The Spy Who Loves Me (23 page)

Brandon laughed. “You'll what? All I have to do is press the horn and you'll get plugged in the gut by the gun wired to the glove box. Believe me, Teague, you're not calling the shots here.”

“That's a state of affairs I'm getting used to.” Finn leaned back against the upholstery and looked straight ahead, his eyes not even dipping down to check out the glove box. “But I still want an answer to my question.”

Brandon paused. He wasn't about to go to the Unit, but he still wasn't certain if he trusted this guy. Amber had, though. She'd trusted him with her life. And if Finn
had
been the one to gouge her shoulder, the odds were he wouldn't have stood by her. “No,” he finally said. “I've got someplace else in mind.”

“Where?”

Brandon licked his lips. “You'll see.” He shot Finn a look. “And we've got at least two hours of driving ahead of us. Use that time to tell me what's been going on.” He paused, turning to look at his companion. “And, Finn,” he added, “tell me everything.”

D
espite Brandon's insistence on knowing every little detail, Finn edited the story a bit, just to keep it from getting an NC-17 rating. He wasn't stupid—he knew damn well that sex had been part of Amber's mission all along, and Brandon was probably well aware of her assignment. But that didn't change the basic fact—telling Brandon would require Finn to admit just how hard and how fast he'd fallen for Amber. And just how much her deception hurt.

Everything else, though, he told in meticulous detail. Brandon interrupted twice, to clarify minor points, but for the most part he stayed silent, his eyes on the road, his jaw firm. By the time Finn finished the tale, they were high in the San Bernardino Mountains, well past Lake Arrowhead and on the Rim of the World Drive heading toward Big Bear.

“She jumped out of a plane with you strapped to her back?” Brandon laughed. “Damn, the woman's good.”

Finn swallowed, Brandon's unabashed praise reminding him that he was way, way out of his league. When they were on the island, he hadn't felt like he was in over his head. Or, more precisely, he'd been so far in over his head that he hadn't had time to think about it. He'd just done what he needed to do to survive.

Now, though…

Now he was alone with Brandon, a guy who held the very job Finn had always fantasized about. And damned if Finn wasn't reverting back to his freshman days, wanting to look cool in front of the seniors. He'd done damn good on the island; he knew that. But he couldn't tell that to Brandon without sounding like an asshole.

There was more, too, but Finn hated to admit it, even to himself.
Amber.
He'd fallen hard for her. Passion forged by fire, intense and undeniably strong. But he didn't know if Amber felt the same way, or, if she did, if she'd ever admit it.

Finn blew out a slow breath, then turned to look at her. Her breathing was regular and her color seemed better. That, at least, was good.

“Four days,” Brandon said, clearly still musing about all that Finn had said. “And then he blows the mosque.”

“That's about the sum of it,” Finn said.

Brandon shook his head. “The goddamn Hollywood sign. The FBI's been busting their ass looking for domestic terrorists, and you tell me it came from Prometheus. I guess Drake was right. No one at the Unit has a clue the thing was even fired. Shit.”

Finn didn't comment, but Brandon didn't seem to notice. He just tapped the brakes, closing his eyes. All in all, he slowed for less than thirty seconds, but to Finn it seemed forever.

Finally he looked up, his eyes meeting Finn's before shifting to the backseat. “Does she have a plan?”

Finn shook his head. “I don't know.”

Brandon's jaw shifted. “Twelve hours. I need her awake and coherent and ready to give me a debriefing by dawn tomorrow.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “And if she's not, I'm going to call the shots myself.”

Finn didn't argue. He didn't know what to say, and no matter what he did say, Brandon would do whatever the hell he wanted. So instead, Finn just sat back and hoped like hell an IV, some drugs, and a good night's sleep would get Amber back in shape.

“Don't worry,” Brandon said. “I know Amber. She'll be back in form in no time. Hell, less than twelve hours ago, she was tossing you out of airplanes.”

Finn reached into the backseat to stroke her cheek. “True enough. I just wonder if she didn't blow her wad surviving to Long Beach. Her shoulder's a mess and she's burning up. She's been drugged, beat up, handcuffed, almost drowned, and shot at. Do you really think twelve hours will do it?”

Brandon's eyes were deadly serious. “It's going to have to.” He tapped a stick of gum out of a pack on the dash, then offered one to Finn. “Juicy Fruit?”

“No thanks.”

Brandon tucked the stick into his own mouth. “Gave up smoking,” he said. Then he grinned. “That shit can kill you.”

 

The sun was descending through the tall fir trees, casting long shadows on the narrow, winding roads. Brandon had turned off the main road, taking a small, poorly paved route up into an undeveloped part of the mountain. At first, they'd passed a few other houses, mostly small A-frames, but now Finn saw nothing except the crush of trees against the road.

He considered asking again where they were going, but ruled it out. He'd find out soon enough.

A few more twists and turns, and Brandon maneuvered the Buick onto a dirt road. He turned to Finn, nodding toward the lightly traveled road in front of them. “Amber's idea of paradise,” he said. “My idea of hell.”

Finn didn't understand what Brandon meant until they passed a clump of trees and he saw the house—a charming blue A-frame surrounded on three sides by tall pines. Brandon maneuvered the car to a small parking area at the side, revealing a multileveled redwood deck instead of a backyard.

The house butted up against a steep descent, and the deck hung out over the edge of the mountain, providing what had to be a stunning view of the valley below.

“Wow,” Finn said.

Brandon shrugged. “The view's spectacular,” he conceded. “But I'm a city guy, myself.”

“So why are we here? Whose house is this?”

Brandon glanced into the backseat at Amber. “Hers, of course,” he said.

Amber woke with a start, sitting bolt upright and breathing hard, every muscle on alert. Then she recognized the familiar sounds and textures of the room and she relaxed.
Her hideaway.

Her shoulder ached, her sheets were soaking wet, and she had no memory of how the hell she'd gotten here. But even so, things were definitely looking up.

She tried to move, to get off the bed, but she couldn't. Her legs were crushed to the bed like dead weight. And for a split second, the fear sliced through her again. Then she heard the shallow breathing and realized—Brinkley had fallen asleep on her legs, a hundred or so pounds of solid Black Lab sitting like a sentry to watch over his injured mistress.

She tugged harder, and Brinkley rolled sideways, lost in doggie heaven. Amber stifled a smile, reaching out to stroke his belly.
Some watchdog!

Brinkley stayed still, but she heard a low chuckle from the far side of the room. Once again she was on alert, her hand sliding under her pillow for the gun she kept there. She trained the weapon toward the source of the noise. “Who's there?” Her voice was thin and weak, her throat dry and swollen.

“It's me.”

All tension faded from her body, replaced by relief and a disconcerting flood of desire.
Finn.

He turned on the lamp next to his chair, casting his face in shadows. Concern had etched lines in his forehead, and his eyes were tired and bloodshot. She knew instinctively that she was the cause of his worry, and she waited for the familiar flash of irritation. She didn't need someone worrying about her, didn't want that kind of attachment. But the irritation never came. Instead, she simply felt relief that he was okay, too.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

She lifted the arm into which someone had stuck an IV. “A bit like Frankenstein.”

He chuckled. “I'm not surprised.”

“Mrs. Digby?” she asked, assuming her so-called housekeeper had hooked her up.

He blinked, clearly not understanding the question.

“The IV,” she clarified. “Who put it in?”

“Brandon,” he said. “I would have preferred a doctor to look at you, but it didn't seem like a good idea under the circumstances. And Brandon said you had everything you needed here.” His eyes met hers, and she saw the question underneath. “He seemed to know what he was doing.”

She nodded. The house was her retreat for both her physical and mental well-being. “I keep the place well stocked,” she said simply. “You never know when you'll have one of those pesky medical emergencies where it's just not practical to involve a hospital.” She would have preferred Mrs. Digby's care over Brandon's, but so long as she survived, she couldn't really complain.

She looked at the IV bag. “Antibiotics?”

Finn nodded. “Big time. And saline, I think. Your shoulder was a mess, and you were dehydrated on top of that.” He stood up, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed by Brinkley. He gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ears, then took her hand. “How do you feel now?”

“Stiff,” she said. “My head's filled with cotton, I've lost a lot of strength, and my throat is parched. But I think I'll survive.”

His mouth twitched. “Glad to hear it.”

“Where's Brandon?”

“Getting some sleep, I assume.” His eyes met hers. “You woke up with two hours to spare.”

She shook her head, not understanding.

“Sun up,” he said. “Brandon was giving you just until dawn. If you were still out then, he was going to take things into his own hands. Including contacting the Unit if that's what it took.”

“Shit.” She couldn't blame Brandon, but it irked her that he didn't trust her judgment.

“That was my reaction, too. But we do have to do something. If you were still down for the count, that wouldn't leave him with a whole lot of options.”

She put her hand over her mouth to hide her grin.

His eyes narrowed to a squint. “What?”

“You,” she said. “Talking the talk and walking the walk.”

“Yeah, well, when in Rome…”

“And you love it,” she said. She could see it in his eyes. Behind the concern, behind the exhaustion, she saw a reflection of herself. He might have been scared stiff when they'd jumped out of that plane, but he'd do it again in a minute if that's what it took.

“I do,” he said. “Hell, I almost wish I didn't.”

She didn't have to ask what he meant. The past few days had been an aberration in his life. A life he'd be going back to soon enough. The thought depressed her, and she told herself it was simply because if they'd got him when he was younger, he could have been a damn good agent. But it was more than that, and she knew it. She just didn't want to think about it right then.

A soft knock sounded at the door, followed by the creak of hinges. Brandon stepped in without comment and walked straight to Amber's bed, his face all hard lines and angles.

Something had happened, and she sat up more, wincing slightly at the pressure she put on her shoulder. “What?”

“A school bus,” he said. “In Israel. Blown to bits.” Amber's stomach twisted as Brandon continued, turning slightly to bring Finn into the conversation. “The Israeli prime minister has already issued a statement promising retaliation.”

“Well, that's it, then,” Finn said. “That Saudi prince is going to blow up the mosque and blame the Israelis.”

Amber nodded, meeting Brandon's eyes. “He's right.”

“I know.”

“Are we screwed?” Brandon asked. “Now that you two escaped, Drake's going to want to get the show on the road. The mosque is still standing now, but—”

“No.” Amber shook her head, cutting him off. “If he didn't blow it already, we're fine. The satellite moved out of range at midnight.”

Finn nodded. “She's right.”

Brandon looked dubious, but Amber broke in before he could dissent. “Drake explained the possible firing dates to Mujabi. Trust me. We're cool.”

“What if he shifts the satellite's orbit?”

Amber frowned. That was out of her expertise.

“Doubtful,” Finn said. “That's the kind of thing that would likely show up to the folks at the Unit, even if he does it when they're not running a sim. Plus, it takes time to retask a satellite. Diana might have the know-how, but I bet they don't risk it. They know they can fire it unnoticed. Why change the orbit and risk compromising their whole setup?”

Brandon's jaw set into a hard line. “All right,” he said. “Let's hope you're right.”