The Mercenary (3 page)

ago.” She straightened and stared at him. “I’m his sister.” Her jaw tightened and something flashed in her

green eyes. “And don’t say you don’t know him. He told me all about you.” Marc just stared at her.

“I know, for example—” Tory kept her eyes fixed on a point behind his left ear “—that the organization

you work for is an elite unit. A cloaked counterterrorist force beyond even the CIA. A highly secret

group called T-FLAC. Terrorist Force Logistical Assault Command.” She licked her bottom lip. “I know

there are members of your team who have infiltrated any number of foreign governments and military

organizations all over the world.”

A small triumphant smile curved her mouth when she detected the slightest tensing of his broad,

impressive shoulders. His eyes bored into hers like burning ice. “Who the hell are you, lady?”

She tried, God help her, she really tried, to say her name, but she was so terrified her lips barely moved.

Her eyes darted about the room, looking for help; but of course they were alone. With a sinking heart

she suddenly realized that other than Marc Savin’s people, no one knew she was here.

He could do

anything to her and probably would. He shook her and Tory’s teeth chattered. “My brother—”

“Would sure as hell not turn rogue and give away so much information dead or alive.

Try again, green

eyes. I’ll give you two seconds to tell me who sent you, and then—”

“Your code name is Phantom,” she said quickly, her skin going hot, then cold and clammy. Victoria

smoothed her jacket down with a shaking hand. “My brother is alive and not well in Marezzo, Mr.

Macho Spymaster. That’s fact. The only reason I know all this is because—” The eyes.Alex’s eyes. But—“He didn’t have any relatives.”

“Try again, Mr. Savin.” She echoed his words. “I’m sitting right here. I’m his twin and I’m very much

alive.” Tension radiated off her body. “And don’t talk about him in the past tense. Alex is alive.”

Damn, was it possible? Was it even conceivable that Lynx was alive? Of course the canny Lynx would

have kept a sister under wraps, hence the name difference. He was normally a closemouthed bastard and

would have known she’d be an easy target for anyone with a grudge. Then again, she could be anybody.

With familiar green eyes and access to him?

Despite the evidence, Marc was still skeptical. If his enemies wanted to get close to him, sending in

someone like Victoria Jones was a clever maneuver. She sure as shit didn’t look like an enemy operative.

In fact she looked the exact opposite of dangerous.

But then, as he well knew, there was danger, and then there was danger. “How do I know you’re his

sister?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Why would I be here if I wasn’t?” she shot back, and her eyes, so much like her

brother’s, flashed again. “He has a birthmark on his right leg shaped like a half-moon.” She obviously

didn’t realize how much she exposed as she furiously yanked up her skirt to bare a slender thigh. A pink

birthmark, shaped like a half-moon, marred the smooth skin under her panty hose.

“It’s a moot point, isn’t it?” Marc retorted, deceptively relaxed as she shoved her skirt back into place.

“He died while he was on vacation, I believe.” And if the son of a bitch wasn’t dead, he would be when

Marc found him. He thought of what he’d been through in the last six months. Only Lynx could have

blown their cover like this. Marc’s mind was racing with the ramifications of Lynx’s betrayal. Had Lynx

come to the ranch to lure Phantom into a trap?

“He was captured while he was on a mission,” she insisted. “You let him go there alone and you had

better get him out.”

“I saw his body seven months ago.”

She flinched. “I beg your pardon, but I saw him alive two weeks ago.” Marc saw the muscles work in

her throat. “He’s been imprisoned for almost seven months. They—they’ve tortured him.”

She lifted huge green eyes to his, and Marc found himself drawn into their anguished depths. He cursed

under his breath. It wasn’t possible. He’d seen the body. It had been burned beyond recognition, but the

dental records…Hell, it had been Alexander Stone. He was sure of it.

Damn, but he was sick of this business. Every time he got close to someone, he lost them. Lynx had

been the last straw. He was getting too damn old for this shit. Thank God he wasn’t involved any more.

His head shot up as he suddenly realized what she’d said. His eyes narrowed.

“What the hell do you mean, you saw him?”

CHAPTER TWO

MYGOD, COULD IT BE TRUE?Had this mousy woman with her blushes and accusing big green eyes

done what a team of experienced T-FLAC operatives should have done, but hadn’t? Had she actually

gone to Marezzo, by herself for God’s sake—and made contact with Lynx? A man the entire T-FLAC

organization swore wasdead ?

Improbable.

Impossible.

Bullshit.

Then what the hell was she doing in Nowhere, Montana in the middle of freaking winter?

He’d been out of the counterterrorist business for almost three years, but he still had enemies. “Who

really sent you?”

“No one.”

Right. Who the hell would sendher to him? Made no frigging sense. A stacked redhead in a skimpy outfit

would have made more sense if someone wanted to send in a Trojan horse. But a mousy brunette

sporting bruises, a broken arm and dressed like a repressed librarian? He’d never be that desperate.

The fact that he was trying to picture what she looked like underneath that yardage of navy serge was

beside the point. A frisson of sexual heat curled in his belly, shocking the living hell out of him.

Whoa.

While he gave her motivation some thought Marc poured himself another drink.

Something he’d been

careful about not doing in the last year or so. Great. He’d known this woman for barely half an hour and

she was already driving him to drink. The whiskey tasted fine going down. Better than fine. Smooth. He

finished the two fingers and was tempted to go back for more. He’d done a helluva lot of drinking

after…After. But anesthetizing himself with well-aged scotch wasn’t the answer.

Fuck. He barely knew what the question was anymore.

She flinched when his empty heavy-bottomed crystal glass hit the end table. It sounded like a pistol shot

in the momentary quietness. He was fine with silence. In fact he liked it a hell of a lot better than listening

to inane chatter. Unfortunately his guest didn’t hold the same sentiment.

Her throat worked, but her eyes, mossy green, and direct, met his. “I went there to find my brother.”

Yeah. So she’d just said. Not only was it illogical, but it sure as shit didn’t bearrepeating. Goddamn it!

He pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Marezzo isn’t exactly a vacation

paradise, honey. You can’t just go waltzing over there as if you were taking a little holiday.” His blood

ran cold at the thought of a civilian on that volatile little island in the Tyrrhenian Sea. It had been a hot

spot for tangos for years.

“I wasn’ton holiday.” She glared at him as ifhe were the one who’d lost his freaking mind. “I didn’t have

a choice as to location. Alex is there, so that’s where I went.” Honest to God, Marc thought as he observed the thudding of her pulse at the base of her slender throat,

she sounded rational. Scared out of her mind, but rational. She appeared to be the real—

if ten years out

of step—deal. Christ. He wanted Alexander Stone to be alive. A part of him almost believed it. Almost.

Even if it was only for a few minutes.

But wishing was for fools.

He was going to have to let her down gently, she looked like a crier. He ran his hand around the back of

his neck. He’d rather face twenty heavily armed tangos alone than deal with a crying woman. She was

watching him as warily as a mongoose watched a snake. Did she ever relax? She was stiff as a board,

and sitting on the very edge of the middle cushion of the sofa opposite him. Her feet were placed

precisely together, her knees locked.

If Ragno had Lynx—Fuck. If Ragno had Lynx, then Lynx truly was dead. Nobody had ever managed to

extricate themselves from Ragno’s sadistic handiwork. Which was why Alex’s body had been so

damned hard to ID.

“Look,” he started. Fast and expedient? Or slow and sympathetic? He voted for fast.

He’d get someone

to escort her to the closest hotel and be left the hell alone. “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but—”

“He’s being held by a terrorist or agroup of terrorists called ‘Spider’.” The hair on the back of his neck lifted.Spider . Ragno’s merry band of tangoswas based in Italy. Last

known address—Marezzo. Shit.

“It’s a group.” The terrorists had taken control of the island some time ago. Tourists were tolerated.

Barely. “I know damn well that going over there with a broken arm like a little lame bird wouldn’t even

get a sympathetic glance from the people you’re talking about. They’d kill you in a frigging heartbeat if

you so much as looked as though you were going to—”Interfere . “Cause trouble.” Had Spider…? No. They’d do more than break a bone or two. He dismissed the idea out of hand that

she’d actually had a close encounter with her brother’s captors. She wouldn’t be sitting here if that were

the case.

Besides, she didn’t look as though she were capable of saying “boo” let alone causing any trouble with a

terrorist cell that was currently holding the number one spot on T-FLAC’s most-wanted list.

“Well, it wasn’t my first choice, I can assure you. But you people weren’t doing anything to help Alex,

so I had to.” Her expressive eyes burned with hostility when he did no more than cross one ankle over

his knee. “Are you going to sit there berating me all night, or are you going to go into action any time

soon?”

Keeping his expression impassive, Marc bit back a reluctant chuckle, the first small ember of amusement

he’d felt in years. “I’m out of the action business, honey. Sorry.” Way the hell out of the action business. Two years, seven months, and counting. He was a fucking

rancher now. The only weapon he needed to carry was a factory load, model .350

Magnum scoped

hunting air rifle. Rancher. Not an operative. He was done saving the world. He’d sucked at it, and he had

writtenbeendet ,fini ,klaar to the whole counterterrorist business once and for all.

He was no fucking hero. And he was fine with that.

“Then I suggest you take a drink, or swallow a vitamin, or do whatever it is you spy types do to get

motivated,” she told him crossly. “Because I’m not leaving here until you agree to—”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“I talk when I’m nervous.”

“You must be nervous a lot.”

She swallowed. “I am.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe what she was saying. He did. He believed it all right. He just couldn’t

wrap his brain around it. Was it possible that Alex really was alive? After all this time?

After he’d seen his body? What there was left of it…. Bile rose in the back of Marc’s throat as he

vividly recalled the day they’d brought what was left of Lynx to T-FLAC HQ in a heavy black body bag

for ID.

What they’d done to him on the island hadn’t been pretty. His friend hadn’t died easy.

“The Spiders are serious people, green eyes, and Marezzo is no place for little Miss Muffet.”

Up went the chin, baring the long pale line of her throat. “Well, after my visit, I can certainly see why

tourism has gone down. I had my wallet stolen. Twice.” Was she frickingjoking? At first he thought she might be, but when he looked at her, he saw that she was

quite serious. She was ticked off because her wallet had been lifted. In Marezzo? She was damned

fortunate she was still in one piece.

Or was she?

She’d yet to mention the cast she was trying valiantly to hide beneath the sleeve of her ugly suit jacket.

Or the bruises she’d done a piss-poor job of covering with makeup. On the other hand he couldn’t

imagine the tangos would’ve let her walk away with a few broken bones and a handful of bruises. That

wasn’t the way they made their point.

Alex’s skin had been black and crisp, charred almost beyond recognition. His friend had also been

brutally tortured. Marc rubbed the flat of his hand across the heavy pressure of guilt in his chest. Alex’s

fingers, toes and dick had been amputated. Antemortem.

Spiders were the baddest of the bad guys.

“You’re damn lucky those bastards only took your wallet,” he told her, wanting another drink. He

ignored the half-filled bottle across the room winking at him in the firelight.

The dying fire bathed her face in a rosy glow that made her look a whole lot more appealing. That or the

two glasses of whiskey were kicking in. That or three years of abstinence. Take your pick, asshole, he

told himself sourly. Any or all of the above.

Appealing. But not to him, of course. Her type of woman drove him nuts. Her naiveté irritated. He

wished to God she’d cover her thighs. Her skin was ivory pale and he’d bet his prize bull it was silky and

just too damned touchable.

He ran his gaze from her scraped-back dark hair, across her smooth cheeks, shied away from the

surprising sensuality of her mouth, skimmed down her throat and traveled all the way to her sensible

shoes. She jumped as if he’d used a cattle prod, jerking the skirt down as far as she could. Her face

turned scarlet.

He scowled. “You’re twenty-six years old, for God’s sake. You should’ve known better than to go to