who and what she was, but the difference between almost and positive had killed a lot of people.

“Yes,” she said coolly. “My specialty is the three-day event.”

“That explains why you fell all relaxed and controlled, yet you didn’t know how to counter the simplest unarmed combat. You’re a product of very civilized training, not Cuban or Lebanese commando camps.”

“Commando camps?” she asked in a rising voice. The drugging intimacy vanished as though it had never existed. Suddenly she was afraid she was in the hands of a madman after all.

“Don’t sound so shocked. They exist.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Terrorism.”

Cord answered almost absently. His attention had been caught by the soft swell of Raine’s breasts when she breathed in sharply. Distantly he registered and approved—the resilient warmth of her legs pinned beneath his thigh.

“Terrorism? That’s ridiculous! Do I look like a terrorist?” she demanded angrily.

“No fangs, huh?” He smiled with grim humor. “Honey, the last terrorist I had my hands on was dressed in a yellow silk ball gown and stank of hate and cordite.” When he saw Raine’s confusion, he added helpfully, “Cordite is explosive powder.”

“She?” Raine repeated, her voice rising again. “The terrorist was a woman?”

“Men don’t have a corner on violence.”

“But—”

Cord continued talking as though she hadn’t interrupted. “You don’t smell like a terrorist.”

His glance moved over her more intimately than his hands had when he frisked her for weapons. He brought his head closer to her neck and inhaled slowly. The scent of her went through him like sunrise, warm with promise.

“You smell of sunlight and dried grass and the shadows beneath eucalyptus trees,” he said in a low voice. She smelled of other things too, sultry woman heat and the sweet musk of sexuality, but he doubted she would like hearing it right now.

Raine saw the small, sensual flare of his nostrils as he breathed in her scent. She found herself holding her breath like an amateur rider approaching a big fence. She felt defenseless, angry, utterly disturbed.

So she challenged Cord recklessly, willing to risk his anger in order to escape his consuming sensuality. “Even if some terrorists are women, what harm could I possibly be doing out here alone?”

“Setting bombs.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“What were you scattering around?”

The question was offhanded, as though he didn’t really care about the answer. But his eyes were ice clear, ruthless as winter. The difference between almost sure and absolutely certain was never far from his mind. Death was damned final.

Raine sensed the intensity beneath Cord’s casual pose. He was like Dev gathered for a blind jump, waiting for a signal from his rider.

“Little stones,” she said quickly. “I was throwing little stones. It’s a habit. I go for walks and pick up small stones and toss them as I think.” Then she added hotly, “There was no reason to tackle me! I don’t have room in my rucksack for bombs.”

Even though Chandler-Smith’s determination to protect his family from his work was legendary, Cord couldn’t believe that Blue’s daughter was so naive.

“Det cord and explosive caps don’t take up much space,” he said impatiently. “Neither does C4 or even phosphorus, for that matter. Your knapsack could even hold a stick or five of good old-fashioned dynamite. All the things that go boom in the night.” His voice shifted, becoming clipped and hard. “Why were you digging?”

“To see what the going is like.”

Cord’s only response was a silence that had the effect of making her want to explain herself. That listening kind of silence was a very potent interrogation technique. He had used it often enough to value it. If Raine was as innocent as she seemed, she would hurry to explain what she meant.

“I wanted to know whether the ground is hard or soft,” she said, “dry or wet, how stable the soil is, what to expect on a downhill run when Dev’s hooves cut in deep. That sort of thing.”

“You weren’t going to set little explosives?”

“Why would anyone—”

“So that when the horses come down the hill they have a preview of hell,” he cut in coldly.

Shocked, she could only stare. “Injure the horses? No one would be that sick!”

He looked at her for a long moment. If the horror and innocence in her eyes were faked, he was a dead man. If they weren’t faked, Blue should have his butt kicked through every room in the Pentagon for sheltering his youngest child from too much of the dark side of reality.

When Cord finally spoke, his voice was both cynical and very tired. “If you believe that, little girl, you shouldn’t be let out alone after dark. Remember the Munich Olympics? If you’re too young to recall that bloodbath, how about the
IRA
bombing the Queen’s Palace Guard? Great bleeding chunks of men and horses all over the place.”

“Stop it!” she whispered in a strangled voice, horrified by his words.

“I’m trying to.”

“By tackling strange women?”

“Whatever it takes,” he said flatly.

Raine looked at his cold, measuring eyes and realized just how lucky she was that Cord’s self-control matched his lethal skills. At least, she hoped it did. When all was said and done, she was still pinned like a butterfly to the hard earth.

And the man doing the pinning wasn’t in any hurry to let her go.

Cord gave Raine a long, searching look. His gut said she was telling the truth. Past experience wasn’t nearly as trusting. There was still that three percent of error. Not very much, really.

Just enough to kill him.

He shifted his body, easing the weight of his leg over hers, but not quite freeing her. If she tensed for a sudden movement, he would feel it instantly.

Raine didn’t take advantage of her apparent freedom. She simply waited, watching Cord’s angular face. Beneath his impassive expression, she sensed a ruthless, sweeping intelligence. He was measuring her in a way that was totally unfamiliar to her.

After a few moments she saw the subtle shift of his heavy black eyebrows, the easing of the tension around his icy blue eyes, the relaxation of the hard line of his mouth. Whatever danger she might have been in from him was finally past.

In the wake of relief came the realization of just how terribly vulnerable she had been. If Cord Elliot had been another kind of man, she would have been another mutilated, violated body on the six o’clock news.

She began shaking, a reaction to being knocked off her feet and flattened helplessly beneath a stranger’s merciless trained body. Though she fought to control herself, a small whimper escaped. She shuddered again and again, raging at her own lack of self-control but unable to do anything about it.

The trembling of Raine’s body told Cord that her shock at being overwhelmed and held captive had worn off. She knew she was safe now, but she was thinking of what had just happened.

And what could have happened.

A fragile glimmer of tears magnified the green and gold of her dark hazel eyes. Her mouth trembled despite its flat line. Ripples of fear moved visibly over her clear skin.

An odd feeling of shame grew in him—odd because he had simply been doing his job in the safest, most efficient manner he knew. She could have been reaching for a weapon in her rucksack. That was why he had knocked her down.

Yet even though his act had been fully justified according to the terms of the world he lived in, Cord felt as though he had violated Raine in a fundamental way.

Because he had.

Between one instant and the next, he had given her a terrifying demonstration of just how frail her security and her world really were, how vulnerable she was, how unexpected and dangerous life could be. It was a cruelty that he regretted, however necessary it might have been at the time.

And now she was lying very close to him, her eyes wide and her lips pale, her hands clenched as she fought not to reveal how badly she had been shaken.

I’m sorry, Blue, Cord thought almost helplessly. You were right. She’s worth protecting. There’s too much darkness already, too much cold.

When Raine bit her lip against another cry, he couldn’t take it anymore. Knowing he shouldn’t, going ahead anyway, he gathered her close against his body. His hands were gentle rather than hard. His strength cherished rather than threatened her. Long, lean fingers stroked her hair. He spoke to her in a voice that was deep, calming, and his arms were a solid barrier protecting her from the vulnerability he had just demonstrated so graphically to her.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, smoothing her tangled hair with his palm. He tucked her head against his chest, holding her close without really confining her. Comfort, not captivity. “I won’t hurt you. And I’m damned sorry I frightened you. You’re safe with me, always. I promise you, Raine.”

She could no more control her reaction to his offer of protection than she could control the shudders wracking her body. Her hands came up to his chest and her fingers dug into his skirt, seeking the resilience and strength beneath cloth. His words ran together, becoming a soothing, dark velvet sound that sank beneath her fear, reassuring her mind even as his strength reassured her body.

He had showed her how fragile her safe world really was. The knowledge that he would also protect her was a relief even greater than her fear had been.

With a last shuddering breath, Raine brought herself under control. As she looked up at Cord, tears made silver trails through the dust of her cheeks. She felt his sudden breath, saw his eyes change, dark centers expanding as he memorized her features and the shine of tears on her skin. Warm fingers slid beneath her tangled hair as he bent and gently kissed the tears caught in her eyelashes.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice was husky. “I wish to hell I hadn’t frightened you. Raine . . . such a beautiful name, beautiful eyes, beautiful spirit . . .”

His mouth brushed over hers so lightly that she thought she had imagined it. But she didn’t imagine the silver glimmer of her tears on his lips, the subtle tightening of his body against hers, and the warm flush of sensation spreading beneath her skin. Her breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with fear. A shiver snaked through her body, heat rather than chill.

He felt her involuntary tremor. He lifted his head and looked at her with pale, intent eyes. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, afraid to trust her voice. Then, hesitantly, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He smoothed tendrils of rich brown hair away from her face. “For what?”

“Being such a—such a child.”

“We’re all children when we’re taken by surprise.”

“Not you.”

Curiosity expanded the blue-black centers of Cord’s eyes. She was so certain of him, as though she had read his file. Yet he knew she hadn’t. “What do you mean?”

“No one has taken you by surprise in a long time.” Her voice was soft, positive.

“You did, just now.” He looked at her with an intensity that was almost tangible. “You’re an unusual woman, Raine Smith. Very unusual. And very beautiful.”

Automatically she shook her head. Chestnut hair slid forward, tickling her full lower lip. With an impatient movement, she pushed the hair behind her ears. She didn’t think of herself as attractive, much less beautiful. As far as she was concerned, if a man complimented her, it was meaningless flattery. Worse, it irritated her, as if men thought she was too dumb to look in a mirror and see the truth.

When Cord felt the withdrawal stiffening her body, he slowly released her, even though he wanted to hold her closer. Yet he sensed if he tried to hold her, she would fight him. She had every right to. He had no excuse to hang onto her now, except his own unexpected, consuming need to keep her close.

Reluctantly he forced himself to let go of her completely. He already felt as though he had pulled the wings off the most intriguing butterfly he had ever seen. He didn’t want to feel like a rapist in the bargain.

Carefully Raine sat up, telling herself that she was relieved not to be held anymore. She didn’t really believe it. It was one thing to be attacked. It was quite another to be held as though she was as delicate and precious as fire.

Cord made no move to stop her from sitting up. But when she reached for her rucksack, his hand shot out and locked around her wrist.

She gasped and spun toward him.

He was looking at the knapsack beneath her hand. In the instant that she had reached for it, he remembered that he hadn’t really searched the shapeless sack. It easily could conceal a weapon.

“You still don’t trust me, do you?” she asked, surprise and disappointment in her voice.

He looked into her startled hazel eyes for a long moment. Then he slowly released her wrist, letting the soft flesh and delicate bones slide away unharmed.

“I’m ninety-seven percent sure you’re who and what you say you are. The other three percent,” he added matter-of-factly, “could be the death of me.”

She snatched her hand back from the rucksack as though it had burned her. “I just wanted my comb.”