Without a Trace (20 page)

Breintz spread his hands. “I am at your service.”

With a last nod, Trace rose. “I’ll be in touch.”

Trace knew he would be moving toward a conclusion in a matter of days. He was grateful for it. Since his first assignment with the ISS, he’d accepted the fact that any job he agreed to take could kill him. It hadn’t been a matter of his not caring whether he lived or died. Trace had always had a definite preference for living. It had simply been a matter of his acknowledging the risks and making damn sure he was around to collect his pay.
Over the past few days, staying alive had become even more important.

He hadn’t changed his mind concerning himself and Gillian, but he’d had to accept the fact that he wanted more time with her. He wanted time to hear her laugh, as she’d done so rarely since they’d met. He wanted time to watch her relax, as she did only when she’d convinced herself she could let go for short snatches of time. He wanted, more than he cared to admit, to have her care for him with the same depth and devotion that she cared for her family.

It was stupid. It was certainly wrong for her. But that was what he wanted.

He would give her back her brother, and the child she sometimes murmured for in her sleep. He would do what he had come to Morocco to do, and then he would have one clear night with her. One night, all night, without the tensions, the fears, the doubts, that hovered around her now. She thought he didn’t sense them, but he did. He wanted to give her peace.

She hadn’t wanted his sympathy, so he didn’t offer it. The passion he did give should have been easy, yet it was tinted with the sweetest, sharpest ache he’d ever known. The ache was longing, a longing to give more than was asked, to take more than was given. To make promises and to accept them.

He couldn’t do that, but he could have that one night with her when her family was safe and the threat was past. Then he could give her the gift of backing out of her life.

To have that one night, to walk away with more than he’d ever had before, all he had to do was stay alive.

Kendesa’s tail dropped him in the lobby. Trace felt secure knowing Kendesa was taking precautions. He felt even better knowing that his meeting with Breintz would be reported. The other agent’s cover was as tight as they came. Trace strolled down the corridor to his room, thinking how glad he would be to get out of the suffocating suit and tie.

When he opened the door he was stunned, then furious.

Gillian looked up at him, her eyes damp and her smile brilliant. “Trace, I’m so glad you’re back. These songs are so lovely. I’ve read them all twice and still haven’t decided if I have a favorite. You have to play them for me so I can—”

“What the hell are you doing digging around in my things?”

The tone caught her so off guard that she simply stared at him, the notebook open in her lap. When he crossed to her to snatch the notebook, she felt the full brunt of his fury. She didn’t cringe away. She just sat very still.

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you that even though I’m working for you, even though I’m sleeping with you, I’m still entitled to my privacy.”

She went very pale, as she did whenever stress took over. “I’m sorry,” she managed in a very careful voice. “You were gone so long, and I needed something to do, so I thought I’d put your things away for you. I came across the flute and the notebook as I was finishing up.”

“And didn’t stop to think that what was written in the notebook might be private?” He stood, holding the book in his hand, as thoroughly embarrassed as he’d ever been in his life. What he’d written had come straight from the heart and was nothing he’d ever intended to share with anyone.

“I beg your pardon.” Her voice was stiff with formality now. She didn’t bother to tell him how the notebook had fallen open, since he was so obviously interested only in the end result. “You’re right, of course. I had no business messing about with your things.”

He’d hoped for an argument. A good shouting match would have helped him turn the embarrassment into something more easily dealt with. Instead, her quiet apology only made him feel more embarrassed and a great deal like a moron. Opening a drawer, he tossed the book in, then slammed it shut again.

“Next time you’re bored, read a book.”

She rose as her own temper bristled. She’d gotten such pleasure, such innocent pleasure, out of the words the man was capable of writing. Now she was being punished for discovering this secret part of him. But it was his secret, she reminded herself before she could open her mouth in anger. It was his, and she’d intruded on it.

“I can only repeat that I’m sorry, I was completely in the wrong, and you have my word that the mistake won’t be repeated.”

No, she wasn’t going to argue with him, Trace realized as he walked over to wrap the flute in felt. There
was too much hurt in her eyes, hurt he’d put there by being so unreasonably hard about an innocent act. “Forget it.” He set the flute in the drawer beside the book and shut them both away. “The meeting with Breintz went according to plan. The guns are here. I figure Kendesa will make contact tomorrow, the next day at the latest.”

“I see.” She looked around for something to do, something to occupy her hands. She settled on clasping them together. “Then it should all be over soon.”

“Soon enough.” For reasons that escaped him, he wanted to apologize, to hold her and tell her he was sorry for being an idiotic ass. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “We can go down for lunch. There’s not much to see in this place, but you could get out of the room awhile.”

“Actually, I thought I’d lie down, now that you’re back and I know everything’s all right. I’ve really been more wound up than hungry.” And though she’d thought never to feel that way again, she wanted desperately to be alone.

“All right. I’ll bring you something back.”

“Some fruit, maybe.” They kept their distance, because neither had the nerve to take the first step. “I never seem to have much of an appetite when I’m traveling.”

He remembered the first night, when she’d fallen asleep without dinner, how pale and drained she’d been when he’d carried her to bed. She was pale now, too. He wanted, very badly, to stroke the color back into her cheeks. “I won’t be long.”

“Take your time.”

She waited until he was gone before she lay down on the bed. Curling into a ball always seemed to help somehow. It concentrated the hurt into one tight place where it was more easily dealt with. She wouldn’t weep. She let her eyes close and tried hard to concentrate on nothing. She wouldn’t let her emotions swing wild, the way they had when she’d been young and had thought to surprise her father.

She’d tidied up his office, polishing wood and shining glass. He’d been furious, too. She sighed and struggled to clear the memory from her mind. Furious that she’d infringed on his private space, touched his personal things. She might have broken something, misplaced something. It hadn’t mattered that she’d done
neither.

Sean Brady Fitzpatrick had been a hard man, and loving him had been one long exercise in frustration. Gillian sighed again. Apparently she was a very slow learner.

*   *   *

He hadn’t eaten anything. Nor had he finished the whiskey he’d ordered. Trace had never known a woman who could make a man feel more of a fool when she was clearly in the wrong. Those songs had never been intended for anyone but himself. He wasn’t ashamed of them; it was just that he’d indulged himself, or parts of himself, in the writing of them. They were his innermost thoughts, innermost feelings, dreams he admitted to having only on the rarest of occasions. He wasn’t sure he could handle her knowing what was inside him, what he sometimes longed for on the longest of lonely nights. The songs could erase the differences and the distance between them, whether he wanted them to or not.

He shouldn’t have hurt her. Only the stupid or the heartless hurt the defenseless. Discovering he could be both left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He’d have liked to blame that on her, too, but he thought too clearly once anger had passed.

He laid the rose on the little basket of fruit and opened the door.

She was sleeping. He’d hoped she would be awake so that he could make his gesture of apology quick and painless. Growing up with women had taught him that they forgave easily, often smugly, as though men’s cloddish behavior was to be expected. It wasn’t a sweet pill to swallow, but at least it was a small one.

Trace set the basket on the dresser before moving toward her. She was curled up tight, as if to ward off another blow. That was one more brick on his back. Muttering a curse, he pulled the spread up over her. She’d left the shade up. He walked over to draw it down and dim the room. It made a quiet sound that had her stirring in sleep.

“Caitlin.”

Though the little girl’s name came in a murmur, Trace heard the fear in it. Not sure what to do, he sat on the edge of the bed and began to stroke her hair. “She’ll be all right, Gillian. Just a few more days.”

But his touch and his reassurance seemed to set off a new reaction. He felt her begin to tremble. Even as he stroked the hair from her temple, sweat pearled cold on her skin. Though he let no more than a second pass, he could see she was fighting to pull herself out of the dream. Her face went a deathly white as he took her by the shoulders and drew her up.

“Gillian, wake up.” He gave her a squeeze that had her muffling a scream. “Come on, Doc, knock it off.” Her eyes were wide and terrified when they flew open. Trace kept his grip firm until he saw comprehension come into them. “You okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” But she couldn’t stop shaking. All the other times she’d been able to control the shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for having a nightmare.”

“For making a fool out of myself, then.” She drew away, just a little, but enough to make him realize what a twist rejection gave the heart.

“Want some water?”

“Yes. I’ll get it.”

“Sit down, damn it. I’ll get it.” He felt like a ham-handed jerk. Giving the tap a violent twist, he filled a glass to the rim with tepid water. Gillian sat on the bed, fighting back tears she was certain would put a cap on her humiliation and struggling to ignore a roiling stomach that came from holding back too long. “Take a couple of sips and relax.”

But her hands were shaking, and she only managed to spill water on both of them. “I’m—”

“If you apologize again, I swear I’ll belt you.” He took the glass and set it aside and then, feeling an awkwardness he’d never experienced with women, slipped an arm around her. “Just relax. Why don’t you tell me about it? It usually helps.”

She wanted to lean her head against his shoulder. She wanted him to hold her, really hold her, murmuring
something sweet and foolish, until the terror passed. She wanted a miracle, she told herself. As a scientist, she knew that the world was fresh out.

“It was just a dream, unpleasant, that’s all. Like the rest of them.”

“What rest of them?” He cupped her face in his hand so that he could turn it up to his. “Have you been having nightmares all along?”

“It’s not surprising. The unconscious mind—”

He swore and tightened his grip. He remembered how she had trembled, how the sweat had beaded cold and clammy on her skin, how glazed with fear her eyes had been. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t see the point.”

He let her go then, slowly, and rose to his feet. If she had aimed a blow directly at his solar plexus, she wouldn’t have been any more accurate. He gave a brief, humorless laugh. “Well, I guess I had that one coming, didn’t I?”

A new fear was growing, one that warned her that she might be suddenly, violently, physically sick. She was too afraid to try to stand, too restless to stay where she was. “You’d just have been annoyed, as you are now. And I’d just have been embarrassed, as I am now.” She shifted so that she could press a hand against the churning of her stomach.

“Seems you’ve got me pegged,” he murmured. He opened his mouth to say more but was surprised to see that she’d gone even paler. Moving instinctively, he turned her toward the edge of the bed and pushed her head between her knees. “Just breathe deep. It’ll pass in a minute. Come on, love, nice deep breaths.”

Even as the faintness faded, the tears burned in her eyes. “Just leave me alone, will you? Just go away and leave me alone.”

There’d been a time, not so long before, when he would’ve been only too happy to oblige her. Now he simply ran a hand up and down her spine, murmuring to her, until he felt her breathing even out. “I think we’ve both taken the easy way for too long.” Gathering her up, he lay down beside her and held her close. He recognized more surprise than resistance and decided he deserved that as well. “I think you should know I don’t
expect Superwoman. I know what you’re going through, and I know that even someone as strong as you needs an outlet. Let me help.”

She tightened her arms around him. Though the tears fell quietly, the release was complete. “I need you.” Her body absorbed the warmth of his as tension fled. “I’ve tried so hard not to be afraid and to believe everything really is going to be all right. Then the dreams … They kill all of you. And I can’t stop them.”

“The next time you have a dream, remember, I’m right here. I’m not going to let it happen.”

She could almost believe in miracles when he moved his fingers gently through her hair, his lips gentle at her temple. “I don’t want to lose you, either.” She tilted her face up to his, hoping she would at least see acceptance.

“I’ve come through tighter spots than this.” He touched his mouth to her forehead, realizing how comforting it could be to give comfort. “Besides, my retirement fund’s riding on this one.”

Her lips curved a little. “The Canary Islands.”

“Yeah.” Oddly, he couldn’t picture the palm trees and calm waters. “I’m not going to let you down, Gillian.”

She touched a hand to his face. “When this is over, I wonder if it would be an intrusion if I visited you there for a few days.”

“I might be up to some company. The right company.” He nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder again. The glass on the table beside them vibrated against the wood. Water sloshed over the edge again. Beneath them, the bed shook.