Seduced by the Enemy (Blaze, 41) (7 page)

 

T
HE RED DIGITS
of the clock on the bedside table registered half past one. Peyton lifted her arms above her head and stretched, trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep. She'd feel more refreshed after a shower and pumping a good gallon of caffeine into her system.

In about five more minutes.

She snuggled back down under the covers and turned onto her side toward the middle of the bed. Running water from the bathroom shower gave her the slight reassurance that she wasn't alone.

She reached out and smoothed her hand over Jared's pillow. The only indication he'd even shared the queen-size bed with her was the indentation his head had made for the last four or five hours. She hadn't so much as quibbled about sleeping in the same bed with him. Strangely enough, once she'd showered and crawled between the cool sheets beside him, she'd
fallen sound asleep. Something she hadn't done in years.

Three years, to be exact.

She frowned and tugged his pillow closer, wrapping her arms around it and burying her face in the still-warm softness. Had he been so firmly imprinted on her that even now, after all these months, she'd found an odd sense of comfort in just being near him? Could something as simple as breathing in his rich, masculine scent be enough to offer her a sense of security, just by knowing he was close? Or did the unusual stirring of emotions stem from something else much more basic, such as a need to survive and the knowledge that on some level, Jared would move heaven and earth to make sure she lived through this ugly mess?

She didn't know the answer. Worse, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Perhaps she was still in shock, she mused. Under the circumstances, it'd be understandable, and would explain why she'd fallen so easily into finding comfort where she had no business seeking any.

With a sigh of self-disgust she shoved the pillow away and sat up, propping the pillows against the headboard behind her. Such ridiculous notions, she scoffed silently, and reached for the remote control. They were making the best of a bad situation until they could find a way out of the horror. And that was about as ridiculous as she'd allow herself to feel.

Period. End of story.

When Jared had started to feel the effects of being behind the wheel for over eight hours without a wink of sleep in the past twenty-four, she'd suggested they
find a place to stop and rest for a few hours. She could've taken over the driving, but she'd felt as exhausted as he'd looked. Jared rarely complained about anything, but when he'd said his eyes had started to feel grainy, that he was hungry and in need of sleep, she'd insisted. They'd both been completely wiped out, and finding a comforting bed in another low-priced motel made the most sense. Survival, plain and simple.

Period. End of story.

By four in the morning, they'd finally left the city, after pulling into the drive-through of an all-night fast-food restaurant. A double cheeseburger, fries and a cold drink later, they used her credit cards to create what they hoped would become a paper-trail decoy to buy them time. After stopping in Richmond for gas, then heading another thirty minutes south to Petersburg so she could register for a motel room they didn't use, they'd turned west, taking the state highways to Roanoke, Virginia. Considering she had no idea how long they'd be on the run, Peyton had convinced Jared that an unscheduled stop at one of those open-all-night discount chain stores was a necessity. Using cash, she'd purchased a few clothing essentials, along with some personal care items and a bag to carry everything. They were back on the road for another three hours before finding a place not too far off the interstate where they could catch some sleep before continuing to the seaside cottage on the Maine coast.

She pressed the button on the remote now and the television came to life. After cruising the channels and finding nothing more interesting than college football, she settled on a cable news station and half listened
to a report of a typhoon encroaching upon a country on the other side of the world.

The bathroom door opened and steam billowed into the room. She stared as Jared emerged, wearing nothing but a towel tied around his hips and another draped over his shoulder as he dried his hair. He reminded her of a Roman warrior who'd just visited a bathhouse after a long, dusty battle.

Her mouth went dry as if she'd just swallowed all that dust.

He glanced in her direction and managed a quick grin as he made his way across the room to his duffel bag, propped on the dresser next to the television. “You're awake,” he said.

She cleared her throat. “You're naked,” she managed to answer, without sounding too strained.

“Technically, not naked.” He dug through the bag, obviously not the least bit concerned that looking at him was causing her pulse rate to pick up speed.

She continued to stare in utter feminine fascination as the sculpted terrain of his back rippled and shifted beneath the smooth surface of his skin. He had indeed lost weight, making him more lean than she'd originally thought. His shoulders looked twice as broad as she remembered, and a dozen times more tempting. The thought of smoothing her hands over his back, down to his tapered waist, made her breathing more than a little irregular.

“Towels don't count.”

He chuckled lightly, but otherwise ignored her as he pulled fresh clothes from his bag.

The tiniest tug of that loosely tied knot and his towel would be history.

Yeah? And then what?

The possibilities were endless.

She shook her head. Something was definitely wrong with her.

Stress. That was the answer. Stress due to her current situation had her mind barreling down a forbidden path. She was an engaged woman, for crying out loud. Lusting after her…what? Former lover? Kidnapper? Savior? Well, it didn't matter what Jared was to her, besides off-limits. No way was she going to repeat history. Once was more than enough for her lifetime. Not to mention that, when they got their lives back, that would be the end to their…relationship?

Maybe that was her problem. They'd never had closure. Perhaps she was merely feeling the effects of emotional remnants of their former connections. Lord knew they had plenty of baggage. Seeing Jared again, sleeping beside him, watching him move around the room wearing nothing but that towel, which she wished like the devil would loosen and fall, had brought all those old feelings careering to the surface.

As far as excuses or rationalizations went, she liked the sound of that. Put the past to rest and get on with their separate lives. Whatever was once between them—the glue that had once held them together—had weakened and been chipped away.

Of course, to properly lay the past to rest, she'd have to venture back and uncover all those buried emotions, something she was not looking forward to by any stretch of the imagination. Her only consolation was that now was definitely not the time, not when they were running from an unknown enemy.

Some consolation.

She pushed back the covers and scooted off the bed. “I'm going to shower while you dress,” she said, carefully keeping her eyes averted from all that glorious, nearly naked male flesh. Needing distance, she snagged her bag off the chair and carried it into the bathroom with her.

Fifteen minutes later she emerged freshly showered and dressed in a pair of supposed prewashed jeans that felt stiffer than heavily starched taffeta, and a soft cream-colored sweater with two wide, dusty-blue stripes on one sleeve. Jared had packed up their meager belongings and was sitting on the edge of the bed with the remote control in his hand, watching a newscaster interview someone about the possibility of a dock-workers strike.

She sat in the chair facing him and pulled on a pair of thick socks, then slipped her feet into her new pair of sneakers. She stood and tested the footwear. Not bad, she thought, for less than twenty bucks.

She double-checked the bathroom to make sure she had everything, then zipped up her bag and set it next to his. “I hope you're hungry,” she said, “because I'm starved.”

He grabbed her hand and urged her to sit beside him. He didn't bother to look at her or explain, just issued another one of his orders he expected her to follow without question. “Watch the ticker on the bottom of the screen.”

The knots that had been in her stomach since she'd unlocked her car less than twenty-four hours ago tightened once again. “What is it?” she asked him, her entire body filling with dread. She read the news ticker as he'd instructed. More information on the typhoon
in the Philippines, followed by a blip about the World Series games starting the following week.

Her picture flashed on the screen. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “This can't be real.”

Jared slipped his arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. “It's real enough, sweetheart.”

The practiced seriousness of the anchorman's voice barely penetrated Peyton's surprise at seeing her photograph being broadcast over the cable news program. She caught phrases such as, “Wanted for questioning,” “Material witness,” “Use extreme caution” and “Believed connection to an unsolved murder.”

The latter phrase spurred clips from the investigation into the deaths of Santiago and Dysert, followed by another clip of Jared, who'd been interviewed after an arrest he instigated a few years ago made headlines and led to a commendation.

“Anyone with information is asked to contact the FBI,” the anchorman stated before offering a toll free number.

Jared tucked his finger beneath Peyton's chin and raised her face toward his. “Are you okay?” he asked. Compassion filled his green eyes as he looked down at her. “I know this is rough on you.”

She looked at him as if he'd gone crazy. “Okay? I don't think I'll ever be okay again.”

“You will, Peyton,” he said, then placed a gentle kiss across her lips. “I promise you.”

How could she trust him when he'd let her down before? How could she not trust him when he was the only one who believed her not guilty of crimes she didn't commit?

“Let's go,” she said suddenly. Needing distance
emotionally and physically, she pulled away from him and stood. She couldn't think straight when he went all sweet and tender on her.

“Have a burning need to get the hell out of Virginia?” he asked. The lightness of his tone didn't fool her. Not with worry clouding his compelling gaze.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and plucked her briefcase from beside the chair. “No, I think it's more like a burning desire to stay alive.”

S
UNNY
M
AC
G
REGOR
became a federal agent for one reason, and one reason only—because she loved to solve complex puzzles. And since she could barely manage to balance her checkbook without getting into trouble, a career using math or science had been out of the question. Since joining the bureau, she'd quickly learned that her skills went beyond basic problem solving.

Most agents dreaded what they called dead work, but she loved stakeouts, surveillance and paper trails. She could read through reams of investigative files on some of the bureau's most wanted criminals like most people read the latest legal thriller. On those rare opportunities when she was allowed to go undercover, she'd discovered she had a knack for that type of work, as well, and could easily slip into any persona required of her to do her job. Her biggest thrill came from being the agent to discover the single shred of evidence, no matter how small or insignificant, that resulted in a bust. Solving a puzzle like that was a high unsurpassed by anything else, in her book.

She pressed the End Call button on the cordless phone and stared at it, not quite sure whether she was dreaming or not. She glanced down at her breakfast, growing cold on the dinette table near the sliding glass
door overlooking the small balcony of her miniscule third-floor apartment. The call had been real enough, and shocking.

Receiving work-related calls at home was nothing new or unusual, except this one came directly from Vivien Kent, the bureau's assistant director. That fact alone had sent Sunny's investigative instincts into high alert. Why would AD Kent be calling her at home to give her an assignment? Sunny had been only one of two or three hundred agents who performed intensive background checks on presidential appointees going before the Senate Judicial Committee for approval on several occasions. Those type of assignments always came from her direct supervisor, handed down from his direct supervisor, Gibson Russell. If there was one thing the bureau adhered to, it was the chain of command. So why had Ms. Kent personally contacted Sunny and instructed her to report directly to her? It was downright strange, as far as Sunny was concerned.

But an order was an order, and she'd definitely just gotten hers. The bureau had received word from the Judicial Committee chair, Senator Martin Phipps, that first thing Monday morning, the president would announce the appointment of Theodore James Galloway to fill the opening left on the Supreme Court by the retiring Justice Elliot. Kent had called Sunny at home to give her the assignment of conducting the standard background investigation on the presidential appointee. A normal assignment surrounded by a cloak of mystery.

Sunny could blindly accept her assignment and not think about the whys behind the method, but her par
ents, from the peace-and-love generation of the sixties, had taught her to question everything. Just how did one question the second in command of the Federal Bureau of Investigation?

With no easy answers to satisfy her natural sense of curiosity, Sunny returned to her poached egg, twelve-grain toast and the cable edition of the midmorning news.

Maybe it was her attention to detail, she thought. Her superiors often commented on it. She would've made a great lawyer, except the thought of more schooling than absolutely necessary gave her hives. She'd even hoped to avoid further education altogether and had joined the Coast Guard for a two-year tour of duty, but once she'd discovered her life's calling, the no-college option had been quickly eliminated. The best way to satisfy her need for solving puzzles was to become a federal agent, and unfortunately, that had required four years of college for a degree in criminal justice with a psychology minor.

She'd really wanted to be a part of the Behavioral Sciences Unit, but as yet, she was still earning her way through fieldwork. Still, what better job for a natural-born problem solver than an FBI profiler?

Although she'd never been the best of students, she'd still put her G.I. Bill to work and struggled through classes, maintaining a barely acceptable grade point average, but enough for her to gain acceptance into the bureau's training program at Quantico.

That's when Sunny had found her stride.

A quasi-reformed tomboy, she'd found joining the bureau the best possible career choice for a girl who liked to get her hands dirty. Besides, where else could
a twenty-seven-year-old woman get paid to wear blue jeans to work, not have to spend a small fortune having her straight, shoulder-length blond hair done or her makeup perfectly applied to an only passably pretty face? Oh, sure, her closet contained the requisite blue suits that were the standard uniform for any FBI agent, but thankfully those were reserved for cases that were simply investigative in nature, such as the one AD Kent had just assigned her.

Sunny finished off her toast and was considering indulging in a second slice when the television picture changed. She stopped and stared at the official bureau photograph of former superagent Jared Romine. Although she'd never worked directly with Special Agent Romine, she knew of him, and not just because of his alleged crimes. He'd been one hell of an agent, someone she had looked up to and could only hope to ever be half as good as.

The screen changed again, adding a photograph of a woman Sunny recognized from the few occasions she'd been called to testify in court. Justice Department Counsel Peyton Douglas, and if rumors were to be believed, Romine's former live-in lover.

Her natural curiosity piqued a second time, and Sunny hung on to the reporter's every word. The piece started out with the usual rundown of the murders of Senator Phipps's aide, Roland Santiago, and the bureau's own Special Agent Dysert. Romine was not only their prime suspect, but now it appeared that Ms. Douglas had been implicated in Romine's crimes, as well. Both were wanted for questioning.

Something about the Romine case had always bothered Sunny, but she could never quite put her finger
on the problem. Although she hadn't been assigned the task of tracking down one of their own, if she'd been allowed the time, she knew she could figure out why the case didn't sit right with her. The Romine case was a puzzle of legendary status.

By the time she finished her breakfast, showered and prepared to leave for a lazy Saturday afternoon at her parents' small horse ranch in Virginia, she still hadn't been able to shake the niggle of doubt the Romine case was stirring in her mind, or her unease of being personally handpicked by AD Kent. But Sunny loved puzzles. As she made her way down three flights of stairs to the carport, she realized she now had two to keep her mind occupied.

 

I
N BETWEEN WORRIES
and concerns over the events of the last twenty-four hours, Peyton knew her primary focus should be centered on her immediate future. As they made their way from Roanoke into Pittsburgh early Sunday morning, she couldn't seem to get her mind off Jared and how sexy he'd looked wearing only that towel. Hard. Sleek. And way too tempting for her to find anything remotely close to peace of mind. Unfortunately, the cute little smile he'd tossed her way demanded equal attention. And there was no way she could possibly forget about that sweet, tender kiss he'd brushed over her lips back in the motel room.

She definitely had a problem. Those kinds of thoughts were sure to classify her as a candidate for the funny farm. She couldn't even say the lights were on, let alone anyone home.

Avoidance,
she thought, and gave a sigh of cautious
relief. That's what all these naughty thoughts were—her mind's way of avoiding the fear threatening to choke her. Like the way she avoided mundane, boring tasks. No difference whatsoever in how she'd rather wade through pounds of investigative reports than dictate page-line summaries from depositions in preparation for trial. Or cleaning toilets, for that matter. Now
there
was a chore she absolutely detested. Ironing underwear would be a hundred times more preferable than scrubbing a toilet, and Lord knew how much she hated ironing.

The only problem was, in avoiding all those little unpleasant chores, she was now living a way of life that was completely foreign to her, one that included twenty-four-hour jeopardy. A life that required complete dependence on her ability to focus and concentrate on events unraveling faster than a kitten who'd discovered a ball of yarn still attached to a sweater in progress.

She needed to do something—move around, take a short walk, anything. The long hours in the Expedition were getting to her. She'd attempted sleep, but other than an hour here and there, real slumber remained elusive. Truth be told, she couldn't close her eyes without revisiting the image of Jared's naked body, that smile or his sweet, tender kiss. Nor could she muster the strength to quash the erupting fantasies. Like what would have happened if she'd gotten out of bed and flicked that towel away from his body.

The possibilities were endless, and would have been oh so satisfying.

She let out another gusty sigh. She didn't have bats in her belfry. Oh, no, Peyton Douglas's belfry housed
snow geese. Big ones, with enormous flapping wings that created even more confusion to her already jumbled thoughts.

What she couldn't quite figure out, however, was how all of these illicit thoughts were even possible, not just because of her current situation, but because of her engagement to Leland.

She leaned back against the headrest and attempted to focus her attention on him. He was a good man. A man who deserved better than a fiancée who harbored erotic fantasies about another man.

Leland was driven. Ambitious. Thoughtful and caring. Not to mention understanding, especially of her past with Jared. Leland had admitted he couldn't quite fathom the attraction, considering she and Jared were such opposites.

Since when had love or animal lust ever made sense?

Jared had always been more outgoing, not afraid of anything and always willing to try new things, even if he did tend to keep his emotions in check. In comparison, she tended to analyze a situation to death before acting.

But hadn't that been part of the attraction? she wondered. The fact that they were opposites? It certainly hadn't meant she'd loved him any less. Yes, Jared was exciting. He always had been, while Leland tended to be more like her—analytical, never taking a step without viewing it from all angles. Come to think of it, compared to Leland, she could be considered downright impulsive.

She tried to imagine Leland's smile. All her mind's eye would allow was the sexy tilt of Jared's mouth.

She closed her eyes and attempted to conjure Leland's image. Instead of his perfectly trimmed brown hair and rich brown eyes, she saw Jared's vibrant green gaze filled with heated passion.

In a vain attempt to shake the traitorous thoughts from her mind, she concentrated on Leland's kisses. Her body heated as she relived the wild, erotic kiss she had shared with Jared back in the D.C. motel room.

Her eyes flew open as a horrible thought pricked her conscience. What if Kellie was right? Could she have agreed to marry Leland to avoid a roller coaster of emotion, like she'd once had with Jared? What if she
was
playing it safe by agreeing to become Leland's wife? Could her subconscious be trying to tell her that what she really wanted wasn't beige, after all, but a lifetime of red-hot and sexy?

Sex with Leland wasn't exactly boring, she silently argued on his behalf. Just because he wasn't the experimental type didn't mean he couldn't please her—some of the time. So what if they'd never shared the intense pleasure of oral sex, or something a little more adventurous than making love in a bed? Just because Leland didn't approve of what he termed nontraditional sex didn't mean her marriage was doomed. Nor did it mean Jared's prediction held any merit, either.

Or did it?

Would marriage to Leland have her screaming from boredom, in and out of the bedroom, in less than a year?

Answers that had rolled easily off her tongue twenty-four hours ago suddenly weren't so readily available.

She tried to convince herself that her jumbled thoughts were only a result of the confusion of her current situation. Her world had been turned upside down, emotionally as well as physically. All her silly notions about Jared and the fantasy of flicking away that scrap of terry cloth were nothing more than a product of immense stress. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her relationship with Leland. She was only confused because the uncertainty of her future was tangled up in fear. Especially her
immediate
future.

Maybe,
she thought, after pulling in a deep breath that failed to calm her.

Or maybe not.

It was the maybe not that had her worried. When was the last time she'd been anxious to rid Leland of a towel? Come to think of it, she couldn't remember ever having seen him wearing anything more daring than a silk robe during those times when she had stayed the night at his place.

When had she ever allowed her mind to wander into erotic territory with Leland in the starring role of the seduced? She frowned. Or the seducer, for that matter? Her thoughts of Leland, or fantasies, if she could call them that, were so…so practical. They were spun in terms of their future together, not mind-blowing sexual escapades. A weekend house in the country versus the joys of a painter's tarp and baby oil. Dressing for an elegant evening at any one of the many dinner parties he was invited to attend, as opposed to undressing him with her mind for a night of seduction and pleasure. Purchasing something practical, like a lawn mower or microwave oven versus splurging on
a Herme's scarf to use as a blindfold for the sole purpose of heightened sexual pleasure.

Beige versus red-hot and sexy.

Oh, God.

Had she learned nothing in the last three years? Had the pain and heartbreak she'd suffered been so traumatic that her subconscious had buried the real Peyton Douglas so deep she no longer recognized her true self? She was no stranger to loss, but when Jared ran, the pain had been horrendous, followed by even more heartache that had run deeper, reaching inside and tearing out more than her heart. Her soul had been ripped to shreds.