Dangerous Illusion. Melissa James
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fingers in disgust. Yet, how many long, cold years had it been since she’d known the sweet drowning, the yearning for a man’s touch?
Not since Brendan.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t need to ask,” she whispered back.
“Does there have to be a why?” His finger moved over her skin in a slow, subtle caress. She felt the quiver touch her soul, the heat streak straight from her heart to her most feminine core.
Without knowing it, she nodded.
Still holding her chin with a finger, he flicked his other hand toward the large pewter mirror hanging over the counter, designed as much for warning against strangers as it was for beauty and security. “Look in that.” He walked to the door, opened it. Then he turned to look in her eyes—a moment’s truth flickered in their hidden depths, lush and hot with untold secrets. “Watch out for strangers, Elizabeth Silver.”
As the door swung back to close after he’d gone, she felt his veiled warning touch her heart with icy, chilled fingers.
Chapter 3
“Cameras in place, Ghost,” he reported into the cell phone to his commander in Canberra. “Covering the entire perimeter every two yards, fences and in the garden. Two on each roof corner, with immediate heat-detector relay to me. Sentinel alarmed so they can’t be disabled. A three-second relay to home base, and to me within fifteen. She can’t get away.”
“Good work, Flipper.” Anson used the code name McCall hated with all his usual curtness. It referred to McCall’s SEAL background but he always felt like he should make dolphin noises when Anson called him. “Don’t leave the subject—24/7 watch. Wildman’s stationed two miles south, Braveheart two miles north, Panther the other side of Russell. Heidi’s west of the Bay, in the market village. Each has a ten-minute deadline to reach you.”
Perimeter covered as always, even in a one-man op—every contingency covered, including his death. The watch over his radial pulse sent satellite updates every ten minutes back to base. If he went down, the team moved in to protect the subject.
“Roger that, boss. I’m good to go.”
“Subject update?”
“Sleeping.” The heat detectors in the roof cameras flashed two unmoving objects—three if you counted the puppy her kid had sneaked in after his mother went to bed.
McCall grinned. Yeah, he could relate to that. He’d always done the same with the neighborhood stray after his old man fell into a drunken stupor or went out on the boat for night fishing, leaving him alone. Funny how that sour-tempered old mongrel’s presence had been so reassuring to his eight-year-old mind, after his mom and Meg disappeared. He’d even grown to love the unwashed stink of the dog. The smell of the docks was familiar, and the pungent odor was a reminder, even in sleep, that he wasn’t alone.
So Beth’s son was a lonely kid, too, even though his mom had stuck around, and obviously loved him.
Yeah, Beth Silver seemed the original earth mother. Through the silvery radiance of moonlight pouring through her windows, he could see a house filled with mellow redwood furniture, bare flooring and fireplaces, loads of scatter rugs and comfy sofas. Homemade touches like cross-stitch pictures and paintings, scattered pieces of pottery. Pictures of her with her son, the boy now named Danny. The boy who looked enough like Robert Falcone to be his missing son, Robbie.
He sensed Beth Silver would be a tigress when it came to protecting her son. She’d lie, cheat, steal—maybe even kill—to stop anyone taking him from her. He’d probably get the kid only over her dead body.
A good thing he wasn’t after the kid. What he did want was that lithe, lissome, feminine body warm and alive—and filled with him. Hearing her cry his name when she—
Yeah, as if you’re gonna get that anytime soon, when she refuses to even recognize you. Face facts, McCall, she was slummin’ with you ten years ago, and she ain’t gonna contaminate herself or her precious son with any down boy again.
The garden outside the house filled the place with the scent of blood roses and ferns, touches of jasmine and gardenia, earth and work and woman. This was a modest, lovely home, with a hint of an untamed heart in the rolling hills surrounding the property. Even the old, moss-covered craters of long-dead tiny volcanoes that dotted the whole northern island seemed to fit the deep-hidden, slumbering fire of the woman who lived here.
The rustic beauty of her home suited the picture Delia had told him she wanted one long-ago night—“A pretty little cottage I can do up myself, with a rose garden. My own house I can take care of myself, away from all the people and servants and fuss.” Her eyes had glowed with a young girl’s simple dreams.
For her wants to be so meager had seemed strange to the point of alien to the half-wild gang-kid from the docks of L.A. Her upbringing, her homes, everything about her was as lofty as a high-ranking Brazilian diplomat’s daughter could be—and she deserved every care and luxury. Things he could never have given her back then, and still couldn’t now. He could give a woman comfort, but never first class. He’d never be rich.
But they were things she obviously still didn’t want. She’d made her simple dream come true.
A blip alerted him before he saw it. A vision passed by the window a moment later, ethereal, ghostlike in her simple white sheath nightgown, barefoot. Silhouetted by the soft light of the glowing coals in the open fireplace, her nightgown became translucent satin, and her golden body and small, high breasts were in sweet shadow…and he ached like hell, watching her. Like a siren, she was there one moment, taking his breath with her otherworldly loveliness, and gone the next.
He’d frozen in midcount, dragging in a breath. Incandescent loveliness in the tender moonlight pouring through the window. The quiet, unsmiling waif returned to her milieu. Delia.
Get a grip, McCall! He willed his hormones to subside, but he found himself watching, waiting for her to pass the window once more. Then, his body aching and pounding inside those fire-scorched chains of the wanting he couldn’t conquer after a decade, he left the perimeter. Blowing out a mist-heated breath of frustrated need, he headed to the doubtful comfort of his bedroll, damp from the rain leaking into his motorbike’s pack. The closest to a cold shower he’d get, but standing naked in a glacier wouldn’t do a thing to douse the fire burning him alive.
From behind that triple-locked door, behind the peephole, the woman who still felt like a ghost inside her own life after years of hiding sagged against the wall, and breathed again. Beth passed an unsteady hand across her forehead. Why, why had she looked? Why, when she knew she’d only lose herself in the sight of him?
Twice now, he’d done the impossible to her. Last time, she’d loved him in minutes; now, within a day, despite all she knew about him, McCall had gone from her deepest terror to her dark sentinel, fascinating her with all a child’s fear of the night—a night he walked in with ease and grace, as if he belonged to it, or the night belonged to him. Even a prosaic task, such as opening his bedroll, took on a life of its own.
For some reason a line of poetry danced through her mind, slightly corrupted: He walks in beauty like the night.
Fool. She sighed and returned to her bed. When it came to McCall, a fool was all she’d ever been.
And though the thicker wool of her cushioned bed enfolded her more closely than the thin pallet McCall had rolled himself into, she found no comfort, no rest or release from heated midnight dreams, lush as black silk and just as terrifying.
Her peaceful life here in New Zealand with her son was over. Out of the shadows and into the fire—a fire that would burn her baby alive. All her plots and strategies, all her sacrifices were worth nothing if Falcone got to Danny. And if he got to her—
She shuddered. McCall might suspect, or think he knew, but he couldn’t prove a thing. She held the only proofs, just as she held Falcone’s life in her hands. A dual-edged sword meaning death, and so Falcone had kept his search low-key, discreet.