Tainted Hearts (5 page)

She’s all I have left in the
world…anything for her…anything.
His passionate words echoed in
disjointed fragments. Tuesday heaved an exasperated sigh. This
entire situation was irrational. No child should be punished for
the wrongdoing of their parent, but Elise’s crisis didn’t justify
Marc’s behavior.

Or did it?

“I’m not sure I can help you.” He shifted
his right hand, his fingertips skimming her collarbone. Tingles
sped off to places she refused to think about while his gaze
searched her face. “Even if I wanted to.”

“Do you think it’s right that her life is in
danger because of who I…what I’ve done?”

She stiffened, suspicion coiling through her
abdomen. How had he echoed her thoughts so accurately? She’d heard
rumors of psychic abilities being associated with Methuselah. Was
it possible he— It didn’t matter! This wasn’t about him.

“No, I don’t think what they’re doing is
right,” she admitted. “Even if you invented Methuselah and
intentionally sold it under false pretenses, your daughter
shouldn’t be penalized because of you.”

He exhaled so loudly Tuesday feared he’d
pass out. Who was this guy?

Methuselah, a refined version of the
original neuron-stimulant, had been developed by a team of
scientists and supervised by one of the Sinclair sons. The oldest,
Edward, if memory served.

Despite the myriad lawsuits brought against
Sinclair-Dietrich, they had been exonerated of all liability. So,
why was this man still torturing himself with guilt, and why was
his daughter—

He trailed the backs of his fingers across
her cheek, then gently cupped her chin. “Do you realize how long
I’ve waited to hear someone—anyone—say that?” His deep voice washed
over her, earnest and somehow familiar, sweeping away her
speculation and focusing her senses on him. “It’s a start. A very
important start.”

Tall and gorgeous, he stood before her,
making her restless…needy.

I can be at your beck and call…
His
verbal temptation echoed through her mind. She turned her face,
retreating as far as his hold would allow.

Her experiences with sex had been almost as
clinical as the rest of her life. She’d taken a lover at twenty
because she felt odd not having experienced “carnal pleasure”. The
incident had been uncomfortable and awkward. She’d been relieved
when he transferred to another department some months later.

“I lost you again,” Marc said, beckoning her
gaze back to his. “Where’d you go, just then?”

“I was trying to think of a way to sneak
your daughter through.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t challenge
her lie.

Twisting away from his light hold, she
rushed back inside the lodge. Memories assailed her, growing more
uncomfortable with each hurried step. Her second lover had impacted
her life far more than her first. Leonard Prescott controlled the
grant contributions for a major philanthropic foundation. Tuesday
had been chosen to contact him after Vonne learned that Leo had a
penchant for redheads.

He’d had a penchant, all right. He’d offered
an extremely generous grant for the SP-64 Project and immediately
begun his “courtship” of Tuesday.

“So, tell me what you’re thinking. Maybe I
can help.”

Marc’s casual suggestion mercifully
interrupted the downward spiral of her thoughts. “I need to talk to
Vonne. Any chance you’d let me?”

“Vonne? Oh, you mean Ms. Lucero.” He
pondered the request, his bright eyes intent upon her face.

I can fulfill sexual fantasies you haven’t
dared to dream—yet.

Tuesday shivered, her gaze darting about the
main room of the lodge, looking anywhere but at him. Removing the
visual temptation didn’t silence her mind. What would it be like to
have his long-fingered hands moving across her body, to feel that
mouth caressing her? Was his entire body enhanced?

Marc watched the crimson blush crawl up
along her neck and bloom across her cheeks. Desire radiated off her
in slow pulsing waves. She wasn’t thinking about Elise; she was
thinking about sex! Fulfilling her fantasies had been the only
offer she’d found interesting. He had to push this advantage.

Her teasing excuse for a dress left the
graceful indentation of her spine bare to the middle of her back.
She’d drawn her hair over her shoulder and was nervously working it
into a thick braid. No way he’d let that continue. He wanted to
rake his fingers through the curly strands and bury his face in its
softness.

Stepping up behind her, he ran his index
finger down her spine and watched her shiver. “Is all your skin
this sensitive?” He wrapped his arm around her waist, dislodging
her hands and freeing her hair. “I’m going to give you a taste of
what the next few days could be like.”

She started to protest, but he turned her
and dipped her over his arm. Pride wouldn’t let her agree to his
offer, but she wanted it—needed it. He could sense a hunger in her
just as demanding as his.

He settled his mouth over hers, exploring
the shape and texture of her lips. He put his whole being into the
kiss, desperate to draw out her longing, to make her achingly aware
of her need. This was for his daughter; seducing this woman was
Elise’s only hope.

Gently, he cupped her face, teasing the
sensitive underside of her jaw with his thumb. For a long time she
seemed frozen within his embrace, neither responding nor
struggling. He traced the delectable fullness of her bottom lip and
she shifted restlessly. He gently sucked it into his mouth and she
groaned.

“I never go where I’m not welcome, Tuesday,”
he whispered. “Part your lips. Invite me in.” Slowly, her mouth
opened and Marc smiled against her damp lips. “Thank you.”

He eased his tongue into her mouth, stroking
her, tracing the even line of her teeth. The slick heat beckoned
him deeper and he was happy to answer the call.

Her hands pushed into his hair. She arched,
pressing her breasts against his chest. Slowly. He had to move
slowly. If he frightened her now, she’d never let him touch her
again.

But he
burned
for her. She fit so
perfectly, molded herself so eagerly into the hard contours of his
body. Desperately, he formed the image of Elise in his mind and
held on for dear life. He needed Tuesday to lose control, but he
couldn’t afford to get caught up in his own trap. Focusing entirely
on his purpose, he gradually distanced himself from the demanding
passion this woman unleashed within him.

He kept each touch featherlight, stroking
her arms and back, all the while kissing her deeply, leisurely.
Easing her zipper down to the small of her back, he slipped his
hand inside and caressed every silken inch of skin available to his
seeking fingers.

His warm fingers brushed ever closer to the
curve of her butt and Tuesday mustered the feeble remnants of her
sanity. She shoved him back, quickly stepping out of reach. “I’ve
never been desperate enough to pay for sex.”

Her breasts heaved, her nipples hard aching
peaks, rasping against her bra’s thin lacy cups. His gaze, hot with
male appreciation, lingered on her body, mocking her inability to
control herself. Stubbornness alone kept her arms at her sides when
everything within her screamed to cover her shame. Oh, how she
wanted his hands on her breasts, his fingers firmly plucking, his
mouth…oh God, his mouth!

“How long has it been?”

The teasing purr in his voice slapped her
even harder than his smoldering gaze. “None of your damn business!
Leave me alone.”

Clinging to what little remained of her
dignity, she hurried into the kitchen. But her captor was a step
behind.

“It was just a kiss, Tuesday. Why are you so
upset?”

She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to
see the knowing gleam in his eyes. After fighting with her zipper
for a second or two, she left it halfway up. She braced her hands
on the countertop and closed her eyes. Vivid, painful memories
assailed her, forcing out a tear from beneath her long
eyelashes.

Gently, he finished zipping her dress, his
warm hands lingering on her shoulders. “You’re crying.”

He sounded astonished and she whipped
around. “I am not! He isn’t worth my tears. Never was.”

“Who is ‘he’? Why did kissing me make you
think of another man?”

She leaned against the countertop and
crossed her arms over her breasts. “You’re not my friend and you’ll
never be my lover, so cut the crap. My personal life is none of
your business.”

“Everything about you is my business as long
as my daughter’s life hangs in the balance. I won’t let up. I don’t
have the luxury of being nice.”

“And I can’t give you what you want, so you
might as well shoot me!”

He laughed. The arrogant jerk just laughed
and rushed out of the kitchen.

Marc was still chuckling when he triggered
the electromagnetic lock, securing himself inside the control booth
in the attic of the lodge.

Slipping in behind the control console, he
activated the screen directly in front of him. The entire wall
flashed for a moment before segmenting into nine smaller
screens.

Various angles of the lower level occupied
the bottom row. Tuesday was still in the kitchen, nosing through
his cupboards. What was she hoping to find? Arsenic? He grinned.
She already knew where the knives were kept.

He hadn’t expected to find her so
entertaining.

So challenging.

Or so damn adorable.

Back on task, Sinclair! You’ve got work to
do.

Placing a person-to-person audio page to
Phil Carey, Marc waited for his head of security to respond. Phil
had retired from the military six years ago after a long,
distinguished career. He was considered the best security
consultant in the world, and Marc insisted on the best.

Every day Methuselah seemed to spawn a new
complication. Marc had gotten used to the death threats, had even
managed to stay alive. Significant advancements were being made in
treatment of the syndrome, but Marc wasn’t satisfied. He’d heard
reports, scattered, yet consistent accounts of unusual
happenings.

“Cobra here,” Phil’s deep voice drew Marc’s
attention to the present. “You’re early, Mr. S.”

Marc smiled at the semi-coded transmission.
Phil had introduced Marc to the fascinating world of high-tech
surveillance, micro gadgets and weaponry. Their signal was
scrambled, but Phil’s insistence on safety protocols had literally
saved Marc’s life. He wasn’t about to argue now.

“I’ve arrived at the designated location,
just checking in to say all is well.”

“Very good. All is quiet here. No
disturbances reported at any post.”

Phil was the only person who knew Marc’s
true location or that his appearance had been changed. They needed
more time before Marc officially debuted his new face. Rumors were
circulating that the third attempt on Marc’s life had succeeded and
it worked to their advantage to perpetuate the misconception.

Tuesday’s unexpected reaction brought to
mind another issue. “Has our contact in the Tower of Babel reported
any progress?”

“Nothing new. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know how to pose the question
without breaking protocol.”

Marc heard Phil’s muffled chuckle, despite
the other man’s attempt to conceal the sound. “Do your best,
son.”

“I need to know if our prime suspect has
developed an interest in an individual.”

“Female?” Phil asked.

“Affirmative.”

Phil made no effort to disguise his
amusement this time. “Is this the same female in which you’ve
recently developed an interest?”

“Affirmative.”

“Very popular young lady.” Phil cleared his
throat and his tone returned to normal. “I’ll find out if there’s a
connection, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Cobra out.”

If anything was going on between Tuesday and
Job, Phil would know every detail by morning. The man amazed Marc
with his resourcefulness. In a very short time Phil had earned
Marc’s respect, a feat few could manage.

After the first attempt on Marc’s life, he’d
hired Phil to ensure his safety and figure out who wanted him dead.
Phil’s preliminary investigation pointed toward PURE and everything
he’d learned in the ensuing months only reinforced the initial
findings. Not only had Job ordered the hit, he’d used psychic
assassins to carry out the mission.

The hypocrisy was almost amusing. Marc asked
Phil to dig deeper. If Job was determined to separate himself and
his followers from those corrupted by the effects of Methuselah,
why had he resorted to assassins so dependent on the chemical? One
missed dose sent them into violent withdrawal.

Turning his attention back to the bank of
monitors, Marc moved on to the next task. Had Momma Bear missed her
spunky little cub yet? That was what he needed to determine. With a
few careful commands, he called up the audio/video feed of Vonne
Lucero’s office.

“Can you or can you not account for Ms.
Fitzpatrick’s whereabouts?”

The image was still fuzzy, but there was no
mistaking General Bettencourt’s rumbling voice. What was he doing
at the mediplex?

“Just a moment,” Vonne responded, her voice
thin and anxious.

Finally, the image focused and Marc studied
her face. Her brow was smooth, her dark eyes calm. All things
considered, she was doing a fair job of concealing her emotions.
With the women’s harebrained scheme for Tuesday’s disappearance,
there was no reason for Vonne to fear anything ill had befallen her
friend.

So, what had inspired General Lapdog’s
repeat appearance?

Clearing her throat, Vonne turned off her
computer and looked at the general impatiently fidgeting across
from her. Marc could sense the tension and he wasn’t even in the
room.