White Lies (23 page)

           
 
His family probably thought he was dead, and
there was no way he could let them know he wasn't without jeopardizing them. If
his cover was blown, his family would be at risk if Piggot ever found out he
hadn't died as planned. The way things stood now, he'd have a hard time
convincing his family of his identity anyway; he neither looked nor sounded the
same. His hands were tied until Piggot was caught; then he supposed Sabin would
arrange for his family to be notified that a "mistake" had been made
in identification, and due to extenuating and unusual circumstances, et cetera,
the error had only now been corrected. The Man probably already had the
telegram composed in his mind, letter-perfect. His family would be taken care
of; they would be glad to get him back despite the way he looked, or the fact
that his voice was ruined. Jay was the victim. They'd used her as the ultimate
cover. How in hell could she ever forgive that?

           
 
Jay dozed, finally awakening as they turned
onto the track to the meadow.

           
 
"We're home," she murmured, pushing
her hair back. She turned her head to smile at him. "At last."

           
 
He was tense again, surveying every detail of
the track. There was new snow on the ground, filling the tire tracks they had
made the day before and also obliterating any other trail that could have been
made after they'd left. All his training was coming into play, and Lucas Stone
didn't take chances. Unnecessary chances, that was. There had been more times
than one when he'd laid his life on the line, but only because he'd had no
other choice. Taking chances with Jay's life, however, was something else.

           
 
As usual, Jay picked up on his tension and
fell silent, a worried frown puckering her brow.

           
 
The snow surrounding the cabin was pristine,
but when Lucas parked the Jeep he put a detaining hand on Jay's arm. "Stay
here until I check the cabin," he said tersely, drawing a pistol from
beneath his jacket and getting out without looking at her. His eyes were never
still, darting from window to window, examining every inch of ground, looking
for the betraying flutter of a curtain. Jay was frozen in place. This man,
moving like a cat toward the back door, was the man she loved, and he was a
predator, a hunter. He was innately cautious, as graceful as the wind as he
flattened his back against the wall and eased his left hand toward the
doorknob, while the pistol was held ready in his right. Soundlessly he opened
the door and disappeared within. Two minutes later he stood in the back door
again, relaxed. "Come on in," he said, and walked back to the Jeep to
get their bags.

           
 
It irritated her that he'd frightened her for
nothing; it reminded her of the morning when he'd tracked her in the snow.
"Don't do that to me," she snapped as she threw open the door and
slid out. The snow crunched under her boots.

           
 
"Do what?"

           
 
"Scare me like that."

           
 
"Scaring you is a hell of a lot better
than walking into an ambush," he replied evenly.

           
 
"How could anyone know we're up here, and
why should anyone care?"

           
 
"Frank thinks someone would care, or they
wouldn't have taken the trouble to hide us."

           
 
She climbed the steps and knocked the snow off
her boots before entering the cabin. It was cold but not icy, because they had
left the backup heat system on. She took the bags from him and carried them
into the bedroom to begin unpacking while he built a fire.

           
 
Lucas watched the yellow flames lick at the
logs he'd placed on the grate, slowly catching and engulfing the wood. He
couldn't tell her, not yet. This might be the only time he'd ever have with
her, an indefinite period of grace while Sabin's men hunted Piggot. He'd use
that time to bind her to him so tightly that he could hold her even after she
found out his real name, and that Steve Crossfield was dead. She had told him
she loved him, but it was Steve Crossfield she'd been saying the words to, and,
oddly, it had been Steve Cross-field hearing them. He was Lucas Stone, and he
wanted her for himself.

           
 
His need was fast and urgent, like a fire low
in his belly. He walked into the bedroom and watched her for a moment as she
bent over to remove her boots and socks. She was as slim as a reed, her skin
silky soft. He caught her around the waist and tumbled her on the bed,
immediately following her down to pin her to the mattress with his weight.

           
 
She laughed, her blue eyes no longer filled
with irritation. "The caveman approach must be fashionable this
year," she teased.

           
 
He couldn't smile in return. He wanted her too
badly, needed to hear her say the words to him, not to a ghost. The yellow
glitter was in his eyes as he stripped her and surveyed her nakedness. Her
nipples were puckered from the chilly air, her breasts standing up round and
firm. He circled them with his hands and lifted the tight nipples to his mouth,
sucking at each of them in turn. She gasped, and her back arched. Her
responsiveness did it to him every time, shattered his control and made him as
hot and eager for her as a teenager. He could barely tolerate taking his hands
off her long enough to hastily tear at his own clothing and throw it to the
side.

           
 
"Tell me you love me," he said as he
adjusted her slim legs around his hips and began entering her.

           
 
Jay squirmed voluptuously, rubbing her breasts
against the hairy planes of his chest. "I love you." Her hands dug
into his back as she felt the muscles ripple.

           
 
"I love you." Slowly he pushed and
slowly she accepted him, her pleasure already rising to an urgent pitch. Her
body was so attuned to him that when he began the rhythmic thrust and
withdrawal of love-making her sensual tension swiftly reached a crescendo. He
held her until her shudders stilled, then found the rhythm anew.

           
 
"Again," he whispered.

           
 
She wanted to cry out his name, but couldn't.
She couldn't call him Steve now, and she didn't dare call him Lucas. She had to
bite her lips to keep his name unsaid, and a moan rose in her throat. He
controlled her, his slow, deep thrusts taking her only so high and refusing to
let her go any higher. She was on fire, her nerve endings exploding with
pleasure.

           
 
"Tell me you love me." His voice was
gravelly, the strain apparent on his face as he kept his movements agonizingly
slow.

           
 
"I love you."

           
 
"Again."

           
 
"I love you."

           
 
He wanted to hear his name, but that was
denied him. Sometime in the future, when this was all over, he promised himself
that he would have her as he was having her now, and she would scream his name.
He had to be content with knowing it himself, and with the way her eyes locked
with his as she whispered the words over and over again, until his control
broke and sweet madness claimed them both.

           
 
He couldn't get enough of her, ever, and
knowing that he might lose her was intolerable. Physical bonds were the most
basic, and instinctively he used them to strengthen the link between them. He
would make himself a part of her until his name no longer mattered.

           
 
Two nights later, Frank had just gotten into
bed when the telephone rang. With a sigh, he reached for it. "Payne."

           
 
"Piggot's in
Mexico City
," the Man said.

           
 
Forgetting about the good night's sleep he'd
been anticipating, Frank sat up, instantly alert.

           
 
"Do you have a man on him?"

           
 
"Not at the moment. He's gone to ground
again. It's about to unravel, and this move tells me who snipped the thread.
I'll take care of that little detail, but you get Luke out of there. The
cabin's location has been leaked."

           
 
"How much do you want me to tell
him?"

           
 
"All of it. It doesn't matter now. It'll
go down within the next twenty-four hours. Just see that they're safe."
Then Kell Sabin hung up, wondering if he'd cut it too fine and endangered a
friend, as well as an innocent woman.

           
 
At the first beep from the palm-size pager
lying on the bedside table, Lucas was on his feet and reaching for his pants.
The tone told him it was the communications beeper, not the alarm caused by the
laser beam being broken, but the very fact that Frank was contacting him in the
middle of the night was alarm enough. Jay roused and reached for the lamp, but
Lucas stopped her.

           
 
"No lights."

           
 
"What's going on?" She was very
still now.

           
 
"I'm going out to the shed. That's the
communications beeper. Frank's trying to get in touch with us."

           
 
"Then why not turn on a light?"

           
 
"He wouldn't contact us in the middle of
the night unless it was an emergency. It might be too late. Piggot could
already be close by, and a light would warn him."

           
 
"Piggot?"

           
 
"The guy who tried to make me into beef
stew, remember?"

           
 
"I'll go with you." In a flash she
was out of the bed and fumbling with her clothes in the dark. Lucas started to
stop her, not wanting her to leave the safety of the cabin, but if Piggot had
found them, the cabin wouldn't be safe. A handheld rocket launcher in the hands
of an expert, which Piggot was, could turn the cabin into a shattered inferno
in seconds.

           
 
He stamped his feet into his boots and grabbed
the pistol out of the holster, which he always kept at hand. As he left the
room he lifted his jacket from the hook beside the door, then shrugged into it
as he raced through the dark cabin to the back door. Jay was right behind him;
she had on her jeans and his flannel shirt, her bare feet shoved into boots.

           
 
They slipped across the snow to the shed, staying
in the shadows as much as possible. The ramshackle shed was a revelation; Jay
had been stunned the first time Lucas had shown her what lay below its surface.
He moved a bale of hay aside and revealed a small trapdoor, just wide enough to
allow his shoulders through, then pressed a button on the pager that released
the electronic lock. The trapdoor silently swung open. A narrow ladder extended
downward, illuminated only by tiny red lights beside each step. Lucas urged her
down, then he followed and closed the door, once more sealing the underground
communications chamber. Only then did he switch on the lights.

           
 
The chamber was small, no more than six by
eight, and crammed with equipment. There were a computer and display terminal,
a modem hookup and a printer against the end wall, and an elaborate radio
system on the right. That left about two and a half feet of room on the left
for maneuvering, and part of that was taken up by a chair. Lucas took the chair
and flipped switches on the radio.

           
 
"On air."

           
 
"Get packed. Piggot has been spotted in
Mexico City
, and we have word the location of the cabin
is no longer secure." Frank's voice filled the small chamber eerily,
without the tinny sound radios normally produced, testifying to the quality of
the set.

           
 
"How much time do we have?"

           
 
"The Man estimated four hours; less if
Piggot has already put accomplices in the area."

           
 
"His usual method is to move people in,
but keep them at a distance until he arrives. He likes to orchestrate things
himself." Lucas's voice was remote, his mind racing.

           
 
Silence filled the chamber, then Frank asked
quietly, "Luke?"

           
 
"Yeah," Lucas said, aware of Jay's
sudden movement behind him, followed by absolute stillness. He hadn't wanted to
tell her like this, but all hell would be coming down in a hurry. Four hours
wasn't a lot of time, and no matter what happened, he wanted her to know his name.
For four hours she would know whose woman she was.

           
 
"When?"

           
 
"A couple of days ago. Any chance of
intercepting Piggot before he gets here?" That would be the best-case
scenario.

           
 
"Slim. Nailing him there would be our
best bet. We don't know where he is, but we know where he's going."

           
 
"He won't go through customs, so that
means he's in a small plane and will land at a private airstrip, one close by.
Do you have a record of them?"

           
 
"We're pulling them out of the computer
now. We'll have men at all of them."

           
 
"Where's a safe place for me to stash
Jay?"

           
 
Frank said urgently, "Luke, you're out of
it. Don't set yourself up as bait for the trap. Get in the Jeep and drive, and
call me in five hours."

           
 
"Piggot's my mess, I'll clean it
up," Lucas said, still in that cool, remote tone. "If I'd taken care
of him last year, this wouldn't be happening now."

           
 
"What about Jay?"

           
 
"I'll get her out of it. But I'm coming
back for Piggot." Realizing the futility of arguing with him across
two-thirds of the continent, Frank said. "Okay. Contact Veasey, at this
frequency, and scramble." He recited the frequency numbers only once.

           
 
"Roger," Lucas said, and flipped the
switch that cut them off. Then he shoved the chair back and stood, turning to
face Jay.

           
 
Her entire body felt numb as she stared at
him. He knew. His memory had returned. Her time of grace had ended, the mirrors
had shattered, the charade was over. The violence that had brought him into her
life was about to take him out of it again.

           
 
With the return of his memory, he was truly
Lucas Stone again. It was there in his eyes, in the yellow gaze of the
predator. His face was hard. "I'm not Steve Crossfield," he said
bluntly. "My name is Lucas Stone. Your ex-husband is dead." She was
white, frozen. "I know," she whispered.

           
 
Of all the things he'd expected her to say,
that wasn't one of them. It stunned him, confused him, and irrationally angered
him. He'd agonized for days over how to tell her, and she already knew?
"How long have you known?" he snapped. Even her lips felt numb.
"Quite a while."

           
 
He caught her arm, his long fingers digging
into her flesh. "How long is

           
 
'quite a while'?"

           
 
She tried to think. She had been caught in a
web of lies for so long that it was difficult to remember. "You... you
were still in the hospital." Scenarios flashed through his mind. He'd been
trained to think deviously, to keep hammering at something until it made sense,
and he didn't like any of the situations that came to mind. He'd assumed from
the beginning that she was an innocent blind, used by Sabin and Frank Payne to
shield him, but it was more likely that she'd been hired to do the job.
White-hot fury began to build in him, and he clamped down on his temper with
iron control. "Why didn't you tell me?" God, for a while he'd thought
he was going crazy, with all those damn memories coming back and none of them
connected with the things she had told him. He might have gotten his memory
back sooner if he'd had one solid fact to build on instead of the fairy tales
she'd woven.

           
 
He was hurting her; his grip would leave
bruises on her arm. She pulled at it uselessly, gasping as he only tightened
his fingers. "I was afraid to!"

           
 
"Afraid of what?"

           
 
"I thought Frank would send me away if he
knew I'd discovered you weren't Steve! Lucas, please, you're hurting me!"
At last she could say his name, even though it was in pain, and her heart
savored the sound.

           
 
His, grip eased, but he caught her other arm,
too, and held her firmly. "So Frank didn't hire you to say I was Steve
Crossfield?"

           
 
"N-no," she stuttered. "I
believed you were, at first."

           
 
"What changed your mind?"

           
 
"Your eyes. When I saw your eyes, I
knew."

           
 
The memory of that was crystal clear. When the
doctor had cut the bandages away from his eyes and he'd looked at Jay for the
first time, she had gone as white as she was now. That was odd, because he knew
Sabin would never have overlooked a detail as basic as the color of his eyes.

           
 
"Your husband didn't have brown
eyes?"

           
 
"Ex-husband," she whispered.
"Yes, he had brown eyes, but his were dark brown. Yours are yellowish
brown."

           
 
So his eyes were a different shade of brown
than her husband's had been; it was almost laughable that Sabin's carefully
constructed scam could have fallen apart over something as small as that. But
she hadn't told them that they had the wrong man, which would have been the
reasonable thing to do. She hadn't even told him, not then and not during the
weeks when they'd been up here alone. Angry frustration made his voice as rough
as gravel. "Why didn't you tell me?

           
 
Didn't you think I'd be a little interested in
who I really am?"

           
 
"I couldn't take the chance. I was afraid—"
she began, pleading for understanding.

           
 
"Yeah, that's right, you were afraid the
gravy train would end. Frank was paying you to stay with me, wasn't he? You
were with me every day, so there was no way you could hold down a job."

           
 
"No! It isn't like that—"

           
 
"Then what is it like? Are you
independently wealthy?"

           
 
"Lucas, please. No, I'm not wealthy—"

           
 
"Then how did you live during the months
I was in the hospital?"

           
 
"Frank picked up the tab," she said
in raw frustration. "Would you please listen to me?"

           
 
"I'm listening, honey. You just told me
that Frank paid you to stay with me."

           
 
"He made it possible for me to stay with
you! I'd lost my job—" Too late, she heard the words and knew how he would
take them.

           
 
His eyes were yellow slits, his mouth a grim
line of rage. "So you jumped at the chance for a cushy job. All you had to
do was sit beside me every day and anything you wanted was given to you, while
Frank paid your bills. This explains why you wouldn't marry me, doesn't it? You
were happy to accept your 'salary,'

           
 
but marrying a stranger was a little bit too
much, wasn't it? Not to mention the fact that the marriage wouldn't have been
legal. You saved yourself some sticky trouble by dragging up all those
excuses."

           
 
"They weren't excuses. For all I knew you
could have had someone who cared for you—"

           
 
"I do!" he yelled, his neck cording.
"My family! They think I'm dead!" Jay groped for control, managing to
steady her voice. "I couldn't marry you until you'd gotten your memory
back and knew for certain you wanted to marry me. I couldn't take advantage of
you like that."

           
 
"That's a convenient scruple. It actually
makes you look noble, doesn't it?

           
 
Too bad. If you wanted the gravy train to keep
running, you should have married me while you had the chance and just kept
pretending I was Crossfield. Then, when I got my memory back, you could have
been the poor victim and maybe I would have stayed with you out of guilt."