The Impossible Alliance (4 page)

Only…it wasn't there.

If his palm wasn't still smoking from that blisteringly intimate introduction at the castle's ledge, he'd have panicked. Instead, he thumped the barrier. Solid rubber.
Prosthetic.
No doubt designed to flesh out the disguise.

It would have to go.

He grabbed the collar of her shirt and jerked his hands down and apart. Buttons flew off, smacking into pine needles, the tree trunk and his own jaw as the once-white fabric gave all the way to Morrow's waist. An extremely convincing masculine chest lay beneath, meticulously crafted from broad shoulders and moderately muscled pectorals, right down to the sparse thatch of hair embedded within the shadowy, textured skin. A quick sweep of his fingers assured him it was definitely synthetic skin.

Thank God.

The disguise was so good that for a moment there, he'd wondered if he wasn't losing ground more quickly than he feared. For all Hatch's reassurances, where would he and Morrow be then?

Jared crammed the insidious doubts back into their box and locked the lid as he ran his fingers up the right side of the prosthetic chest, locating the row of hooks that sealed the edges of the molded rubber together, as well as the second set hidden along the ridge of her shoulder. He popped both rows almost as quickly as he'd popped the buttons on that grimy men's dress shirt, biting back an instinctive whistle as he cracked the false chest open and pushed the phony pecs to the side.

Any doubt he had left vanished at the sight.

What lay beneath was definitely all woman.

Generously so. Right down to the stiff nipples crowning the twin ivory swells. Swells that had captured the intermittent starlight filtering through the pines of the Rebelian forest to gleam softly amid the shifting shadows. He ig
nored his body's sudden, inappropriate reaction to the sight and leaned down to press the disk of his stethoscope into the upper curve of the woman's left breast, blocking out the nocturnal symphony around them as he focused on the gradually strengthening heartbeat pulsing through his ears.

Relieved, he withdrew the scope.

He lifted the woman's shoulders and slipped the stethoscope between the rear of the prosthetic and her equally bare back, timing the rise and fall of her lungs as he evaluated their capacity. Satisfied, he withdrew the scope and hooked it around his neck. But as he settled that mop of matted brown hair into the pillow of pine needles, his fingertips brushed across a row of tiny, tightly spaced bumps tracking up the woman's scalp, mere millimeters inside the hairline, just behind her right ear.

Stitches?

Possibly the cause of that coma? Before he could lean down close enough to find out, the body beneath his shifted. Stiffened.

“What the
hell
do you think you're doing?”

He stiffened. Unfortunately he also dropped his gaze. Stared. And damned if he didn't flush. He ripped his gaze from those taunting swells, hoping the darkness would conceal the damning tide rapidly spreading up his neck. The moment he met the dark-brown fury leveled on him, he knew it hadn't. He eased his chest up from the woman's exposed breasts. “I beg your pardon. I was…examining you.”

“Really?”

Given the circumstance, her dry sarcasm shouldn't have stung. But it did.

Why he even gave a damn what some nerdy, hermaphroditic geologist thought was beyond him. He'd saved the man's hide, for Christ's sake. Jared shifted to his haunches as that same geologist sat up and closed the prosthetic over those firm, telling breasts. Okay, he'd saved the
woman's
hide. Didn't that earn him at least one get-out-of-a-faux-pas free card?

Evidently not.

What it earned him was an unobstructed view of the woman's entire torso as she scrambled to her knees, the false chest swinging wide as she swayed suddenly. He reached out to steady her, but the fury cutting through the coke-bottle lenses that had somehow survived their harrowing flight stopped him cold. He anchored his hands to the ends of the stethoscope at his neck and settled back onto his haunches, ignoring his burning hamstring as he noted the raw edges of the intravenous needle site on the back of the woman's hand.

She hadn't been out of that coma for long. It was best not to push her. At least, not until she'd had a chance to regain her balance and her bearings.

The agent in her kicked in sooner than he'd expected, because the moment her balance steadied, she pushed herself.

He watched, ready to grab her if need be, as she peeled the filthy shirt off what turned out to be her own sinewy arms, not the prosthetic's. She removed the rubber chest and dumped it onto the pine needles, those distinctly feminine curves gleaming amid the shadows as she retrieved the shirt once more. She slid the dingy sleeves up her arms, finally pausing as she hooked her fingers to the shirt's edges—and the row of missing buttons.

The woman's muddy brows arched as she lifted her chin. “Been a while, has it, Soldier?”

Damned if the fire didn't return to his neck.

He thought about apologizing, but he didn't. There was no way in hell he was telling anyone just how long it had been, much less this woman. Still, her pointed brow succeeded in scoring its second point.

Despite her wobbly balance, he could have turned away.

Before he could answer, she knotted the trailing ends of the shirt around her waist, then brought her hands to her
face, peeling off that sparse mustache, then those thick, muddy brows, leaving smoothly arched wisps behind. Dark blond, light brown, he couldn't quite make out the color. There were too many shadows between them.

Evidently there were still too many angles, as well.

The hard edges of her jaw melted away next as she tucked her fingers inside her mouth and removed a set of temporary dental implants that had obviously been designed to alter the shape of her face. Her cheeks stood out pale and high in the dim light. Without the implants squaring her chin or the fake mustache drawing attention from her mouth, her lips were now full, almost lush.

Jared unhooked one of the canteens from his web belt and set it on the ground between them, knowing she'd be needing it soon enough, just as he knew why she'd decided to pull a Victor/Victoria out in the middle of the Rebelian forest. DeBruzkya and his goons would be tracking two men. She was turning them into one man and one woman.

Not bad.

In fact, damned clever.

That, combined with her increasing steadiness, told him she'd come out of that coma with the brilliant brain Hatch had raved about still intact. He reached into his rucksack and pulled out the pair of work boots. He'd learned years ago that more often than not, a package was imprisoned sans shoes to lower morale and prevent escape. Morrow was no exception. He dumped the boots at her feet and added a pair of black socks.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. I need to get a fix on our position. As soon as I get back, I'll finish examining you. Then we need to talk.” He waited for her nod, then stood to retrieve the handheld global positioning unit from his jumpsuit as he headed for the clearing. Now that he was reasonably confident she'd survive the night, it was time to focus on other pressing concerns. Like where the hell they were. And how
much ground they had left to cover before they arrived at their designated safe house.

Jared fired up the GPS unit as he reached the clearing.

Five kilometers.

His breath eased out. The chopper had ferried them farther than he'd thought, but still not far enough. Morrow might be steady now, but her weakened state had already caused her to pass out once. With this much ground to cover, there was a good chance it would happen again before the night was over.

The original plan had been to have the chopper cleave to the riverbed as long as possible. Three-quarters of the way up the river, the bird was supposed to have slowed just long enough to cut them loose. Then it would have resumed its breakneck speed, eventually veering west to head straight for the Rebelian-Gastonian border, DeBruzkya and his radar twidgets never knowing he and Morrow had been left behind.

All that'd changed the moment Morrow passed out.

Once the chopper was forced to hover, the stalled blip on the scope would have afforded even DeBruzkya's inept twidgets a chance to pinpoint their modified infiltration site. Jared flicked off the GPS and shoved the unit into his pocket, then lit up the dial on his watch. Twenty minutes had passed since they'd set down. Just about long enough for DeBruzkya to scramble one of his own choppers and send it after them. He had to act quickly.

Jared retrieved his flashlight and lit up the gash on his biceps first. The ragged edges of the wound appeared black beneath the red beam streaming from his mini Maglite. So did the blood clot already filling in the center of the furrow. Even better, there was no sign of the bullet. This one could wait.

He swept the beam down to his left hamstring.

Unfortunately that one couldn't.

He twisted his torso to get a better view as he lit up the wash of black spreading down his left leg.
Damn.
He low
ered his hand, biting down on a second curse as he probed the gash. The wound was twice as long as the rip across his biceps, but again, no bullet. Nor did it require a tourniquet.

Yet.

He retrieved a dark-green cravat from the first-aid pouch on his hip and stuffed the fabric into the tear in his pressure suit. Satisfied the makeshift bandage would do for the moment, he headed back into the pines, determined to get a look at the bumps he'd discovered in Morrow's hairline. Not to mention a better grasp on her vitals. He snagged the stethoscope from his neck and raised the flashlight, illuminating her form as he reached her. She finished tying her second boot and stood.

Sweet Mother above.
He managed to retain his hold on the flashlight, but the scope hit the forest floor. If his leg burned as he leaned down to retrieve it, he didn't notice.

Damned near all he could discern was
her.

As he'd anticipated, she'd used the water from the canteen to drench that unruly mop of hair. But the slicked-back result drew attention to more than a high forehead and smooth cheeks. Much more. The sleek style combined with those missing dental implants to highlight the curve of her now heart-shaped chin, drawing his gaze straight down her unusually long, graceful neck. Straight into the gaping V in that tatty shirt. All the way down to the knotted tails resting a bare inch above the riveting navel crowning her sleek belly.

“Well? I'm fresh out of lipstick and mirrors. Will I do?”

He must have taken too long trying to come up with a suitable answer. The unexpected awkwardness that flashed through her eyes as she waited killed the sultry effect and—thankfully—his body's powerful reaction to it. Her tongue slid across her bottom lip as he lowered the Maglite. He recognized the motion for what it was. A nervous habit.

For a split second he was reminded of Morrow, the man.

Carnal sex and awkward, nerdy innocence?

It didn't make sense. Then again, what part of the entire transformation did? Beyond a copious list of professional qualifications, Jared hadn't been able to glean much from the personnel file Hatch had provided. But he had discovered that Dr.
Alexander
Morrow had been connected to ARIES for the past six years. What kind of woman was willing to suppress the essence of her being this completely, for that long? And why?

Dammit, it was none of his business.
She
was none of his business. He had a patient to heal. An agent to return to active duty. A joint mission to complete. And despite what his mentor thought, he also had a ranch and a life to return to.

For a few years, anyway.

Hatch.

Jared stiffened as the stunning realization slammed into him from out of nowhere—and then from everywhere.

“What's wrong? Do I look that bad—or are we that far off position?”

He dropped his gaze to the fingers that had made their way to his forearm. Fingers that were long and tapered but also, now that he thought about it, noticeably feminine. He dragged his gaze up to those murky eyes and stared into them, ignoring the growing concern as he searched the shadows that were probably as phony as the rest of her, furious at their boss and furious with her. But most of all, furious with himself.

In the heat of their escape, he hadn't even noticed the most insidious deception of all.

The lie of omission.

“Why the hell didn't he tell me you were a woman?”

H
e didn't know.

Alex sucked in her breath as the relief crashed through her, buffeting her tenuous hold on equilibrium. Desperate to maintain it, she closed her eyes. It was a mistake. The undertow snagged her balance and she went down—until his hands came snapping up to grab her arms and steady her.

“Easy.”

If anything, the raw husk in Jared's voice caused the world to churn faster. She sealed her eyes shut and dug her fingers into his forearms, waiting for the dizziness to ebb before she dared to open them. Before she dared to face that piercing amber stare—and that dangerous question.

The world steadied and she opened her eyes. Relief swamped Alex again, but this time she held fast. Jared had dropped the flashlight to grab her. With the crimson glow at his feet, his dusky features were safely cloaked within the shadows, his black jumpsuit and knit hat helping him blend in with the forest and the reigning night.

Thank God.

Her brain was still rattling around in her skull after that fiasco of a chopper flight. While the faulty microphones hardwired to her hearing aid were still magnifying every nocturnal buzz, drone, trill and chirp within a two-mile radius with fanatical precision, she could at least hear herself think. Even so, she did not need to stare into this man's shrewd gaze. Not until she'd had a chance to regain her composure.

She released her fingers. “I'm fine now. You can let go.”

He didn't.

“I swear, I won't faint on you.”

He continued to hold her arms for several moments, silently assessing her before he, too, released his grip. She waited as he leaned down to retrieve the flashlight. But as he straightened, she caught the glimmer of metal in his hands, plastic tubing.

His stethoscope.

Apprehension crawled through her, elbowing out the relief. “I said, I'm fine.”

“I'm sure you are. But I need to get a look at your scalp.” He shifted the scope and flashlight to his right hand and reached out with his left. “I think you've got—”

She jerked her head out reach. “I know. I found the stitches earlier when I removed the gauze someone had smothered my head and face with. They're fine.”

“They may also be connected to your coma. I'll need to examine them.”

The hell he did. She didn't care if those stitches were knitted across a six-inch, seeping gash, that hand wasn't getting anywhere near her hearing aid. She took another step. “I just told you, I examined them. They're fine. I'm fine. The cut has already healed.” She took a third step, stopping when the back of her shirt snagged against a tree, trapping her. “Shouldn't you be filling me in on the plan? When's the replacement chopper due?”

He stood there for several moments, then sighed. She eased her breath out as he finally hooked the stethoscope around his neck and switched off the flashlight. Evidently he'd decided not to push the issue—for the moment.

She grabbed the reprieve gratefully.

“There isn't one.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Replacement chopper. There won't be one. Not for several weeks. Perhaps longer.” He tipped the end of the darkened flashlight toward her ear. “Which goes back to why I really do need to examine you. There's been a change of plans, Agent Morrow. You have new orders. We both do.”

She sucked in her breath, swallowed her curse. He might not have been briefed about her gender or the hearing aid, but he did know who she really was. Or rather, whom she worked for. Wait a minute. “
We
have new orders?” She clamped down on a fresh surge of dizziness as she waited for him to respond.

“We'll be working together on this one.”

No bloody way.

“That's impossible. I signed on as a singleton. I always work alone. Always. Sam knows that. Dammit, he wouldn't—”

“Sam?”

The rasp might have been deceptively soft, fused with the barest hint of the Texas drawl of his youth, but it was also rife with speculation.

This time, she swallowed an entire string of curses.

And then she nodded.

She didn't have much of a choice. She knew what he was thinking. What any agent who knew Samuel Hatch as well as Jared Sullivan knew him would be thinking.

She was on a first-name basis with the director of ARIES. A director who'd just risked an international incident to free her from that damned makeshift hospital cell. A director who'd risked the life of another agent—an agent Sam loved and trusted more than he would his own son if
he'd had one. But he obviously didn't trust that agent enough to tell him she was a woman. He had to suspect that she'd slept with the man. She didn't care.

It was better than the truth.

She sealed her fate with a single, telling shrug and damned herself to hell in the process. “Since Rita died, Sam and I have become…close.” It was the truth. But she also knew Jared would misconstrue it. Especially when she felt his gaze drop to the yawning gap in her shirt and linger there.

He dragged it up. “I'll just bet you have.” His shadowy shrug was pointed. Insolent. “Too bad
Sam
has chosen to ignore your desires—and passed you off to me.”

Damn him.

Alex sucked up her pride as each of her forbidden fantasies about this man crumbled beneath reality. She should have caved in to temptation and engineered another meeting with Jared months ago, that one as herself. It would have saved her far too many sleepless nights. As it was, she still had to deal with
this
night. With him. The real Jared Sullivan and not some erotic figment of her imagination.

The silence between them thickened until it succeeded in deafening the constant nocturnal cacophony ringing through her ear. She should wait. Force him to break it.

To her astonishment, he did it on his own.

He reached up and pulled the knit cap from his head as he sighed. “Look, I was out of line. I have a lot of respect for Samuel Hatch. He's a good director. A good man. What he does on his down time is his own business. Let's just say I'm a little pissed to find out he sent me on a job without giving me all the facts. But I shouldn't have taken that out on you. It's not as if you knew I was coming.”

But she had concealed that same damning fact from him, hadn't she? Not tonight, but three short months ago. Though she now knew this man would never, ever, bring up that brief, piercingly uncomfortable meeting, she could
feel the accusation hanging between them—thrumming with betrayal.

With disappointment.

He might not know that she'd overheard half that call, but he did know she'd come out of that bathroom in time to discover tears trickling down the face of the Man of Stone himself, just before she'd dared to offer her own awkward sympathy. Never once mentioning that she was a woman.

Maybe it was the convoluted effects of that blasted coma. Maybe it was the escape. Maybe it was the constant, distracting racket in her ear. Hell, maybe deep down she was really just a coward at heart. Because she'd just discovered that she didn't have the nerve to address that night at Hatch's house out loud, either. Much less confess that she knew why he'd been so devastated. So she addressed the only part she could. “You're right. Sam is a good man.” The best. But he was also more.

At least to her.

Unfortunately, if Sam hadn't confided their relationship to Jared, then it wasn't her place to share it, either. To do so would shatter the bargain she and her uncle had struck years before and, whether or not she believed Sam, would also risk both their careers, as well as her life. A life Sam had entrusted to the man waiting patiently to see if she'd accept his apology.

She should. Truth be known, she owed Jared an apology, as well, for her behavior when she'd regained consciousness in his arms. Behavior she still didn't understand. She knew full well the man hadn't been copping a feel. From the few but telling comments Sam had dropped regarding this particular operative through the years, Jared Sullivan was not a rutting stag. The opposite, in fact. Hadn't she overheard proof of that herself?

She sighed. “Look, Agent Sullivan—”

“Jared.”

Alex stared into the dark, searched the shadows shroud
ing the man's imposing body, especially the ones obscuring the equally imposing planes of his face. She finally gave up. He was just too far away. What she'd have given to have superhuman sight to go along with her souped-up hearing. Or at the very least have the nerve to snag that flashlight and shine it on that razor-sharp gaze. To know for certain if those eyes were glowing from the extension of an honest-to-goodness olive branch—or gleaming with open speculation.

He'd offered his real first name. What was hers?

She reached for the branch—and ignored the guilt. She extended her hand. “Dr.
Alexandra
Morrow.”

Even a detailed check into her background from someone at his level would support her claim. Whether or not he believed her, he extended his hand as well, the hard warmth engulfing hers. Heat slid up her arm. Her breath came out in rush.

He frowned. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.” She tugged her hand from his grip as quickly as she dared and forced a smile. “Still a little woozy, I guess.”

How long could she abuse that excuse?

His frown cleared as he nodded. “It's because of the coma. I'm surprised you've held up as well as you have. You're one for the medical books, you know that?”

She might. But he didn't know the half of it.

She returned his nod, anyway. “I admit there was a moment there when I didn't think I'd make it. If you hadn't slung me into that harness…” She trailed off, wincing in memory—and then in reality as the magnified screech of a hoot owl somewhere overhead ripped through her skull. Even so, that owl had nothing on that thundering iron bird. “You saved my life back there. I'd like to thank—”

He shook his head, cutting her off. “It's not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.” She risked the dizziness and captured his hands, squeezing them quickly. “Thank you.” She breathed her relief as the roiling vertigo remained at bay—
until an unmistakably erotic pull replaced it as he squeezed back.

“You're welcome.”

She swore she could feel the air between them warm. Thicken. She did not want to know if he felt it, too.

Leave it to her blasted hyperactive hearing aid to pick up the masked
whoosh
of his own breath. This time, it was his hand that executed a discreet retreat. His entire body withdrew several steps, too. He turned and dropped his stethoscope, flashlight and black knit hat beside the rucksack and machine gun he'd left at the base of a tree. He unhooked his web gear next, adding the nylon harness to the pile. His first-aid kit followed. Moments later his massive chest blocked her view as he hunkered down. It didn't matter. The vibrations from the zippers at the legs of his jumpsuit ripped across her eardrum as he released the rows of metal teeth just above his boots. They died out as he stood to peel the insulated coveralls down and off his boots, boots that until that moment she hadn't realized were more lumberjack than Airborne Ranger. A second later the jumpsuit joined the pile of gear. She watched, intrigued, as he tugged the rubber band from his hair. The shadows obscuring his features deepened as the thick silk slipped past his shoulders to settle around his face.

“Well?”

She nodded approvingly as he stepped in front of her. Evidently she wasn't the only quick-change artist around. With his hair flowing freely and that matching cable-knit turtleneck toning down his massive chest and arms, in addition to his dark jeans and nondescript jump boots, Agent Sullivan looked more like a local woodsman out for a midnight stroll than a finely honed ARIES operative on the prowl in the backwoods of…

“Where are we?”

He stilled. “You don't remember?”

Before she could answer, he turned back to the pile of
gear, leaning down to retrieve something. She stared at the disk of that gleaming scope as he returned.

Great.

She steeled herself as he moved in close, determined to ignore his scent and his warmth as he tucked the cool disk into the curve of her upper breast. “I don't have a blessed clue where we are. The last I remember, I was attending a conference in Holzberg. I'm not even sure how long I was out. I woke up a couple of days ago…I think. It's hard to say, since I kept falling back under. Twice I saw someone else. A man. He'd been beaten severely. I think he was a doctor or at least a nurse assigned to treat me.”

He slipped the scope from the gap in her shirt and tucked it beneath her collar, sliding the disk far enough down her back to listen to her lungs. “Why?”

“He was wearing a white lab coat.”

“I don't suppose—”

“No. I didn't see a name. I didn't hear one, either. Except for my own.” She breathed easier as he withdrew the scope and hooked the tubing around his neck—until he lit up the face of his watch. The dial glowed softly as he captured her wrist and timed her pulse. She willed it to slow.

“Hmm.”

Was that a good “hmm” or a bad “hmm”? She decided on the former, easing out her breath as he withdrew his fingers altogether, then headed for the pile of gear. He headed back, sans scope—but with a mini flashlight in his right hand.

Oh boy.

“The man spoke to you?”

Her panic revved as Jared turned on the flashlight.

“Alex?”

She dragged her gaze to his. She'd been right to worry earlier. Those amber eyes might be mesmerizing, but they were also much too shrewd for her peace of mind. She
could almost feel her ear throb beneath them. He was waiting.

What had he asked her?

She shoved the panic down and cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”