Pursuit (28 page)

“No,” she said, seeming to choose her words with care. “No, he passed away. A . . . little while ago.”

“When—”

“Okay,” she interrupted. “That’s it for today. I’m done.” She laid down her brush, and it was as if that gesture pulled a curtain closed. No more portrait painting and clearly no more questions.

Frustrated again.

Matt was beginning to associate frustration with the woman. She was shutting him out. Him.
Him.

He’d never met a more impossible woman in his entire life. Matt had never had woman troubles. Not that he’d had to beat them off with a stick, but whenever he’d been attracted, it had just turned out that the attraction was mutual, which made things easy all around. He’d never had to exert himself with women, try to figure them out. In fact, half the time, he’d had to endure what felt like hours of monologues as his date du jour explained herself to him, in excruciating detail.

In Matt’s experience, women became high-maintenance very fast, and when they did, he was out the door.

Charlotte was the least high-maintenance woman he’d ever met. He had to pry information out of her with a crowbar, and even then he got the bare minimum. He knew she was human, female, American. She’d studied art. That was about it except for the fact that she was beautiful, fascinating, and messed with his head in a major way. After two months of being concentrated almost exclusively on her, he basically knew zip about her. Direct questions were avoided, indirect questions sidestepped. Asking her things point blank got him a cool brush-off.

Well, there was always that old standby, sex.

Matt rose and crossed the room in two easy strides. Charlotte was busy putting her painting stuff away, or she would have seen him, clearly seen what he wanted from his face. She had her back to him, fussing with things on a table. Matt knew how to move quietly. When he stood at her back and put his arms around her, she jumped, then stilled in his arms.

He was a full head taller than she was and could rest his chin on the top of her head if he wanted to, but he didn’t. His height could be intimidating, and he didn’t want her intimidated. He wanted her relaxed and trusting. His arms went around her waist, and he pulled her tightly against him, until he could feel her all along the front of his body, soft and warm.

Having her in his arms somehow calmed something deep and inflamed inside him. Just holding her tightly against him, her arms clasped over his, made him feel better. He was all tangled inside with feelings he didn’t know how to analyze because he’d never had them before. His head wasn’t giving him many clues about what was going on, but his body sure was. He felt better when Charlotte Fitzgerald was in touching distance. He felt even better when he was touching her.

She didn’t fight being in his arms. If anything, she relaxed back into him, as if grateful for the support. Fine. He’d be at her back forever if she’d let him.

They stood there, in the quiet, colorful room, the sinking sun streaming directly in through the big windows, bathing the room in intense pink light.

The front windows were open to the sea breezes. Over Charlotte’s head, Matt could see the light wind ruffle the ocean surface, raising little waves. A panga came in early, unloading its catch, the silvery fish catching the light in gleaming flashes. He could hear the distant shouts of jubilation at the fine catch. A dog scampered eagerly among the fishermen, the sound of the barks distant.

The wind blew back a fine pale champagne tendril that fluttered against his neck. Charlotte seemed content just to lean against him, looking out the window as he was at the peaceful beach scene. She felt perfect in his arms. He leaned down to nuzzle the soft skin of her temple, the fine hairs tickling his nose. She smelled so wonderful he was nearly dizzy with it. It wasn’t perfume, it was more subtle than that. Some mixture of soap and shampoo and warm woman, blending into an unmistakable mix. The smell of Charlotte. His hands tightened as she tilted her head to one side. It was an invitation he couldn’t resist. He bent his head and kissed her long, pale throat, running his lips along the velvety skin of her neck from the jawline to the small, intriguing hollow at the base of her throat, where that special smell was particularly intense. He wanted to rub his nose in her like a dog, and snuffle. She was relaxing against him, more like melting, hands tightening over his. He lifted one of his hands from her waist to rub her stomach, then higher, the palm of his hand fitting itself over her breast. She fit utterly perfectly in the palm of his hand. His arms were around her so he could not only hear, he could feel her breath speeding up. Her heart beat frantically against his hand, like that of a wild bird that had been captured. Everything about this was such a delight. Every touch, every breath. He wanted to turn her in his arms and start kissing her, but that would require that she be out of his arms for a nanosecond and he couldn’t bear the thought. He bent down and nipped the lobe of her ear and felt her shudder. “Charlotte.” The word was a whisper because his throat was tight.

Her answer was a sigh, back arching against him.

Oh God, every move she made heated his blood, until it felt like hot liquid was scalding his veins from the inside out. He resented the clothes that separated her from him—the longsleeved paint-stained white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the jeans, his red tee shirt and jeans. He wanted them away, right now. He wanted to feel her skin against his, soft and yielding.

A sudden mental image of a naked Charlotte filled his head with such heat and light he couldn’t think straight. He imagined her on the big bed he could see through the open bedroom door, with the wrought-iron bedstead, on the vivid green blanket. He could see her, all that pale, soft skin—the narrow rib cage arrowing inwards, the long, slender legs . .

.

The thing vibrating in his pants wasn’t just his dick, though it took him a second to realize it. For just a second, eyes closed against the pleasure of nuzzling Charlotte’s neck, it seemed entirely appropriate that his dick would buzz and leap in its pleasure.

“Your cell phone,” Charlotte murmured.

He could ignore it. He
should
ignore it. What on earth could anyone tell him that was more important than knowing what Charlotte’s collarbone smelled like, what the underside of her breast felt like? Nothing.

The buzzing continued, like an enormously annoying gnat.

She twisted her head to look up at him. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

No.

The word was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it and dragged his cell phone out of his pocket. The display showed a number he didn’t recognize. He flipped the cell open and barked—“Hello?”

“Hey, big guy,” a deep voice from his past said, and, instinctively, Matt straightened. Tom Reich, his old XO from back when the world was young. Reich had retired six years ago to found a security company in San Diego and had made his first gazillion in two years. Since 9/11, security work had been low-hanging fruit. “Hozzit hangin’?”

It was their old greeting, and the answer couldn’t be said in front of a lady.

“Straight down,” Matt said, instead. It was even partly true. Charlotte had parted his arms with her hands and moved back toward her easel, and it felt like a heat source had been suddenly snatched away. It was a warm day, but the entire front of his body felt cold and bereft. There was a hollow empty ache in his stomach and between his thighs.

“I don’t know if I’m glad to hear that. Time was when the answer would have been different.” Reich’s voice held a faint undertone of irony. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something. When can you make it up to San Diego? Yesterday would have been good. It’d be on my dime.”

Matt didn’t even bother to ask what it was about. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be discussed over an unsecured phone line.
Cell phone
line at that. Just about any kid with a tin can and a string or even a smattering of electronics could listen in on cell phone conversations. Opsec had been drilled into their hard heads by equally hardheaded men using hammers, and it was by now second nature. Reich wasn’t going to give anything away over the phone, and Matt knew that.

If Matt wanted to know what Reich wanted, he’d have to see him, face-to-face. Matt’s gaze shot to Charlotte, calmly putting away her painting stuff. She did it the way she did everything—methodically and neatly. She was absorbed in her task, looking like a student, barefoot, dressed in ancient jeans and a white shirt with streaks of paint on it. She wasn’t in his arms anymore, but there was still a telltale wash of pink on her high cheekbones.

She’d been gone from his arms for maybe a minute and a half, and he already missed her ferociously.

Matt watched her for a couple of seconds, so beautiful, so precious. Because he had a hard-headed cynical view of the world, Matt didn’t find it hard to imagine that there was a scumbag out there waiting to take her out of that world. There were fuckers out there who’d kill something beautiful for the sheer pleasure of it, and he’d met more than his share of them. The world was a harsh, dangerous place with precious little room in it for beauty, of whatever kind. Lots of people planned day and night to wipe out anything beautiful or graceful because what was in them couldn’t stand the thought of beauty or grace. But they couldn’t have Charlotte. Charlotte was his, and he was going to keep her safe and out of harm’s way.

She looked up suddenly, as if aware that he’d been staring, and gave him a small smile. His heart leaped in his chest like a landed trout.

No way was he leaving her.

“Can’t do it, buddy,” he said, turning back to Reich on the phone. “I’ve got . . . commitments here.”

His commitment was watching him out of huge, gray eyes, suddenly still. That didn’t throw Reich. Reich stayed cool under fire, let alone when a minor spanner was thrown into his works. “Okay,” he said calmly. “If you can’t, you can’t. That means that I’ll come down to you. I’ll fly down to La Paz tomorrow morning and have a car waiting for me. I can make it to San Luis by noon. Where can we meet?”

Well, Reich was persistent, if nothing else. Matt knew that. He was the same way himself, like a dog that wouldn’t let go of a bone. Would
never
let go of a bone he wanted. Okay, so there was going to be a meet.

They could meet at Lenny’s shop, except for the fact that the tourists were starting to swell from the small, steady trickle in winter to great gushing geysers of them. Half the time the shop was so full of bloated, sunburned Americans it was like wading through a sea of pink foam rubber just to get to his room at the back. And his room wouldn’t work—it was increasingly full of snorkels, masks, tanks.

There was another reason Matt didn’t want Reich out back. He didn’t want him to see what Matt had sunk to—camping out in the back of a dive shop. Technically, Matt was now camping out on Charlotte’s living room floor, but still. It was a hell of a comedown from someone who’d commanded the finest soldiers on the face of the Earth. Back in the day, Matt’s team had had a budget of $25 million and he’d been an integral component of the shield protecting America.

Tom Reich had been all of that and more, and now he ran what was said to be one of the finest security companies in the States. He was worth millions.

Matt had exactly $13,000 to his name, a small state pension that carried him through to the end of the month in Baja but would carry him to the twelfth of the month up north. All his worldly possessions could fit into two duffel bags. In all the ways that mattered, he was no better off than a student crashing in a friend’s pad.

Having Reich see exactly what his living conditions were like was too much of a humiliation.

Matt would rise again. He’d been brought low, but he’d come back, he knew that. He’d already come back physically. His life plan had been to stay in the Navy and rise as far as he could, but dying had messed with that plan, and so now the rest of his life was up for grabs. He’d rise again, but right now, keeping Charlotte safe was his main priority. In the meantime, Reich was waiting for an answer.

“There’s a pretty good restaurant here called La Cantina Fortuna. Great food. It’s on the waterfront, you can’t miss it. Let’s meet there. I’ll be there from, say, twelve thirty on.”

“Okay, see you then.” Reich wasn’t one to waste words. Matt was listening to an empty line. He flipped his cell phone closed with a flick of his wrist and turned to Charlotte. He wanted to get back to where they were before the interruption, but her body language had changed. Arms crossed, expression wary and troubled. “Matt,” she murmured, taking a slight step back. “I don’t want you to—”

They both turned at the loud knock. Charlotte jumped a little, then looked at her watch.

“Oh! It’s already six. That must be Mr. Ensler.” A glance down, and she grimaced.

“Heavens, I can’t present myself like this! Matt, please open the door and keep him entertained while I go change.” She disappeared into the bedroom.

Another rap on the door, this one impatient.

Well, looked like he was the designated entertainer.

Matt opened the door and yup—there he was. Mr. Art Gallery himself. Matt didn’t shoot him on sight because Ensler had checked out. Not only had Matt’s Canadian friend vouched for there being a Perry Ensler—he’d actually
heard
of him! It had taken Matt a good ten minutes to get over the shock of a former soldier recognizing the name of an art gallery owner. But then how many Canadians were there, anyway? Maybe they all knew each other.