The Spy Who Loves Me (26 page)

“No,” she said, punctuating the word with a firm shake of her head.
“I
don't.” She closed her eyes, exhaling loudly. “But maybe the mission does.”

“Then I can come?”

“Looks like I don't have much of a choice.”

Finn restrained the urge to punch a victorious fist into the air, doubting that Amber would appreciate the gesture. Besides, while he may have won the battle, he still had to win the war. And he didn't mean the one brewing in the Middle East.

Amber thought she didn't need him. But Finn had a different take on that. They'd save the world. And then he'd get to work on saving the girl.

B
randon maneuvered the Buick over the curving mountain road with ease, taking the twists and turns at a speed well above the posted thirty miles per hour. He was as worried as Amber about the potential interception of calls from her house or from either of their cell phones, so he didn't mind making the trip. He just wanted to be done and back to the cabin.

He planned to stop at the pay phone near the market in Running Springs, but if he found a phone earlier, that was fine with him. Because of the frequent inclement weather and the possibility of travelers getting stranded, the powers-that-be had installed a few pay phones along the main roads, and Brandon was more than willing to make use of the first one he noticed.

Ostensibly, he wanted to get the message delivered and get back to plan the assault on the island with Amber. In truth, he had an ulterior motive—he'd seen the way she and Finn looked at each other.

He didn't like it.

Not that Brandon had any illusions about having Amber—or any woman—for himself. But he didn't want the Unit to lose a damn good agent to some bullshit notion of a happily ever after. Amber wouldn't be happy shoved behind a desk in a dark basement. And that was true no matter how good in bed Mr. Phineus Teague happened to be.

He rounded a curve at a precarious seventy-three miles per hour, feeling rather giddy when the passenger-side wheels lifted off the pavement. A turnaround came into view, and he noticed the yellow telephone.
Perfect.

He pulled into the gravel half-moon area that marked the turnaround—a place where slower traffic on the two-lane mountain road could move out of the way of impatient travelers—and twisted the key. He was out of the car and at the phone before the engine quit sputtering.

Brandon dialed, tapping his foot impatiently while he waited for his calling card information to go through.

“James Monahan,” came the voice on the other end of the line.

“It's Brandon,” he said, thankful he'd reached his mentor. “It's important.”

And as he started to give James the rundown of the last couple of days, a shiny black Suburban rounded the corner, pausing at the crest of the hill just above Brandon.

The driver rolled down his window, screwed a silencer on the Glock he always kept in the car, then checked his rearview mirror. All clear. Just then, Brandon turned, his eyes widening with recognition as he saw the car. The driver aimed and fired, hitting Brandon dead center in the chest.

A kill shot, and the agent went down. Without smiling, the driver rolled the window back up, slipped the gun into the glove box, and continued down the road.

 

Mrs. Digby's bedside manner didn't allow for quibbling, which meant that Finn had the morning to himself while Amber succumbed to strict orders to relax. Since Mrs. Digby was in Amber's hidden study doing God knows what, Finn decided to use the free time productively.

He decided to snoop.

Not so much out of nosiness, but out of self-preservation. Amber seemed confident enough in her ability to get them onto the island, so Finn had to assume that even without Unit 7's blessing, she had access to weapons, transportation, and other stuff like that.

But Finn didn't intend to rely on assumptions. Not when his ass—and Amber's—were on the line.

So he went poking around the house looking for ingredients, containers, components—anything and everything from which he could make a bomb, a noisemaker,
something
to give them the advantage on the island.

He didn't find much. Certainly nothing prefab. If Amber had grenade launchers, flame throwers, or night-vision goggles lurking about, they were hidden behind the china cabinet or in some other secret room he'd yet to discover.

As he expected, the kitchen and the bathroom proved to be the most promising sources for supplies. Apparently Mrs. Digby had a membership to a Sam's Club, because all the basic staples—sugar, salt, dried pasta, beans, even a container of saltpeter—were bought in bulk and stored neatly on shelves in the walk-in pantry.

In a cabinet next to the oven he found Tupperware in a variety of shapes and sizes. The space under the bathroom sink, as he expected, yielded Drano, Ajax, bleach, and a box of wooden matches. The box gave him an idea, and he headed back to the pantry. Sure enough, twenty-four boxes of Strike Anywhere matches were lined up on the bottom shelf, just waiting for Finn to put them to good use.

Unfortunately, though, every idea he had for something that went boom required some ingredient that he couldn't locate. Frustrating. Dozens of pieces, but no way to complete an entire puzzle. If only he had a good solid length of pipe. Or a tennis ball, even.

He frowned, his eyes drifting to the bowl of dog food in the utility room that opened off the kitchen. If he was lucky, Brinkley would prove himself useful.

Finn headed out the side door into the cleared area next to the kitchen. He assumed Brinkley had a dog house and, sure enough, a miniature log cabin designed especially for the four-legged mountain resident was tucked in next to the house between a woodpile and a compost heap. Brinkley wasn't anywhere to be found, so Finn got down on his hands and knees and peered into the dog house. Nothing.

He sat back, balancing on his heels as he let his gaze drift over the yard. If he were a dog, he'd have chew toys, bones, balls, and big pieces of rope to tug on. Finn was only interested in the balls. And it was a long shot, too. Tennis was hardly the sport of choice for a woman like Amber. She was more the rock climbing/skydiving/rappelling down a cliff face type.

Even so, dogs liked tennis balls, and Amber liked Brinkley. So Finn figured it was worth the search. Fifteen minutes later, his persistence was rewarded, and he crawled out from under the front porch with two grungy, bald tennis balls.

Perfect.

 

Brinkley's barks drifted up from outside, squeezing through the fuzz in Amber's brain. She stretched and yawned and glanced at the clock—already four. She'd slept for hours, and felt another step closer to being human.

With a groan, she hauled herself out of bed, then pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and headed downstairs. She was somewhat surprised that Brandon hadn't poked his head in to update her on James, but knowing him, he was planning the assault and letting her sleep in.

All the more reason to head downstairs; Amber hated being left out of anything.

She found Finn on the porch, a tennis ball in his lap, Brinkley bouncing around Finn's chair like he was hyped up on speed. Amber laughed, shaking her head. “You're tormenting him,” she said. She picked up the second ball, the one on the table next to Finn, planning to toss it into the side yard. But just as she grabbed it up, Finn caught her hand, his fingers closing gently over the ball.

“Probably best not to do that,” he said.

She frowned, then peered more closely at the ball. A small hole had been cut through the rubber, and she squinted, realizing that it was chock full of match heads. She looked at Finn, her brows drawn together.

He shrugged. “I couldn't find Mrs. Digby, and I wasn't certain how well stocked you were. So Brinkley volunteered to let me turn his toys into bombs.”

She licked her lips, the gesture designed to hide her amusement. “He volunteered, huh?”

Finn nodded gravely. “Absolutely.” He glanced at the ball in his lap. “I'm working on the second one now. And I found some saltpeter in your pantry, so I made a couple of smoke bombs, too.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “They're cooling in the fridge.”

“Yummy,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I figured the matches sticking out of them will keep you and Mrs. Digby from mistaking them for tiny popsicles.”

“I'm impressed,” she said. And, in truth, she was. Although her training had included the basic chemistry of explosives, she'd never had a need to cook her own supplies. It impressed her that not only did Finn have the skill, but that he'd taken the initiative. “What did Brandon say about all this?”

“Nothing,” Finn said. “I haven't seen him.” He looked at her face. “I take it that's not good?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.” She headed for the railing and looked down at the valley spread out below, as if Brandon would somehow emerge from the treetops. Brinkley padded over, then stood up on his hind legs, his fuzzy paws on the redwood rail as she idly scratched behind his ears.

Finn followed, swinging his arm around her shoulder. She pulled away, disconcerted by how right it felt to be in Finn's arms.

“Amber?” He turned to face her, disappointment simmering in his eyes.

“James may have called him in to debrief the air support guys. He's probably just in Los Angeles.” She glanced at her watch. “I'll give him three more hours and then call.”

She looked up at Finn, saw that his brow was creased, then remembered that he hadn't been privy to her and Brandon's plans. “If we're unsuccessful,” she said, “James is going to arrange to bomb the island. At least, that's our plan.” She cocked her head, meeting his eyes. “We may not get off in time. Are you sure you want to go along?”

“I'm sure.”

She met his eyes, undone by the intensity of desire reflected there—both for her and for joining the mission. She shook her head. “Finn—”

He pressed a fingertip to her lips, silencing her, then slid his hand around to cup her neck. His lips met hers before she had time to think, to react. The frantic call of reason, telling her to back off, to escape, was lost in a haze of pleasure that filled her senses, conquering the last bits of the pain that still lingered in her body.

“Amber,” he murmured, breaking the kiss and brushing his lips over her hair.

The sound of her name rang in her ears, his voice, so filled with want, with need.

For her.

She put her hands against his chest and pushed away, breaking not only the connection, but the magic. She watched his face, her own sadness growing as his features hardened. “I'm sorry,” she said, wanting to be the first one to speak. “I can't do this. We want different things.”

“I want you. You want me.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Yes,” he said. “And don't tell me that nothing can come of it, because that's not the point. Not yet.” He ran a hand through his hair, and she could see the frustration building. “Tell me, then. Tell me straight out that you
don't
want me. Tell me that, and you'll never hear another word from me about it again.”

She pressed her lips together, wishing she could say exactly that. It would be so simple. One little lie and her problem would be solved. She'd lied to him before; hell, she lied almost every day of her professional life.

But the words just wouldn't come.

“You see?” he said. “I was right.”

She quirked an eyebrow, then sat down on the deck, her feet tucked under her. Brinkley trotted over and laid his head on her thigh, silently demanding that she pet him. She complied, burying her fingers in his scraggly fur. “You two are a lot alike,” she said, lifting her head just long enough to meet Finn's eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, kneeling down to pet the dog as well. “We both slobber all over you.”

She laughed. “That, too,” she said. She bent closer to Brinkley, receiving his sloppy dog kiss. “What I meant is that you both wandered into my life. I kept him. But I can't keep you. The Unit—”

“Doesn't allow it. I know. Mrs. Digby told me. But there has to be some way we can make this work.”

“Why? You don't always get what you want in life, Finn. Believe me. Sometimes you have to make hard choices.”

“Amber, I—”

“How?” she interrupted. “Just tell me how we can make it work.” She didn't look at him, afraid that her eyes would reflect too much hope. Because right then she wanted him to have the answer. Because she sure as hell didn't.

He stayed silent.

She knew she'd made her point, but she drove it home anyway. “Suppose you were me,” she said. “Would you just walk away from the Unit?” She met his eyes. “Would you?”

He didn't answer. Instead, he stood back up, propping his arms on the porch railing as he looked out over the valley.

“I didn't think so.” Amber climbed to her feet, a weariness in her bones that had nothing to do with her illness. She brushed a light kiss against his cheek, fighting the urge to cling to him, holding tight throughout the night. Instead, she moved back toward the house. “Get some sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow.”

She didn't turn back to look at him, afraid that her eyes would betray her. Instead, she walked straight into the house and into her study, locking the passage behind her.