Promises in the Dark (21 page)

God, that had sucked.

He stared down at the sketch now—Zane’s face in the photograph from Africa retained all that bravado, but none of the fear. It was still there, but the man never let it show. Couldn’t.

Shit.

Cael threw the pad aside, ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes for a second.

He sketched whenever he felt out of control, not a feeling he enjoyed, especially when the fucking world was falling apart around his ears.

He’d been at the new safe house with Vivi for a little more than half an hour—they’d driven for three to get here and he’d made the executive decision to tell no one the location. He refused to let Vivi use the computers. Internet connections were spotty at best out here anyway but that had never been an issue before.

No, this was a family cabin, deep in the backwoods of North Carolina—off the grid and pretty much unused since his parents died, although someone had been keeping it up. If he had to guess, he’d lay bets that it was Zane.

Vivi had looked as though she was in a fog when they walked in. She sat down on the couch across from him, and the next time he looked up, she was asleep.

Too restless himself to sleep, he went to the kitchen to grab some food, even though he wasn’t all that hungry. In the middle of heating what Caleb was pretty sure would prove to be a crappy frozen dinner, Mace called.

“Give me some good news,” he told his teammate.

“We pulled some prints,” Mace said. “Compared them to the ones Kell and Reid ran first. The guys who broke in were wearing gloves—they left nothing new. There were another set of prints besides Vivienne’s, though. We didn’t get a hit on them, until I sent them to our friend at Homeland Security—he told me they belong to a guy named Ace.”

Caleb knew what his friend would say next, but prayed he wasn’t right.

“Ace is one of the major DMH players. And before you say anything else, you need to know we found the fingerprints in pretty intimate places—inside the fridge … on Vivi’s headboard. From the evidence, it looks like she was involved with one of the founding members of DMH.”

He wanted to punch the walls, but controlled that impulse. Instead, he forced a deep, calm breath. Took some more, and wondered what the hell Vivi had been involved in.

“You still think she’s innocent?” Mace asked in a voice that told Cael his teammate did not.

“Yes.”

“Cael …”

Mace hadn’t spent time with her. His natural distrust often clouded his instincts—and granted, in their line of work, sometimes that was for the best.

But not this time.

“Noah wants her turned over to the FBI. Now.”

“Then pretend you didn’t get in touch with me.”

“You’re going against a direct order, for some chick who might be involved with DMH? Jesus, Caleb, what the hell?” Mace sighed when Cael didn’t answer. “You got any solid proof that she’s not in with them?”

“No.”

“I suggest you get some. Noah’s going to want it. And don’t let her back on the computers. She’s done.”

Cael was about to ask Mace when he’d started issuing direct orders, but before he could do so, Mace was asking about Zane.

“Beyond getting his picture taken by a DMH operative?” Cael couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice, but both he and Mace knew it was masking fear. And it took an awful lot to scare him these days.

Mace was silent for a few seconds and then, “Someone’s been in his apartment. Riffled through his shit—I can’t tell if they took anything or not. Most likely, they’re just looking to see if he’s left Africa yet. Want me to tell Noah we need to go in—now?”

“Dylan’s headed to him.”

“Dylan doesn’t have enough manpower.”

“Don’t underestimate him, Mace. He’s got contacts everywhere.”

“So does DMH. It would be a brilliant move for DMH to erase one of their own and let Vivienne infiltrate us to see what we know, to plant fake intel,” Mace said, voicing what Caleb had been reluctantly thinking.

Yet … “There was no guarantee we’d go after her.”

“Maybe they expected Homeland to get to her first?” Mace asked. “You still believe she’s not working for DMH? That she’s not a damned good actress?”

Cael didn’t regret a damned thing he’d done up until this point, knew that if you wanted to win it all, you needed to be prepared to risk it all. And when it came right down to it, he was the one who could get the truth from Vivi—and he would. “I’ll take care of this, Mace. Trust me on that.”

“With my life,” Mace said before hanging up.

Cael glanced toward the bedroom and wondered how much Vivi would spill to him now that she was tired and secluded. Wondered how much of a prick he’d have to be to see if she’d been telling him the truth all along.

What was she here for—her medical skills or because she could handle a gun, and herself?

Probably a bit of both.

Dammit, she’d dealt with much worse, hadn’t been shaken. So Doc J’s clinic housed weapons, and no doubt offered more than a simple safe haven. She’d been a soldier, used a gun, seen people flourish under the kind of services he was providing.

Why she was looking for an excuse to leave bothered her, kept her tense and irritable—and made Doc J steer a wide berth around her.

Now, back in her tent, most of her things shoved into her bags, she assumed that Tristan wouldn’t be taking her into town in the middle of the night.

She’d showered after she’d packed, the cool water refreshing her, and she remained covered by the single towel she’d brought with her.

The feeling of physical need was an indescribable ache, a jolt of desire unable to be stuffed back inside with a cold shower or a good night’s sleep.

Even an orgasm by her own hand wouldn’t get the feel of Tristan’s body from hers.

She’d worked among men like him for years now—strong, capable, handsome. Men in uniform who could turn a girl’s eye with a smile and a nod.

But she’d never reacted to one on the purely physical level she had with him.

She dug out the small bottle of tequila, courtesy of Shelley, a friend she’d left back in Iraq.

For those days you really need it
, Shel had written, and today was certainly one of those.

Shel had even given her a glass, salt and a lemon, which admittedly had seen better days by now. Rowan tossed that aside but rimmed the small shot glass with the salt.

She downed the first shot, didn’t flinch as she welcomed the hot burn. She downed a second one just as quickly, and when the towel unwrapped and pooled around her lap she didn’t bother to pull it back up.

To completely obliterate herself, it wouldn’t take much, she supposed. It had been a long time since she’d gotten drunk.

She poured the next one, took a small sip and let the salt mingle with the warm tequila on her tongue before swallowing. She licked her upper lip, paused as a slight breeze came through the opened window, stirring her body like a lover’s touch.

As if she’d called to him out loud, Tristan barged into the tent, without a knock or an apology, his demeanor unchanged from earlier, an unresolved anger still burning in his eyes.

“I’m ready to drive you back to Freetown,” he said, his jaw clenched, and she knew that had to be a lie—no way would they travel this time of night.

He stared at her bared breasts—his erection, obvious through his pants, did nothing to hide it—looked at her with a blatantly carnal lust that made her want to rip off his clothes immediately. And still, his eyes remained cold somehow, despite all that heat radiating through them.

She said mildly, “You’re not going to try to stop me from leaving?”

“No.” He hooked his fingers in his cargos. “This place could save you, if you let it.”

“A place that trains killers.” She shook her head. “And I don’t know if I need saving.”

“We all do. And we train men to protect missionaries and other vulnerable people visiting this region,” he corrected her, the truth of his words written plainly across his face. “We do good things here.”

“Good for you. But I’m fine the way I am.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled his shirt off and started toward her. His pants were unbuttoned by the time he got to her. Wordlessly, he yanked her up roughly by the shoulders, and the towel was history. She was bared to him, and all she could do was murmur, “What are you doing?”

“Saying good-bye.” He dropped his pants. The only light in the tent was a small kerosene lamp, but it was enough for her to see him fully.

Then his hands wound around her waist, pulled her close to him, her body brushing his.

They’d barely said hello, and she wasn’t sure if she was coming or going. All she knew was the feel of his mouth on hers, the way she gave in to his touch.

There was no going back. She’d barely been able to go forward, and yet here she was, the future naked in front of her.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” she murmured when he pulled his mouth away.

“I’ll make sure you don’t forget anything.”

The laughter bubbled out then—part tequila, part pure joy at being in a man’s arms again and feeling like she belonged there.

The laugh faded into a soft moan when his tongue ran down the side of her neck and up behind her ear, as if he was tasting her. His strong hands held her waist firm, his erection jutting hard into her belly, her ass pushed against the flimsy card table, which would never hold both their weight.

But he had something different in mind, sank to his knees in front of her, spread her thighs open impatiently, and she felt herself tremble as she anticipated that first touch.

She knew it would feel like a lick of fire.

His tongue found her wet cleft, dragged along her folds and then concentrated on the tight knot of nerves, sucking it until the tension built to an unbearable level. It felt incredible.

Her hands gripped the edges of the table, her body straining toward his caresses. He penetrated her with his fingers, his tongue. Her clit tightened and she shuddered toward release against his mouth, unable to hold back the near scream that erupted from her.

Her legs began to buckle in earnest as the orgasm shot through her—she was still in the throes of it when he picked her up and laid her down on the cot.

He stood over her as she watched through her haze. He was big everywhere, his cock jutting out toward her, thick and heavy.

The cot sagged under their combined weight, but she didn’t care if it collapsed as long as he remained on top of her, spreading her open. She couldn’t protest when he entered her, stretching her with a pleasurable pain. And then he took her with a brutal hunger that threatened her sanity as she continued to contract through the aftershocks. There was no way she could come again this soon, but a second climax ripped through her without warning.

“Tristan …” She said his name at least three times in a row, if not more, although she sounded completely incoherent to her own ears. It must have triggered a response in him because he bucked wildly above her. He jerked through his release, his muscles taut, a low growl drumming from the deep recesses of his throat that vibrated against her.

When his gaze met hers again, for a brief moment, she swore there was no ice in his eyes.

When Tristan slipped out of Rowan’s tent now after sleeping next to her for a few hours, she hadn’t made mention of leaving again. Why she’d affected him so swiftly—and so deeply—was something he hadn’t stopped to consider last night when he’d stomped into her room like a caveman and acted like he was freakin’ claiming her.

But he had done it. There was no denying either the urge or the act.

Shit
.

He’d go grab the doctor and some guy who was protecting her first and then attempt to get Rowan to town by dark if she still wanted to go. If that didn’t work out, she’d just have to wait until morning.

Or forever.

Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him?

He slid into the old Land Rover, which remained hidden from view of the road by the building that housed the weapons. The car had been a pet project, born of necessity; one he’d started when he first arrived, working when things were quiet. He’d refurbished quickly in order to have more reliable transport than Doc J typically used to go into the smaller villages, which were easier to reach than the town.

He’d gotten farther than expected because the weather held out and parts had come in, all a fucking miracle, he’d told Doc J, who’d merely smiled.

Whether or not the man’s prayers worked—well, hell, Tristan wouldn’t question. It wasn’t worth it. But he did like to call Doc J
old man
to drive him crazy, because it seemed only fair.

Tristan had come here immediately following his discharge from the Rangers. No, it hadn’t been that simple. Doc J had sent for him because he’d known Tristan had nothing at home to go back to. Nothing and no one, and that was the most dangerous situation for any man to find himself in, especially one used to combat.

He’d planned on the Army being his whole adult life. Counted on it. And when that rug had been pulled because he’d gone against direct orders, he’d shut down hard. Took a dishonorable discharge to avoid court-martial and all the bullshit that went with a trial. He’d allowed himself to be shuffled here by a well-meaning sergeant who’d felt bad that Tristan had taken the brunt of the punishment.

It had promised a lot of solitary time, which Tristan hadn’t minded. He’d never liked making connections. Those he’d made during his early childhood and teen years had nearly cost him his life. When the military provided an escape from that, it became another affiliation he’d been uncomfortable with.

The training for long-range reconnaissance he’d received with the LRS unit had proved invaluable out here, and the solitary, spartan lifestyle suited him more than he’d ever have believed when he was younger and thought he needed the world and its riches at his feet to make him happy, to make him a man.

Doc J had given him a second chance—something Tristan knew he deserved—and he also knew the man would never make him feel indebted.

We’re here to help people in need
, Doc J had first told him.

Most people thought Doc J was deeply religious. Tristan had wanted to laugh at both the man’s conversion and his assertion that the help was only in the religious sense.

Men of God weren’t supposed to lie. Tristan guessed there were still some things even God couldn’t beat out of a former Ranger. Furthermore, Doc J continued to hold true to that assertion, never mentioning to outsiders either the arsenal of weapons or the men scattered throughout this continent utilizing said weapons, who were there to
bring help and consolation to the weary and chronically unprotected
.

Yeah, Doc J could give a mean speech when he was feeling inspired. And Tristan hadn’t been inspired in a long damned time.

Rowan’s last words to him floated through his mind now.
Don’t think so much
.

Yeah, thinking was the last thing on Tristan’s mind, thanks to her.

Jesus, touching her yesterday in the weapons storage tent had burned. He’d gone under the hose to cool down, stayed there for ten minutes, wasting precious water in an attempt to cool the throbbing between his legs. And it hadn’t worked worth a damn, because all he could see was Rowan’s face, a pretty, aristocratic blonde who would never look at someone like him if she were back in the real world.

She’d walked in all long-legged and blond and slim, like she could be walking on a runway or holding court at a society ball.

Not that he’d ever been to one, but hell, he’d seen pictures.

And she wasn’t headed to a dance—she was here instead, dusty and dressed down … and ready to break his heart.

No, he’d been there, done that with a rich girl a lifetime ago, and it hadn’t ended well.

He was nowhere near that place—and this world was too real for his taste most of the time.

So real that he was sure he should be convincing Rowan to get the hell out of here instead of planning ways to make her stick around.

There had been other women, sure. But not many had wandered through here, and none of them had stayed.

Missy had lasted longer than most, but for both of them it had been much more about scratching an itch than having a future. She’d moved on last year and he’d missed having a warm body to lie next to, but they’d had nothing in common beyond their military backgrounds.

It hadn’t been enough. Then again, what did he and Rowan have in common?

You know nothing about her, except for the fact that the two of you go off like firecrackers when you’re together
.

Who’s to say that wasn’t enough? She might’ve repacked her bags and readied to leave yesterday, but hell, she’d unpacked them first. He’d checked after she’d first arrived. His own were still packed, as if he was ready to take off at any time. To where, who the hell knew.

She’ll heal and move on
. He’d seen it happen a hundred times and he’d never really cared before as much as he’d been jealous that it had happened so easily for them.

We all have different paths, Tristan—some just take the long way around
, Doc J would say, and Tristan would sneer, but secretly he hoped the old man was correct.

For Tristan, peace was always an uneasy level of truce in his head. The voices of the past telling him he wasn’t good enough and never would be, the voices of the future telling him to move on.

It was the voices of the present he damn well needed to figure out, and they sure as hell hadn’t spoken a single word to him … not until last night, when he’d laid with Rowan.