CHAPTER TWENTY

Vincent Barringer was not happy. His people had failed him, time and again. How was it possible that Sully could have screwed up so badly, not once, but twice? The Guiding Light was a bunch of drugged-out fools who’d lost their vision years ago, more interested in money than idealism, but they should have still have the killer instinct.

He had no authorization for this particular mission, and he had to admit it chafed him. That after all these years he suddenly had to get an okay from the higher ups. It was the liberals, he’d decided long ago. They destroyed the economy and then wanted to strip the country of its defenses. He had no choice but to go rogue.

Which troubled him. He had been a man who followed the rules scrupulously, and yet, at the very end of his career, he had to throw everything out the window to get this last, most important mission of his career accomplished. If they were ever able to put details in his epitaph he hoped they would mention that. In fact, he’d been writing his own. Not that he had any intention of using it any time soon. He came from a long-lived family, and he had every intention of reaching the century mark. But he liked to keep his life tidy and organized, and he couldn’t rely on anyone else to cover the points that needed to be covered.

One version, the official obituary, listed his impressive accomplishments, his life of service to his country, his charity work and various accolades. The second added his tenaciousness in finding Thomas Killian, though of course names could never be mentioned. Particularly in Killian’s case, since he had never existed in anyone’s data bank.

He would work on that version, tweaking it slightly. This was proving more difficult than he expected. Despite the Committee’s impressive success rate he’d always viewed them with disdain. They didn’t have to worry about congressional oversight or tightening budgets. They didn’t need to worry about a squeamish constituency.

They were always a thorn in his side, and they were proving an unacceptable one. They’d corrupted Killian in the first place, and now they were making it extremely difficult to lure him out of hiding.

He had one more ace up his sleeve, so to speak. The Gargonne brothers had been very useful in the past, and they were just the ticket. If they couldn’t handle the matter then he was ready to give up and see to it himself.

The bed was empty when Beth awoke. Of course, she thought, burying her face in the sheets. They smelled like sex. They smelled like MacGowan and they smelled like her and she should jump up and strip the bed. She lay very still, letting the odd feelings surround her.

Her body felt … glorious. Strong and beautiful and capable of anything. Was that what good sex did? Make you feel like Superwoman? No wonder women liked it. Apart, of course, from the shattering, mind-numbing pleasure of the actual event, the lingering benefits were impressive.

She should have sex more often.

Unfortunately there was at least one other side effect. She could remember precisely what she said, what she did. If she concentrated she could remember how he felt inside her, his hard body above her. She could remember her tears. She was a weak, stupid woman.

But she could remember him holding her, comforting her. As he had in the kitchen at the mission, when reality had finally hit her.

Why? He wasn’t the type to deal with weeping women, he was practical and hard-hearted. And deeply, intrinsically sexual.

She’d always known it, whether she’d wanted to admit it or not. Even after three years of abstinence he still moved like a man who knew how to use his body any way he wanted to. The way he had touched her, the way he had kissed her, the way he had come inside her. She wanted to hold onto that feeling, hug it to herself. Because she knew damned well it wasn’t going to last. She’d bet another hundred thousand dollars that he was going to be distant, polite, as if he hadn’t performed the most intimate acts on her body. As if she hadn’t lost herself to the way he touched her.

Fucked her, she reminded herself morosely. He’d told her that was what it was, and she needed to remember it. Sex, plain and simple, with no emotions, no strings, no relationship. Just sex. A one-night stand, and it was finished.

She rolled over and sat up. She needed a shower, she supposed, though at that moment she didn’t want to move. She would have to though, wash him away, physically and metaphorically. Because it was over.

She looked down and knew a moment’s shock. There was dried blood on the sheets, dried blood on her body, as well as other marks she didn’t want to think about. He’d hurt his hand, she remembered, wincing. And yet he hadn’t even seemed to notice when they were in bed together. She should look at, make sure it wasn’t broken, make sure it was properly cleaned and bandaged.

She was fooling herself. He was adept at field dressings, and his hand would be easy enough to tend to. He wouldn’t need, wouldn’t want her help.

God, how was she going to look him in the eye and not think about him inside her?

It was already late morning, and she’d tried very hard never to be a coward. The longer she put off facing him the worse it was going to be. With a final surge she pushed out of bed and headed for the shower.

It was probably the oddest shower of her life, she thought afterward. Some parts of her were sore – her thigh muscles, for example. Other parts were still exquisitely sensitive – if she brushed the washcloth against her skin it set off a rush of heat and excitement.

She turned the water colder and finished quickly, using the towel to pat rather than rub her skin. It wasn’t until she was dressed in her baggiest jeans, now baggier from her infrequent meals, and an oversize t-shirt proclaiming “Go ahead, make my day,” that she realized the boat wasn’t moving. At all.

She ran over to the porthole and let out an involuntary shriek of joy. They’d docked.

She raced out of her cabin, taking the gangway at record speed, emerging on the deck flushed with pleasure, momentarily forgetting her embarrassment over the night before. MacGowan and Dylan were standing at one end, watching the unloading, and it took all her effort not to run towards them, bouncing up and down with joy. After the first few days she’d managed, but eating still hadn’t been a pleasure. But now they were on dry land, in a world of olives and tapas and heavenly spices. Some of the very best food in the world.

They saw her, and Dylan waved enthusiastically, signaling her to join them. MacGowan was watching her with perfect indifference, and she knew her fears had been right. He wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

She should want the same thing. It would be much too embarrassing to deal with such a momentous happening in public, particularly since it wasn’t going to be repeated. It was much better if it were relegated to the level of unimportant events, easily forgotten.

“We’ve landed,” she said with a cheery smile when she joined them. MacGowan didn’t look her way - he was watching the horizon with what she thought of as his hawk-gaze. Always looking for trouble, when he didn’t realize trouble had just walked up to him.

What would he do if she just went up and kissed him? The thought amused her enough to lighten her dark mood. He’d probably react like she had earlier when he’d come near her. Oh, it was tempting, just to watch him squirm. But he was right. Least said, soonest mended and all that.

Except that she didn’t particularly hold with that philosophy. If there was something that needed to be dealt with then she would much rather talk it out instead of letting it fester beneath the surface.

And come to think of it, she didn’t particularly want to forget about it. Not when she looked at MacGowan’s tall, spare figure, his averted face, the long strands of multi-color hair glistening in the sunlight.

“We can get off in another hour, once the first bit of cargo is off-loaded,” he said, his eyes still trained on the milling crowd. “I’m meeting someone at a middle-eastern restaurant in the western section of town. From then on you won’t need me any more.”

It was going to be like that, was it? “What about the money we owe you?”

At that he did glance her way, his gray eyes flinty. “You and I are even. Dylan’s family doesn’t want him anywhere near them, so I’m guessing they’re not going to reward me for bringing him down off the mountain. It’s up to you, but I would think you’d be ready to get away from me.”

There wasn’t anything she could say to that. He was right, whether she liked it or not. “Fine,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation, and she turned on her heel and stomped away as best she could in flip flops. She only hoped he’d broken his goddamned hand, she thought furiously, throwing the small amount of clothes she’d brought with her into the small carryall. She didn’t need him, not any more. He hadn’t bothered to ask her, but she had money and credit cards stashed inside her mattress, and she’d been carrying it with her since they left the mission. She could take Dylan with her and he could go fuck himself.

“We need to talk.”

“Fuck!” Beth said, jumping back. “What are you doing here? And don’t sneak up on me – I don’t like it.”

He was looking sober, distant, but there was just a trace of amusement in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse before, Sister Beth.”

“If you call me Sister Beth one more time you’ll get more than cursing from me,” she said in a dangerous tone. “What do you want?”

“I didn’t use a condom. I don’t suppose you’re on birth control pills.”

Oh, God. Not only was she going to have to talk about it, she was going to have to discuss embarrassing details. “No,” she said shortly, resisting the impulse to say “what do you think, asshole?” “Am I going to die from some horrible disease?”

“I wouldn’t know, but if you do you won’t have gotten it from me. I’m always very careful, and it’s been three …”

“Years, yes, I know.” She finished the sentence for him. “Then we don’t need to worry.”

“There’s always the off-chance you might get pregnant.”

His words hit her like a sledgehammer, and she turned away from him, rather than let him see her expression. “I would have thought you’d have had a vasectomy.”

His surprise didn’t improve matters. “Why should I? I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

So he might want children some time in his life. Just not with her. She had years of practice perfecting her calm expression, and it was in place when she turned back to him. Looking him in the eyes, so he’d believe her. “It’s highly unlikely. It’s at completely the wrong time in my cycle, but if by any chance it happens I’ll be sure to get in touch with you. Assuming you can be found.” She would do no such thing. If she happened to get pregnant, and right then she had absolutely no idea where she was in her cycle or how fertile she might be, then he was the very last person she’d inform.

“I can be found,” he said. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, and she waited, patient and calm. It was no wonder he called her Sister Beth, she thought. She was a goddamned nun. That was probably part of the problem. He’d already told her he liked experienced sex, hadn’t he? And she’d been shy and uninventive and just let him do what he wanted. He’d been bored by her. If he’d liked it he wouldn’t have been so quick to get rid of her.

Strange, that the most powerful experience of her life meant so little to him, like scratching an itch. Strange, and so hurtful she didn’t even want to think about it. It was no more than she’d expected.

If he’d give her a chance she could do better. Now that she knew she could actually enjoy it she could relax enough to …

No. She was never having sex again in her life. Not if it made her feel as awful as she did right now, hating him, her body longing for him, her nipples tightening. “Go away, MacGowan,” she said calmly. “I have things to do.”

He wasn’t used to being dismissed. Suck it up, she thought, furious. “Be on the deck in fifteen minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Getting through customs on her fake passport was surprisingly easy. Whoever did the forgery was very good, though she wasn’t crazy about coming into France as Mrs. Finn MacAllister. Her lawyers would be able to handle any issues with the fake passports, both for her and for Dylan. They didn’t need MacGowan. They were going to be just fine, thank you very much.

Just fine.