He pushed his erection against her, just in case she missed the point, rubbing for an endless, blissful moment as she panted into his mouth, and he knew that beneath all those layers of heavy cloth her nipples would be hard and sweet like cherries.
And then he pulled back, quickly, while he still could. “Get back in the room before everyone finds out I’m not your everyday priest,” he said hoarsely. “You can see why I’m going to take a little time on my way back. I’m so fucking horny I’d shag a pig.”
“Lovely,” she said caustically. Her mouth was swollen from his, and he realized he’d just called her a pig. She shoved him away, hard. “We’ll wait until noon tomorrow. If you’re not back by then we’re going to set off by ourselves.”
No one had given him an ultimatum in twenty years. They wouldn’t dare. He stared down at her in shock.
“You heard me,” she snapped. “Now go find yourself another pig.”
The door slammed behind her.
He didn’t tend to let other people get the last word. He was Irish, after all, and while his father had been a murdering, grandiose whoreson and drunkard, he also had the soul of a poet. He’d been able to draw people to him, to convince his wife to stay with him after all the drunken beatings, including the one that had killed his unborn baby sister.
No, he was his father’s son. A right bastard, ready to ruin a woman for his own needs and nothing more. He glanced at the tightly shut door. He wished he dared lock them in, but that could cause more trouble than it was worth. He had complete faith in Beth’s ability to keep Dylan under control, faith in her solid judgment. She wouldn’t take off at noon tomorrow unless she had good reason to believe he was done. No fool, his Beth.
She wasn’t his Beth, he reminded himself, wiping the taste of her from his mouth. She was a meal ticket, nothing more.
He shoved his overlong hair behind him, wondering what the hotel clerk had thought of a priest with hair past his shoulders. But no, he’d been more interest in soccer than in paying customers. He probably wouldn’t even be able to tell anyone a thing about them, if anyone should come asking.
He looked at the door one last time. He could drag Dylan out, tie him up and leave him in the toilet while he finished what he and Sister Beth had started. He wasn’t going to do that. He was going to go off, take care of business, and get royally fucked.
Hopefully not at the same time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Tell Peter to watch his back.” The message was loud and clear.
“You need me to come there?” Bastien had offered.
“The day I can’t handle a hothead like MacGowan will be the day I deserve to get a knife between the shoulders,” he’d replied.
“I doubt Genny would feel the same way.”
It wasn’t going to happen. Peter pushed away from the computer to limp over the window. MacGowan wasn’t the backstabbing kind – if he had a problem with you the knife would go straight into your heart with him looking you in the eye. Nothing sneaky about Finn MacGowan.
And he wouldn’t make a move without being certain who had failed him. The damnable thing was, Peter had failed him.
It didn’t matter how many dead ends and false trails Thomason had set up. It didn’t matter that the Committee was in freefall, that Isobel had disappeared, and half their operatives had been murdered. He should have made certain. He should have gone to Callivera himself, except that he’d promised Genevieve, and he couldn’t afford to leave with no one to take over.
And they were so short-staffed there was no one else to send.
People disappeared in that country all the time, and their bones were found bleached and brittle in old mines and ancient caves, with only DNA to figure out who was there. And MacGowan was one of the best in the world – there was no way anyone could keep him on ice for three years. No reason. If they hadn’t let him go, if he hadn’t escaped, then he was dead. It was that simple.
Apparently it wasn’t. And MacGowan was coming home, at last, to find out just how and why he’d been abandoned. Harry Thomason, the treacherous former head of the Committee, had held with the firm belief that it was every man for himself. Peter was a pragmatist, but in the end he believed you never left a man behind, not if there was any way around it. If he’d just pushed a little harder . . .
He wasn’t a man who wasted time with ifs. Even if he couldn’t leave England at the moment, he could see what he could do to grease MacGowan’s way home. Though whether that was simply speeding up a fight to the death was debatable.
For some reason the CIA was nosing around in Callivera, looking for MacGowan. He couldn’t imagine why – he’d gone over MacGowan’s file and hadn’t found anything that would excite the boys at Langley. As far as he could tell MacGowan had never interacted with the CIA. Their sudden curiosity made him uneasy.
Hell, everything was making him uneasy nowadays. Genny would tell him his spidey-senses were acting up. She watched too many movies, curled up on the sofa beside him while he read, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t bother telling her they weren’t spidey-senses; they were finely honed, well-trained instincts. When you were an operative with his level of experience you knew when something bad was going to happen.
You also knew when there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it, and that was now. All he could do was wait and see if MacGowan came to his senses.
He wasn’t holding his breath.
Beth came back into the room, closing the door quietly behind her before going to sit on the bed. Dylan was sprawled out, looking sulky as always, and she considered trying to engage him in conversation, just to distract him. And distract herself.
She could still feel Finn’s mouth on hers. His hard body pressed against every inch of her. Three years, she reminded herself. It meant nothing.
But it hadn’t felt like nothing. It felt like something that had been building between them since the moment he’d first handed her his hoarded chocolate in the darkness of the shack high up in the mountains.
She was a sensible, grounded woman. Her reaction to his kiss was pure instinct and had nothing to do with civilized behavior. He had come in and saved her life, defended her from rape and death, taken her from danger to safety, and while she was still in this fight or flight mode she felt ridiculously . . . beholden was an odd word, but it fit. She felt as if, God help her, she belonged to him.
Was it a Chinese saying? That if you saved a life, that life now belonged to you? She could see where that came from. She didn’t even want to think about where she’d be if he hadn’t gotten her out of there. And it had nothing to do with owing him, or ransom, or the money he was demanding. He would have done it without the money and they both knew it. It was part of the game he played.
And until she could get her head on straight, get her ass back to civilization, she belonged to him. Body and soul.
“You look like you just saw a giant spider,” Dylan said in a sulky voice.
It surprised a laugh from her. “It’s been an interesting few days.”
“Dude,” Dylan said, which Beth gathered meant he agreed. “You suppose they’re really going to bring us food?”
“If they don’t we’ll go find some,” she said firmly. “I’m not going to sit here and starve while he goes out to . . .” What was he going to do? It was early evening. He said he was going to make arrangements. Chances were he was going to get laid and eat steak while the two of them were trapped in this dismal hotel room.
Then again, if he came back stinking of some back alley whore, then the magic would have worn off. He would no longer be sending out those subtle and not so subtle waves of longing, and for her part she expected her fascination to end. After all, she’d decided sex wasn’t her thing, and it was crazy to let gratitude and proximity make her think otherwise.
Whores were one thing. If the man came to her stinking of steak she was going to kill him.
She got off the bed, restless, and paced toward the door. She coul
d hear voices coming up from below, and she tried the door. She opened it, peering outside, when she noticed the tray on the floor.
She snatched it up quickly – God knew what kinds of vermin were crawling around this place. Whatever they were, they probably lived in the kitchen as well, but she wasn’t going to think about it. “Beans and rice and some kind of meat,” she said, bringing the tray in and setting it on the table, kicking the door shut with her foot.
Dylan sat up, suddenly cheerful. “Is that wine?”
“You’re too young.”
He just gave her a look. “You want to know how long I’ve been drinking?”
“Not particularly.” Since he’d already straddled one of the chairs and poured himself a glass she didn’t bother to argue. She took the other seat, grabbed one of the plates and began to eat.
Dylan was looking at her strangely. “Aren’t you going to say grace?”
“You know I’m not really a nun,” she said sternly.
“Well, yeah, but aren’t you some kind of religious fanatic? I mean, you worked in that mission and all.”
She ignored the searing pain at the memory of Father Pascal and the long, busy, happy hours. The children. “No, I’m not some kind of religious fanatic. I just wanted to make a difference.” The food wasn’t bad – very spicy, and the wine was rough and almost medicinal-tasting, but since MacGowan probably wasn’t coming back for hours it probably wouldn’t hurt to drink enough to help her sleep. “So tell me about your family. What was it like to grow up in Hollywood?”
“You mean you want me to tell you about my father,” Dylan said cynically, refilling his wine glass.
“No,” she said patiently. “Your father was never my type. I was never big on muscle-bound action heroes. I’m interested in you.”
“More of your social work?” There was an unpleasant sneer on his mouth. “There’s not much to tell. I was a poor little rich boy. My parents weren’t around much, but they made up for it by buying me anything my heart desired.”
“They must be frantic.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He’d cleared his plate in record time and was looking longingly at hers. “They don’t know where I am and they don’t give a damn. Last time I saw them they told me not to come back.”
“A lot of parents say that in the heat of the moment. I’m sure they’ve regretted that a thousand times.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. My mother’s remarried and living in Oregon and her new husband hates me. She’s too busy with her aging hippie lifestyle to even think about me. And my father’s got a coke habit, a seventeen-year-old girlfriend and a twenty-three-year old wife, not to mention triplets born by a surrogate who moved into the household as well. They don’t want me anywhere around upsetting the babies.”
“I’m sure . . .”
“No. You’re not sure of anything. They don’t want me, I don’t want them. I just wish they’d kept sending me money, but that dried up a few months before I ended up in the mountains.”
She didn’t bother arguing. Either the wine or the food or both had cast a surprisingly relaxed glow over the room. “How long were you up there?”
“Six months. It was only supposed to be a week or two, except that my parents refused to pay the ransom. You want the rest of that?” He pointed toward her dinner.
It took her a moment. “No, you take it,” she said, pushing the plate toward him. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m really hungry.”
“You know what I mean. How do you know they refused?”
“Because they told me. They were going to kill me, but MacGowan intervened. Told them my parents might change their minds. He also said I could be used for propaganda, and they decided to wait a few weeks until the big jefe showed up. Fortunately we got out of there before my time ran out.”
He seemed amazingly unconcerned about his close call. Beth had the feeling she ought to be weeping for him, but the good will the wine had cast settled over her and she smiled at him a little woozily. She was already tipsy, she thought, on one glass of wine. Must be the result of the stress of the last few days. “Who’s the big jefe?”
“Some dude named the Alcista. He’s the one who decides who lives and who dies. MacGowan knows all about him – apparently he was sent down here to kill the dude, but got caught before he could do it.” Dylan yawned.
“Alcista? Sounds like a girl’s name.”
Dylan looked at her with annoyance. “It means The Bull, and you don’t want to know why he’s called that.”
“The Bull? I remember stories about someone named the Bull.” Beth shivered. “He’s not our concern any more. I’m more worried about you. What will happen when MacGowan brings you back home? Will your parents pay up?” She was so damned sleepy she wasn’t sure she even had the energy to put the tray back outside the door. The hell with it. No, MacGowan would say “fuck it.” Let him get rid of the dishes when he bothered to get his ass back there.
“He’ll get the money,” Dylan said, stumbling back toward his bed. “You know MacGowan.”
She didn’t know MacGowan. Not at all. She stood up, and suddenly the room began to spin, and she reached her hands out to the table to steady herself. It wasn’t there. She felt herself begin to fall, and she tried to cry out, but Dylan was lying across the bed, passed out, and she knew she wasn’t going to make it that far. She went down in a crash of dishes as everything went black.
MacGowan ate steak. He ate the biggest, rarest piece of prime beef he could find and he didn’t feel a moment’s guilt. Tomas was going to have the paperwork ready for him in a couple of hours, and he’d be back at the hotel not long after midnight, check on his charges, and then see whether the scrawny desk clerk could find him a blonde to while away a few hours. While Beth slept upstairs, safe and untouched in the narrow bed he wasn’t going to risk sharing with her.
He should never have kissed her. He still wasn’t sure why he had, but in the end it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to do it again.
He’d stashed the priest’s cassock in an alleyway near the dockside hotel, making his way through the dark city streets like the shadow he’d once been. He wondered if Dylan was dumb enough to try to make a pass at Sister Beth. She’d smack him down soon enough – if she could keep MacGowan in his place then a sulky teenager would be child’s play. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t smack the hell out of the brat if he tried, but chances were Beth wouldn’t rat on him. She was that kind of woman.
A good woman. God preserve him from good women. Right now he needed a bad woman. Someone lowdown and nasty and willing to do just what he wanted.
The freighter was going to take six days crossing the Atlantic, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Six days holed up with her. Hell, maybe he could put them on a separate boat. No, he couldn’t afford to do that – he had to see them back to safety and a Nigerian freighter wasn’t exactly the Queen Mary.
He paid his bill with the last of the money he’d won off the rebels. Half the people he’d played poker with were now dead, at his own hands. He wasn’t a sentimental man, he couldn’t afford to be. He stared at the crumpled bills on the table for a moment, then headed out into the cool night air of the city.
It was strange, smelling of dust and diesel and a handful of different foods. It was the smell of choice, the smell of freedom, and he couldn’t get enough of it.
Tomas had finished the work, and the papers were impeccable. He looked at Beth’s passport photo and wondered where the hell Tomas had found the original. She was looking polished, made-up, clean and shiny, and untouchable. Hell, she was still untouchable. Dylan’s photo showed a younger kid, but that was okay – Tomas had adjusted the date on the passport to reflect it. He had the cash as well, a combination of currencies that would keep them until they reached Spain.
“This is more than I asked for,” he said, counting it.
“Got word from London. You’re to have anything you want.”
M
acGowan grinned sourly. “A little late for it,” he said, folding the wads of cash and tucking it in the stained wallet Tomas provided.
“You got off that damned mountain just in time, friend,” Tomas said. “Word has it that Alcista was on his way up there when you got out. He ain’t happy.”
“My heart’s broken.”
“The sooner you get out of here the better. He wants back the ones you took, and he wants you dead, and it doesn’t take a whole lot of brains to figure you were heading in this direction. It’s the nearest port. You don’t want that man catching up with you. You got trouble from the CIA as well.”
MacGowan looked up from his perusal of the documents. “Why the fuck would the CIA give a rat’s ass about me?”
“It’s not you they’re interested in, exactly. I think they want to use you as bait to lure Madame Lambert out of retirement.”
“She retired? Hard to believe, but good for her.” He would have thought Isobel Lambert would die at her desk, frozen solid. Good to know she was human after all. “Where did she go?”
“No one knows. The problem is she went with Serafin the Butcher.”
“You’re shitting me.”
Tomas shook his head. “Turns out Serafin is actually CIA, and he didn’t exactly tell them good-bye. They want him back.”
“So they want to use me to get to Isobel to get to Killian? That’s crazy.”
“That’s the CIA,” Tomas said, unimpressed with American intelligence.
MacGowan shrugged. “The day I can’t outsmart the CIA is the day I deserve to die. Assuming they want to kill me.”
“Everyone wants to kill you, MacGowan,” Tomas said.
He grinned. “It’s part of my charm. So I get to avoid the CIA and the Bull. Though hell, maybe I can finish what I came here for. Alcista was my original target. The world would be a better place without him.”