Without a Trace (21 page)

“What—”

“Earth tremor.” He tightened his grip. “Just a little one. Morocco’s prone to earthquakes.”

“Is that all?” When the vibration ceased, Gillian let out the breath she’d been holding. “I could give you some scientific data on earthquakes, crustal plates, faults.” She let out a calmer breath when the world stayed steady. “But I can’t say I’ve ever experienced one firsthand.”

“It’s quite a show.”

“One I wouldn’t mind missing.”

“Gillian …”

“Yes?”

“I’m ah … about before … I guess I didn’t have to come down so hard on you.”

“I didn’t think before I acted. That’s always a mistake.”

“Not always. Anyway, I overreacted about something that wasn’t that big a deal.”

“Your songs are a very big deal.” She liked the way he brushed his hand under her hair to her neck. He’d held her so close when the earth had shaken. There was a need in him to protect. She wondered how long it would take before he recognized it. “I know you didn’t like me looking at them, but I can’t be sorry I did. They were so beautiful.”

“They’re only … Really?”

Because the question touched her, she shifted again so that she could look down at him. How nice it was, how sweet, to discover that he, too, knew self-doubt and the need for reassurance. “Now and again, and very briefly, I’ve seen true sensitivity in you. A real gift for seeing things, feeling things. I like that man very much. After reading those songs, I felt closer to him.”

He moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “You’re making me into something I’m not again.”

“No. I’m just accepting that there’s more than one side of you.” She kissed him softly, reaching out as much to the man he was as to the man he’d had to be.

She moved him too much, too deeply. Trace drew her away again, though he knew they’d passed the last border. “I’m going to disappoint you.”

“How, when I’m willing to take you as you are?”

“I guess there’s no use reminding you you’re making a mistake?”

“None,” she answered, just as her lips met his.

He’d never kissed her like this, softly, quietly, as if he had a lifetime to indulge himself. The passion and skill that always excited and overwhelmed her was banked. Instead, he gave her the affection she’d always
fantasized about but had never expected to receive. She wondered if he realized how beautiful that gift was or how desperately she needed it now. Her sigh, as much from gratitude as pleasure, stole into the room.

He undressed her slowly, experimenting with the feelings that he’d finally let have their freedom. Strong, solid, inescapable feelings that filled him with power and serenity.

He could love and be loved; he could give and receive love, taste it, savor it, hoard it. For one day he could believe that a woman like her was meant for him, to keep, to cherish, to last.

By necessity the future had always been kept very close to the present. He could never allow himself to think in months, much less years. So even now, with her warm and willing in his arms, he refused to acknowledge the tomorrows. Today was timeless and theirs, and he would remember it.

His hands were the hands of an artist now. Skillful, yes, but sensitive. She hadn’t known a man could love a woman with such restraint and still stir her unbearably. His body was familiar now, so that when she undressed him she knew how to touch, where to stroke, when to linger. It was an adventure in itself to discover she could arouse him, make his body tense, his muscles bunch. It was thrilling to learn that even when aroused he could take care.

He held her differently, and though the difference was subtle, she reveled in it. Desire took on such fascinating, such miraculous angles when touched with emotion. Her name came almost musically through his lips as they glided over her. His murmurs were like quiet promises as she caressed.

He loved her. She wanted to laugh and shout it out with triumph, but she knew the words had to come from him, in his time, in his way.

Such patience. She hadn’t known he had such patience in him for a woman. For her. Given it, she felt herself blossom in his hands. All that she had, all that she felt, all that she’d hoped to feel, was his for the asking.

Such generosity. He hadn’t known anyone could possess such a bounty of it. He hadn’t expected anyone to offer it to him with such freedom. Whatever he could give, whatever was coming to life inside him, was for her. And only her.

When they offered, and accepted, they both understood that some miracles were possible.

*   *   *

The light crept around the edges of the shades but did little to chase away the shadows in the room. He’d never felt so at ease with anyone. They’d slept awhile—only minutes, really—but he’d found himself refreshed and renewed. Trace rolled over on his stomach, one arm wrapped around her, and thought that the best thing to do with his energy was to make love with her again.

“Remember that shower we took the other day, when you were in a snit?”

Lazily she shifted so that she lay half over him, her cheek on his back. “I don’t recall being in a snit. I do remember being justifiably annoyed.”

“Whatever, the result was the same.” He closed his eyes on a sigh as she began to knead the muscles at the base of his neck. “I was just thinking how nice you felt, all hot and wet, particularly when you were mad enough to spit in my eye.”

“Oh? Do you have plans to make me mad again?”

“Whatever it takes. A little lower, Doc. Yeah.” He sighed as her fingers moved down his spine. “That’s the spot.”

“I could be persuaded to take a shower.” She pressed her lips to his shoulder blade, then moved them down to follow the path of her hands.

“I don’t think it would take much persuasion.”

“Really.” She looked up at the back of his head. “Are you saying I’m easy, O’Hurley?”

“No.” He grinned to himself. “I’m saying I’m good.” He winced only a little when she pinched him.

“Such arrogance usually precedes a fall. Perhaps I should—” She broke off when she made a new discovery. “Trace, why do you have a beetle tattooed on your bottom?”

He opened one eye. “A scorpion.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a scorpion.”

Willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, Gillian leaned closer. “I realize the light’s a bit dim, but … No, this is definitely a beetle. A squashed beetle, at that.” She gave it a quick, friendly kiss. “Trust me, I’m a scientist.”

“It’s a scorpion. Symbolic of a quick sting.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle a chuckle. “I see. How appropriate. However, since my view is undoubtedly better than yours could be, let me assure you that your very attractive posterior is adorned with a squashed beetle.”

“It’s just a little out of focus,” he told her, refusing to take offense, because her hands felt so good. “The tattoo artist was drunk.”

Gillian sat up, resting one hand on his hip. “Are you saying you were mad enough to trust this very sensitive area of your body to a drunk tattoo artist?”

Trace rolled over. In a move that reminded her how quick he could be, he had her beneath him. “I was drunk, too. Do you think I’d let anyone come near me with a needle if I was sober?”

“You’re mad.”

“Yeah. And I was twenty-two.” He began to indulge in the taste of her skin. “Nursing a broken heart and a dislocated shoulder.”

“Did you have your heart broken, then?” Curious, she lifted his face to hers. “Was she pretty?”

“Gorgeous,” he said instantly, though he couldn’t really remember. “With a body that was almost as good as her imagination.” He kept his face bland as her eyes narrowed.

“Is that the truth?”

“If it’s not, it should be. Anyway, I did have a dislocated shoulder.”

“Aw.” Gillian ran her hand up to it. “Would you like another?”

“Threats?” Delighted, Trace grinned down at her. “You know, Doc, you sound suspiciously like a jealous woman.”

Now the heat came into her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d hardly waste any healthy
jealousy I might have on the likes of you.”

“Are you getting justifiably annoyed?”

“And why shouldn’t I, when I’m lying naked in bed with a man who’s cloddish enough to tell me about another woman?”

“Good.” Trace rolled off the bed. Then, ignoring her struggles, he tossed Gillian over his shoulder.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Now that I’ve got you in a snit, I thought we’d take that shower.”

Gillian caught the beetle between her thumb and forefinger and twisted hard. “Bastard.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

He carried her laughing into the bath.

When the arrangements had been made for Trace to meet Husad’s men and be driven into the mountains, Gillian was torn in two directions. She wanted Trace to get to Flynn, to see him, to come back and tell her that her brother and her little niece were well and that he’d found a safe and simple way to free them.

It was because she knew there was no safe and simple way that she wanted to tell him not to go, not to risk being killed or captured. She was well aware that if she hadn’t interfered in his life, Trace would have spent these past weeks basking in the Mexican sun. Whatever happened to him now was her responsibility. When she’d tried to explain her feelings to him, he’d brushed her off.

“No one’s ever been responsible for me, sweetheart. It would be stupid for you to start now.”

So she kept silent about her fears, knowing they were of little use to her, and of no use whatever to Trace.

When they made love, it was with a quiet madness, a restrained desperation that spoke of what neither of them had said aloud. This might be the last time. She wanted to beg him for promises, but she settled for moonlight and rough caresses. He wanted to make her a pledge, but he settled for her warmth and generosity. She could have no idea what risks were involved when he walked into the lion’s den armed only with a lie. Though he knew a lie could be as lethal a weapon as any, he would have preferred the cold company of his .45.

As Cabot, he would get nowhere near Husad with a gun or a blade. As Il Gatto … But Il Gatto would have to wait. He would go to Husad’s mountain headquarters, and he would come back with Flynn and Caitlin Fitzpatrick. Or he would not come back.

Shifting, he listened to Gillian’s quiet breathing beside him. No nightmares, he thought gratefully. In a day, perhaps two, it would be done. Then she could go back to her life in New York, her institute, her experiments. There would be no need for nightmares once her world had been put in order again.

He stroked her hair, but lightly, wanting to touch but not to awaken. He’d never asked her about her work. To ask would have brought himself another step closer. But he tried to imagine her now, laboring over some impossibly complicated calculations, a white coat covering some neat business suit, her hair tied back or pinned up, her eyes intense with concentration.

She really believed she could change the world with knowledge and logic and science. He let the tangled silk of her hair drift between his fingers. Maybe it was good that she did, that she refused to face the hard reality that nothing ever really changed. The grimness of that fact would steal something from her, as it had from him. He wanted to remember her as she was—strong, naive, full of hope.

He didn’t know how to tell her what she’d meant to him, what, if he’d been different, they might have meant to each other. So he drew his hand away and left her sleeping.

But she was awake. She’d known he was restless and lost in his own thoughts, so she’d lain quietly. There was something so tender and sweet about the way he touched her when he thought she was unaware. That was something she could hold on to the next day, when he walked out the door.

If he couldn’t sleep, she thought, perhaps if she reached out and offered to hold him he would rest. But when she heard him pick up the phone, she kept her silence.

He spoke in French, which left her in the dark, then lapsed into silence. She heard him strike a match as he waited.

“This is O’Hurley, number 8372B. Patch this call through Paris to New York, code three, phase twelve.”

He needed to make the call, though he knew it was against regulations when he was on assignment. Going through the Paris operation would secure it. He knew the phone wasn’t bugged or tapped, and if Kendesa was tracing his calls, he would know only that Cabot had called Paris. From there, the call would be scrambled.

Now he could only hope she was home.

“Hello.”

“Maddy.” The sound of her voice had him smiling into the shadows. “No show tonight?”

“Trace? Trace!” Her quick, infectious laugh bubbled over oceans and miles. “How are you? Where are you?
I was wondering if I’d get my semiannual call. I’m so glad I did. There’s so much to tell you. Are you in New York?”

“No, I’m not in the States. I’m fine. How’s the toast of Broadway?”

“Terrific. I don’t know what the Great White Way is going to do without me when I take a year off.”

“A year? You and Valentine going traveling?”

“No … I don’t know, maybe. Trace, I’m going to have a baby.” Her excitement was all but sizzling the wires. “In six and a half months. In fact, they’re going to be doing some tests, because it looks like I’m having more than one.”

A baby. He thought of the skinny, long-legged redhead, who had always seemed to have more energy than any one person was entitled to. She’d still been a teenager when he’d seen her last. And now … a baby. He thought of Abby and her sons, the nephews he’d never seen.

“You okay?” And he wished, more intensely than he’d wished before, that he could link hands with her and see for himself.

“Never better. Oh, Trace, I wish you could make it home, even for a little while, and meet Reed. He’s so terrific, so upstanding and stable. I don’t know how he tolerates me. And Abby, she’s going to have the baby in just a few months. You should see her. I can’t believe how beautiful, how content she is, since she married Dylan. The boys are growing like weeds. Did you get the pictures she sent you?”

“Yeah.” He’d gotten them, pored over the faces of his sister’s sons, then destroyed them. If something happened to him, he couldn’t leave behind anything that could be traced to his family. “Nice-looking boys. The little one looks like a heartbreaker.”