Diamond Bay (14 page)

"I'm too used to playing mother hen," she said, laughing
a little. "When you weren't in the bed I panicked. But since you're all
right, I'll go get dressed and make breakfast."

"Don't get dressed on my account," he drawled, a comment
she ignored as she walked away.
Kell watched until
she was out of sight, then slowly
made his way back up the steps and inside.
He latched the screen door behind him. She didn't play games by
wearing slinky nightgowns and then pretending to be embarrassed by what was
revealed, but she didn't have to. With that pink flowered nightgown and her
tousled hair, she looked warm and sleepy and so damned soft a man could sink
into her. That was exactly what he'd wanted to do when he awoke to find that
her nightgown had ridden up during the night and he was pressed against her
bare thighs, with only the thin nylon of her panties keeping him from her. He'd
become so aroused that he'd had to get out of bed, to remove himself from the
temptation of her body. He swore impatiently at his own physical disability,
because it kept him from taking her the way he wanted to take her, hard and
fast and deep.

In only a few minutes she came back into the kitchen, her hair
brushed out and pulled up on each side of her head with a wine-red butterfly
clip. She was still barefoot, and she wore denim shorts so old that they were
almost white, along with an oversize maroon jersey with the tail knotted at her
waist. Her tanned face was completely free of makeup. She was comfortable with
herself, he realized. She could probably stop traffic when she did deck herself
out in silk and jewels, but she would do so only when she felt like it, not for
someone else's benefit. She was self-assured, and Kell liked that; he was so
dominant that it took a strong woman not to be completely overpowered by him,
not to shrink from him both in bed and out.

Working with an economy of motion, she put on the coffee and
started the bacon frying. Until those twin aromas started filling the air he
hadn't been aware of how hungry he was, but abruptly his mouth began watering.
She put biscuits in the oven,
whipped four eggs for scrambling, then
peeled and sliced a cantaloupe.
Her clear gray eyes turned toward him. "This would be easier
if I had my best knife."

Sabin seldom laughed or was even amused, but the dry, chiding tone
of her voice made him want to smile. He leaned against the work island to take
the weight off his injured leg, unwilling to argue. He needed a means of
self-defense, even if it was just a kitchen knife. Both logic and instinct
insisted on it. "Do you have any sort of gun around here?"

Rachel deftly turned the bacon. "I have a .22 rifle under the
bed, and a .357 loaded with ratshot in the glove compartment of the car."

Swift irritation rose in him; why hadn't she said anything about
them the day before? Then she gave him another of those long, level looks, and
he knew she was just waiting for him to say something. Why should she give a
gun to a man who had held a knife on her? "What if I'd needed them during
the night?"

"I don't have any shells for the .357 other than ratshot, so
I discounted it," she replied calmly. "The .22 was within reach, and
I not only know how to use it, I have two good arms as opposed to your
one." She felt safe at Diamond Bay, but common sense dictated that she
have some means of protection; she was a woman who lived alone, without close
neighbors. Both the weapons she had were for what her grandfather had called
"varmints," though anyone looking down the barrel of the .357
wouldn't know that it was loaded with ratshot. She had chosen both for
self-protection, not for killing.

He paused, his black eyes narrowed. "Why tell me now?"

"One, because you told me who you are. Two, because you
asked.
Three, even
without the knife, you weren't unarmed.
Handicapped,
but not helpless."

"What do you mean?"

She looked down at his hard, brown bare feet. "The calluses
on the outside edges of your feet, and on your hands. Not many people have
them. You work out barefoot, don't you?"

When he spoke his voice was quiet and silky, and it raised a chill
along her spine. "You notice a lot, honey."

She nodded in agreement. "Yes."

"Most people wouldn't think anything about calluses."

Just for a moment Rachel
hesitated, her gaze turned inward, before she resumed setting the table and
checking the food.
"My husband took extra
training. He had calluses on his hands, too."

Something tightened inside him, twisting, and his fingers slowly
curled. He darted a quick glance at her slim, tanned, ringless hands.
"You're divorced?"

"No. I'm a widow."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded again and began dishing up the eggs and bacon, then
checked the biscuits in the oven. They were just right, golden brown on top,
and she quickly turned them out into the breadbasket. "It's been a long
time," she finally said. "Five years." Then her voice changed and
became brisk again. "Wash up before the biscuits get cold."

She was, he reflected a few minutes later, a damned good cook. The
eggs were fluffy, the bacon crisp, the biscuits light, the coffee just strong
enough.
Homemade pear
preserves dripped golden juice over the biscuits, and the yellow cantaloupe was
ripe and sweet.
There was nothing fancy about it, but
it all fit together, and even the colors were harmonious. It was simply another
facet of her competent nature. Just as he was savoring his third biscuit she
said serenely, "Don't expect this every day. Some mornings I have cereal
and fruit for breakfast. I'm just trying to build up your strength." Her
manner hid the satisfaction she felt in watching this coldly controlled man eat
with such obvious enjoyment.

He leaned back in his chair, taking his time as he examined the
twinkle in her eyes and the smile that was barely hidden by the coffee cup she
held in her elegant hands. She was teasing him, and he couldn't remember the
last time anyone had actually dared to tease him. Probably back in high school,
some giddy, giggling teenage girl trying out her newfound powers of seduction
and daring to use them on the boy even the teachers considered
"dangerous." He'd never actually done anything to make them think
that; it had simply been the way he looked at them, with that cold, level gaze
as black as a night in hell. Rachel dared to tease him because she was certain
of herself, and because of that certainty she met him as an equal. She wasn't
afraid of him, despite what she knew, or had guessed.

In time. He'd have her, sooner or later.

"You're going about it the right way," he said, finally
responding to her teasing statement. Rachel wondered if he did it deliberately,
waiting so long before answering. He could either be thinking about what he
wanted to say, or those long pauses could be designed to tilt the other person
a little off-balance. Everything he did was so controlled that she didn't think
it was a habit; it was a deliberate tactic.

There could be a double meaning to his words, but Rachel chose to
take them at face value. "If that's a bribe to keep me cooking like this,
it won't work. It's too hot to eat a big meal three times a day. More
coffee?"

"Please."

As she poured the coffee she asked, "How long are you
planning to stay?"

He waited until she had set the pot back on its warming pad and
returned to her seat before he answered. "Until I get over this, and can
walk and use my shoulder again. Unless you want me gone, and then it's up to
you when you throw me out."

Well, that was plain enough, Rachel thought. He'd stay while he
was recuperating, but that was it. "Do you have any idea what you're going
to do?"

He leaned his forearms on the table. "Get well. That's the
first item on the list. I have to find out how deeply we've been compromised.
There's still one man I can call when I need him, but I'll wait until I've
recovered before I do anything. One man alone won't stand much of a chance. I
have three weeks left of my vacation. Three weeks that they'll have to keep
this quiet, unless my body just 'happens' to wash up somewhere. Without my body
they're stalled. They can't make any moves to replace me until I'm officially
dead, or missing."

"What happens if you don't turn up at work in three
weeks?"

"My file will be erased from all records. Codes will be
changed, agents reassigned, and I will officially cease to exist."

"Presumed dead?"

"Dead, captured, or turned."

Three weeks. At the most she would have three weeks with him. The
time seemed so pitifully short, but she wasn't going to ruin it by moaning and
sulking because things weren't turning out just the way she wanted.
She had learned the hard way that
"forever" could be heartbreakingly brief. If these three weeks were
to be all she had with him, then she would smile and take care of him, even
argue with him if she felt like it, help him in any way she could… cherish him…
 
then wave goodbye to this dark warrior
and keep her tears for herself, after he had gone.
It
didn't give her much comfort to know that women had
probably been doing that exact thing for centuries.

He was thinking, his lashes lowered over his eyes while he stared
into his coffee cup. "I want you to make another shopping trip."

"Sure," Rachel said easily. "I meant to ask you if
the pants were the right size."

"Everything's the right size. You have a good eye. No, I want
you to get hollowpoint ammunition for that .357, a good supply of it. The same
for the rifle. You'll be reimbursed."

Being reimbursed was the last of Rachel's worries, and she felt a
flare of resentment that he'd even mentioned it. "Are you sure you don't
want me to buy a couple of deer rifles while I'm at it? Or a .44 Magnum?"

To her surprise he took her sarcasm seriously. "No. I don't
want you on record as having purchased any
type
of weapon since the date
I disappeared."

That startled her, and she leaned back. "You mean records of
this sort that are likely to be checked?"

"For anyone in this area."

Rachel looked at him for a long, long time, her gray eyes drifting
over the hard planes of his face and the closed expression in his eyes, eyes
that were older than time. At last she whispered, "Who are you, that
anyone would go to such lengths to kill you?"

"They'd rather take me alive," he replied dryly.
"It's my job to make certain that never happens."

"Why you?"

One corner of his mouth quirked upward in what passed for a smile,
though it was totally humorless. "Because I'm the best at what I do."

It wasn't much of an answer, but
then he was good at
answering questions without giving
any information.
The details that he'd told her had
been carefully considered, chosen to exact the response from her that he
wanted. It wasn't necessary; Rachel knew that she would do whatever she could
to help him.

She drained the last of her coffee and stood up. "I have
chores to do before it gets too hot; the dishes can wait until later. Do you
want to come outside with me, or stay in here and rest?"

"I need to move around," he said, getting up and
following her outside. He slowly limped around the yard, taking in every
detail, while Rachel fed Joe and the geese, then set to work gathering the ripe
vegetables from the garden. When he tired, Kell sat down on the back steps and
watched her work, his eyes narrowed against the sun.

Rachel Jones had a comfortable way about her that made him feel
relaxed. Her life was peaceful, her small house cozy, and that hot Southern sun
burned down on his skin…. Everything here was seductive, in one way or another.
The meals she cooked and shared with him brought up stray thoughts of what it
would be like to have breakfast with her every day, and those thoughts were
more dangerous to him than any weapon.

He'd tried to have a normal private life once, but it hadn't
worked out. Marriage hadn't brought the intimacy he'd expected; the sex had
been good, and regular, but after the act was finished he'd still been
solitary, set apart by nature and circumstance from the rest of the world. He'd
been fond of his wife, as far as it went, but that was it. She hadn't been able
to scale the barriers to reach the inside man; maybe she'd never even realized
he existed. Certainly she either hadn't realized or hadn't wanted to face the
true nature of his job.
Marilyn Sabin had looked on her husband as merely one of the thousands
of men who held civil service desk jobs in
Washington
,
D.C.
He went to work in the mornings
and he returned – usually – at night.
She was
busy with her own growing law practice and often had to work late hours, so she
understood. She was a fastidious woman, so Kell's cool, distant character had
suited her perfectly, and she'd never made any effort to see beyond the surface
to the complicated man beneath.