Blamed (6 page)

“Being crushed in a pile of rubble tends to give a man a good excuse to pretty himself up.”

Her mind blanked.
Rubble.
Crushed.
“Wh-what are you saying?”

“I need you to know me, love, and it’s killing me that you don’t.” For the first time, his hands moved. One fingertip touched the aristocratically straight bridge of his nose. “This was the easiest to fix. Followed by these.” He bared his teeth, tapping the front two. Then he rubbed his cheek to the left of his mouth. “One of my surgeons was nothing less than an artist, as you can see.” His hand scrubbed over the back of his neck. “Five months in and out of rehab centers for my leg and away from the desert sun brought back my typical English paleness. And I hated being saddled with desk duty, so I spent every spare moment in the gym, once my doctor gave the go-ahead.” Big shoulders lifted in a jerky shrug. “I finally had the opportunity to bulk up some, since I wasn’t busy chasing you across the globe year after year.”

She was crying. She knew she was crying, hot tears tracking over her cheeks, but hell if she cared. Her lower lip trembled as she forced herself to look at him—
really
look at him—for the umpteenth time that night. The nose was different, as were his teeth, and his coloring, and yes, his face was heavier and more mature, the old scar nearly invisible thanks to the work of an obviously talented plastic surgeon, and his body seemed somehow more...solid. Yes,
solid.
And wasn’t that amazing? That he was here in one piece.

That she hadn’t killed him in Kabul. Her spy.

“I didn’t see you. After,” she babbled, giddy and terrified all at once as she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes in order to block out his image and prevent more tears from falling. “There was the fire and dust, and Gavin...Gavin said we had to go, like
now
, and I didn’t see you. I didn’t see you, I didn’t see—” A sob high in her throat cut her off.
Oh
,
God.
“I’m s-so
sorry.
”

“Beth. Beautiful girl. Get in my arms.”

Her name in his low, rumbling voice was too much. She launched herself across the expanse of her dining table, jerking at the last minute to avoid digging her knee into his wounded side, and landed haphazardly in his lap, legs dangling on either side of his.

He held her like...like.... Oh, hell, like she was precious. One arm banded around her waist as his other hand speared into the hair above her nape to cup the back of her skull with a tender possessiveness that shook her to her bones. His bare chest through the open panel of his dress shirt was a firm pressure against her breasts, an intimate crush.

The chair wobbled briefly as she clung to him, burying her face in his neck, and oh, he smelled
amazing.
Like winter and warm blankets and manly soap and utter aliveness, and she was still crying—probably looking like nothing so much as a blotchy snot monster, because Lord knew, Beth Faraday was
not
a pretty crier—but it didn’t matter. Looping her arms tight around his neck, she whispered brokenly, “You’re alive,” unable to keep from nuzzling the hot skin of his throat, stealing his scent into her greedy lungs. “I’m so happy you’re alive.”

“Of course I’m alive,” he rasped in his wonderful British accent—his
real
accent—as he squeezed her closer, though the movement must have painfully jostled his injury. “You promised me a ‘next time’ in Cyprus, remember? I wasn’t going to take you up on it in bloody Afghanistan, of all places.”

Beth laughed, a watery sound, and pulled away enough to rake her gaze over his very-much-not-dead face, unable to keep from beaming at him. “You’re alive, and I know who you are, finally. I know you, Raleigh Vick.” It was the best thing to happen to her in over a year.

No, it was the best thing to happen to her
ever.

With hunger and desperation warring on her lips, she kissed him.

Chapter Six

Following the Kabul explosion, Vick had experienced the usual ups and downs of recuperation. Anger at being incapacitated, frustration at how slowly he healed, exhilaration when he was told he’d regain full function of his leg, despite the severity of the break to his femur. He’d been on his back for weeks, on his ass in a desk chair for longer still. He hadn’t even been one-hundred-percent healed when he first received the assignment in Chicago six months ago.

There had been one constant through it all, however: Beth. Or rather, the thought of her. The
hope
of her. But the reality of her exceeded all previous thoughts or hopes, and the reality was that kissing Beth Faraday felt like a homecoming.

“I missed you.” Christ, had he ever missed her. When her lips slanted over his, trying to take control as her body shook with tremors of unchecked emotion, he lifted both hands to her face. His thumbs swiped at the trails of tears streaking down her cheeks. “No, no. Shhh, baby.” A fleeting caress of mouth against mouth, the brushing of lips nearly intangible. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” But he thought he might understand the maelstrom raging inside her; he’d merely had more time to adjust to it than she did, watching her day after day for months.

She wriggled in his hold, sniffling back the tears as though she were as shocked by their presence on her face as he was. “Let me up. You’ll open your wound.”

Reluctantly, he let her go, but immediately pointed to the dining table at her back. “Hop up there. Right now.”

When she jumped to obey, a silken wave of pleasure spread through his limbs. Already it was far different from the last time he’d had her, but memories of the beach bungalow and the enforced quiet of that interlude wrapped around his senses until he would swear he could smell the breeze off the sea, surrounding them now in the winter-crisp air of her apartment.

Rising from the chair, and careful not to jostle his side, he made himself at home between her spread knees. Again, he held her face, reveling in the smoothness of her skin, the incredible sensation of touching her after not doing so for so long.

He’d known for years—too many years, if he were honest—that touching Beth Faraday would destroy him. It had taken years more to realize that the sort of destruction she implicitly promised shouldn’t be feared, but anticipated.

As he anticipated now. Angling his head as the imminent threat of Beth turned his entire body to ash, he murmured, “I’ve got you now.” From now until the end of days, he would never let her forget to whom she belonged.

Her lips parted as she gripped his shirt collar, keeping him close when he had no plans to stray. A shiver worked its way through her to tremble on her tongue, transferring to him when she stroked into his mouth and shooting new awareness down his spine.

First kiss.

And damn, did it ever feel like a first kiss. He was sweaty, shaking and harder than he could ever remember being. So this was what it was like to be with a woman without wearing a false identity.

Not just any woman—Beth. He’d learned more about her in six months of diligent observation than he had in ten years of run-ins across the globe. He knew she was more than her gun, but lessened whenever she held it. He sensed her desperation to be normal, but suspected she didn’t have the first clue what normal was, not for someone with her past. She hadn’t yet mastered her life’s new learning curve, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t conquer it eventually.

He was selfish enough to not want her to conquer it without him.

The other lesson lying in that hospital bed had taught him was a little more difficult to swallow. Vick was getting older. Slower. Weaker. He’d put his body through the wringer during his fifteen years of service, and his body was beginning to retaliate. The number of scars, of surgeries—not just from Afghanistan, but from missions such as the one in Medellín, which had resulted in his capture by drug lord Pipe Marin—were like so many stitches holding the patchwork of his identity together. All the lies he’d told and all the people he’d pretended to be weighed on him more with each passing day.

That weight only seemed to lift around Beth. He was facing the end of his career in the field. He needed to think about what came next. Maybe what came next was her. Them.

Together.

His forehead dropped to hers. “Now...now we need to come up with a plan. One that should probably involve at least one of your brothers.”

“Oh, shit.
Casey.
” Practically leaping from the table, she scrambled for the mobile phone sitting next to a small handbag on the cool stone of the kitchen countertop. After a moment of frantic stabbing at the screen, seemingly encouraged by her repeated muttering of “shit, shit, shit,” she dropped the phone back to the counter like it was on fire. “Dude.
Dude
, he’s gonna murder me.” Another tap of her finger, and suddenly the sound of ringing filled the air.

He moved to stand on the opposite side of the counter. Evidently, they were going to do this on speaker. Some togetherness, a little sooner than planned.

Casey answered midway through the third ring. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bethie. You disappeared on me mid-sentence, moments after I tell you there’s a hit on you. You don’t answer when I call you back. The audio feed in your apartment gave me nothing—”

“What audio feed?”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is—”

“
What audio feed
,
Casey?
”

An irritated grunt sounded on the other end of the line. “I may have placed some bugs when I installed your security system last March.”

“And those bugs are being monitored by whom, exactly?”

There was a pause. “Adam.”

Beth’s hands turned to white-knuckled fists on the countertop as she plopped onto the nearest barstool. “That lying little brat. He swore up and down that none of you were actively checking up on me.”

“He didn’t lie—we’re not
actively
checking up on you. Just...periodically.”

“Periodically.”

“Beth, honest to God, this really isn’t the time. Where the hell have you been for the past hour?” More evident than the anger in Casey’s tone was the worry, a worry that Vick understood completely. It didn’t matter how capable they both knew Beth to be—she was...dear. Dear, and therefore deserving of their worry.

He watched her face as she watched the phone, her forehead creased, telling him that she’d heard her oldest brother’s concern, as well. Her cheeks pinkened, and her lips parted, though no words escaped. “Faraday.”

A sigh of relief. “Martin. You’re with my sister?”

“I am. I’m afraid she cut you off because she was too busy rescuing my sorry hide.” His side throbbed. “My former employer decided to pay me an unexpected visit.”

“Jesus, really? I owe you big-time, then. Beth, Martin here is the one who informed us about the hit.”

Her gaze flicked to his. “Oh, is he?”

Vick could almost see Casey nodding. “I don’t know if he’s had a chance to tell you, but Martin was one of the hostages rescued from Medellín.”

“He...might have mentioned that fact.”

“He’s trustworthy, Bethie. I promise. Adam vetted him one hundred percent.”

Beth’s fists relaxed on the countertop. “So you knew he was living across the street from me?”

“I...he
what?
”

Her tongue darted out to dampen her bottom lip, immediately riveting Vick. He could still taste the sweetness of her, feel the soft give of those lips beneath the hard press of his. The kiss had ended too soon, he still needed her with a ferocity that bordered on primal. All he wanted to do was drag her into that darkened master bedroom, lay her down on the clean sheets, and spend the long hours until dawn relearning every last inch of her.

Evidently, she picked up on the direction of his thoughts, because she shifted on the barstool with a sultry little roll of her denim-clad hips. The flush in her cheeks grew, brightening skin that had paled slightly during a year of days spent trapped in the confines of a museum. No more romping through deserts and jungles for her. “You knew he was living across the street from me, right? Since Labor Day weekend.”

“Martin?” Casey growled.

Vick exhaled slowly, corralling his thoughts away from the many, many things he could be doing to Beth Faraday, right now, no holds barred—if only they weren’t on the phone with her brother. Or if they weren’t trying to save her life. Or if he hadn’t been shot an hour ago. “She’s not wrong.” There was no harm in telling this truth. “My assignment was to observe Elisabeth in her adopted civilian life and report back to Management if she showed any sign of returning to her work for Faraday Industries.”

“And? Did she?”

He locked eyes with her as he answered, “No. Not once.”

Casey made a frustrated sound. “Then why now? Why place a hit after all this time?”

Which was precisely what Beth had asked, and Vick wasn’t sure he had an answer for either of them. At least, not an answer that would make them happy. “I’m afraid I can’t share that information with you.”

“Why not?” Imploring gray-hazel eyes lifted to his. “I thought you said you’d left MI6, Vick.”

“Wait a sec.” Casey. “Who’s Vick?”

Vick winced. “Ah. That would be me.” He cleared his throat. “Wendell Martin was a cover. I...told Beth my real name tonight.” He just hoped Casey didn’t demand to know why
she
had gotten his actual identity and he hadn’t.

Luck appeared to be with him. “So your name is Vick.”

“Yes.” He paused. “Raleigh Anton Vick. In case you want Adam to run a check on me.”

Casey’s growl told them he intended to do just that, as soon as this call was over and done with. “Okay,
Vick.
Assuming not everything you’ve told me was a lie, you have tactical experience. True?”

Very, very true. “I work—worked—for a unit of the Secret Intelligence Service known as Section T-16. We specialize in global terror prevention.”

One of Beth’s hands rested lightly on her stomach, as if holding in a hurt. “What does that mean?” she asked quietly.

It meant that every time Vick had bumped into Beth in a foreign country, he was trying to beat her to the punch. Their marks were the same, their goals aligned. “We quietly and methodically eradicate evil, worldwide.” He needed her to understand that they were, or had been, the same—the only difference being who signed their paychecks—their sameness soul-deep and undeniable. He wouldn’t dare set himself apart from her as some sort of moral paragon, wherein his kills were righteous but hers were murder. Life was too short and too messy for head games. “Yes. I have tactical experience.”

Casey had already moved on. “So tell me, what’s safer for Beth—staying put or relocating?”

Vick thought about what he knew of T-16, of the section’s management and of the agent who’d put a bullet in his gut tonight. “The fact is, SIS could’ve killed me tonight, but they didn’t. I’m going to choose to interpret that as a warning for me to get my act together and finish the job with Beth. If I don’t report back within twenty-four hours, they’ll mobilize another agent.” His palms tingled with the need to touch her, but he wouldn’t. Not yet. “By my estimation, we have no more than two days to determine how you wish to handle this.”

“Then we’ll err on the side of caution and say we only have a day. Tobias is already in the air. He’ll land at O’Hare in eight hours, maybe less.”

Beth scrubbed the heel of her palm over her forehead. “Where was he?”

“Geneva. Handling pre-conference negotiations for the WeaponTek International showcase in Tangier this fall.” Casey sighed. “It would’ve been me heading your way, but I’ve got a job to finish here in the next day or so. If you’re still in Chicago when I’m done, I promise I’ll hop the next flight out.”

“
If
I’m still in Chicago.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut. “Fantastic. You leave me alone for a year, all of you, and now you’re practically coming out of the woodwork. Let me guess—the only reason Gillian isn’t on a plane has to do with a certain FBI jackass.”

Vick wondered if Casey could hear the slight catch in Beth’s voice as she spoke about her sister. He’d never bothered to review more than the most cursory details about Gillian Faraday, the head of Faraday Industries’ R&D division. Only two years separated the sisters, and it made a sad sort of sense that the closest female friendship a young assassin could maintain—through all the years of homeschooling and living cloistered on the Faraday compound—would be with her sister, who these days was continuously monitored by her FBI handler, a federal agent from Louisiana named Theodore Rochon, according to Vick’s file. Gillian was one of the few people who would know Beth’s deadly secret and not judge her for it.

Protectiveness surged within him. He wanted to shelter her from the pain she felt at being a step apart from the only world she’d known, away from her family, ostracized through her choices
and
theirs. One day, he promised silently. One day he would have her tell him the story of how she fell into wet work so young, and there would be hell to pay for whomever had handed Beth her first gun. Hell. To. Pay. “Casey, we’ll wait here for Tobias. I’d recommend minimal contact with us until secure lines can be arranged.”

“I’ll contact Tobias when he lands. He’s waiting on me to give him the location for your meeting. Beth?”

Beth started at Casey’s prompt. “Yes?”

“You kill Vick if you have to.”

For a long, awkward moment, Vick waited for Beth to laugh, or for Casey to assure him it was a joke. Surely he’d meant it as a joke.

No one laughed.

Silently, Vick crossed to the dining table, picked up her abandoned Beretta, and returned to set it on the counter in front of her. Like a magpie presented with a shiny object, Beth quickly tucked the gun at the small of her back, flipping the hem of her blouse to hide it in a motion so practiced she must have done it a thousand times.

Why the hell would seeing that make him so sad?

Beth cleared her throat. “I’ll be safe, Casey. Cross my heart.” A tap of her finger on the phone’s screen, and the call was done.