The Colonel's Widow? Page 2

  He acted as if he were too busy making sure they weren’t being followed. Rook’s best friend had always treated her with loving respect, but for whatever reason, tonight he wasn’t answering any questions.

  So she clamped her mouth shut and snuggled deeper under the throw. Her flimsy silk robe offered little protection against the late April chill. She shuddered. Nothing short of a direct and imminent threat would have made Deke ignore her comfort or dignity. Fortunately, she had clothes at the cabin.

  Once they reached the hunting camp and Deke was satisfied that she was safe, she’d unload on him. She didn’t get angry often—temper rarely helped any situation—but she didn’t like being bullied. Not even by the man who’d appointed himself her protector after her husband’s death, and not even if it was supposedly for her own good.

  Deke spoke only once during the hour’s drive, and then not even to her. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a pre-programmed number. He listened for a few seconds.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. After another couple of seconds, he hung up and glanced at the tiny screen, as if to check the number he’d dialed. Then he shot her an awkward glance and turned his attention back to his driving.

  Irina bit her tongue to stop herself from asking who he was trying to reach. He’d tell her when he felt like it.

  The road ended a quarter mile from the camp, but Deke barely slowed down. He circled around and drove up behind the cabin, where he parked and shut off the engine of the large SUV.

  Irina reached for the door handle.

  “Wait,” he snapped.

  He retrieved his phone and pressed the redial button, hissing in frustration through clenched teeth.

  After a few seconds, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Where have you been?” he growled.

  Irina held her breath and listened, but she couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the line.

  “You could have waited. I was afraid you—” he stopped. “Yeah, okay. We’re here. I’ll bring her inside, then put the car in the barn.” He paused, listening.

  “Nope,” he snapped. “No way. You’re on your own this time. I’m going to take a look around. I’ll be in later.” He hung up and got out of the car.

  Irina didn’t bother to ask who’d been on the phone. Judging by the brevity of the conversation, she figured it was probably Brock, the oldest and most experienced of the Black Hills Search and Rescue specialists. Brock O’Neill’s conversational style was terse at best.

  As soon as she entered the rustic kitchen, she saw dim light coming from the front room. “Is that a fire? Or is the generator running?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Deke, stop acting like a secret agent and tell me what is going on! Who’s here? Is it Brock?”

  He set down his black duffel bag. “I’m not playing. Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’m going to hide the car. Irina—” He laid a hand on her arm, as if about to say something else.

  She waited, apprehension crawling up her throat.

  “Just remember that all this—was for you.” He turned and went out the door, locking it behind him.

  Irina stared at the door for a few seconds, as Deke’s words replayed over and over in her head.

  All this was for you.

  “All of what?” she whispered. Shaking her head, she stepped through the dining room and into the front room. One lamp shone dimly, competing with the fireplace for the privilege of staving off the darkness. The only sound she heard was the crackling of the flames.

  But she knew she wasn’t alone.

  Her breath hitched. Deke had promised her she was safe, she reminded herself. He’d promised her, ever since Rook’s death, that he’d take care of her, and he had.

  “Hello? Brock?” She spoke softly. “Is that you?”

  No answer. Yet she felt a presence.

  “Who’s here?” she asked sharply.

  Did she only imagine she heard breathing? She squinted, trying to see past the shadows. From the corner of her eye she recognized the old bookshelf to her right. It was on the wall opposite the fireplace. It was one of many places in the cabin where Rook had hidden loaded guns.

  She’d never liked all the weapons. He’d turned their secret getaway into a secret arsenal. She’d complained a million times that she’d seen all the guns she ever wanted to see during her childhood in Russia. Still, she couldn’t deny that right now she was glad to have a loaded weapon within reach. If she remembered correctly, this one was a Glock. She took a step toward the bookcase.

  “Hello, Rina.”

  She whirled, startled. Nobody called her Rina—not anymore.

  A lone figure stood to one side of the fireplace. All she could see was a silhouette.

  “Who—?” Before she could gather breath to say more, the person took a step forward. When the light hit his face, a giant fist grabbed her insides and wrung them tight—so tight she couldn’t breathe.

  “What’s going on?” she gasped, gulping in air and casting about, as if an explanation lurked somewhere in the room.

  “It’s okay.” A whisper. The figure held up a hand. “Irina…it’s me.”

  A sharp ache burned through her chest. An ache of loss, of grief. Of denial.

  “No,” she breathed, shaking her head. Whoever was standing there, whatever was going on, she knew one thing for certain. His words were a lie. It wasn’t him.

  It couldn’t be. He was dead.

  She took a shuddering breath. “I—I don’t understand—”

  “I know you don’t.”

  The sound of the man’s voice sheared her breath and spasmed her throat. The words were tentative, the voice was hoarse and hesitant, but she knew it. Just like she knew the broad shoulders, the long powerful legs, the rugged profile outlined by the flickering firelight.

  Knew them, yes. But believe what she heard and saw? No way.

  It was impossible.

  She clapped her hands over her mouth as her brain denied what her eyes saw. Was this another, more astounding dream? A dream she’d never—even in sleep—dared to contemplate?

  Her hands slid down to cover her pounding heart. “Who are you?” she asked. “Where’s Brock?”

  He took another step forward.

  She instinctively stepped backward, maintaining the distance between them. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her throat closed up. Her whole body contracted, as if turning inward in an effort to protect her.

  For an instant, her panicked brain considered running. Deke was in the barn. But she’d have to go past—

  Her breath hitched.

  His brows drew down and he took a step closer.

  She stiffened, and he stopped.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off his face. His cheeks were leaner, his hair was all wrong—long and shaggy and damp, as if he’d just gotten out of a shower—and his eyes were haunted and sad. He was wearing dress pants without a belt, and a dress shirt that hung unbuttoned and untucked over the pants. And he was barefoot.

  It was him.

  Or a dream of him.

  Darkness gathered at the edge of her vision, like a fade to black.

  Like a dream. That had to be it. It was the only explanation that made sense.

  She hadn’t eaten dinner, and she’d drunk a glass of wine. Maybe she’d never woken up at all. She was still in bed, immersed in dreams. She pinched her arm, feeling silly.

  Nothing changed.

  The man standing in front of her lowered his gaze to the floor, then raised it again. When he did, a burning log collapsed, sending more light splashing across his face.

  His face. The last time she’d seen those lean cheeks, that long straight nose, that wide sexy mouth, they had been horribly distorted by the dark Mediterranean waters.

  “Go away,” she cried. “Why are you doing this to me? You can’t be here, Rook. You cannot. You are dead.”

  Chapter Two

  God in Heaven, it was really her.

  That was
her low, sexy voice with the faint Russian accent that increased when she was upset.

  Rook Castle wiped his palms down the legs of the dress pants that hung a bit too low on his haunches. His skin was still warm and damp from his shower, but the moisture on his palms came from pure nerves. He hadn’t seen his wife in two years. Hadn’t dared to hope he’d ever see her again.

  She was so beautiful his eyes ached. More beautiful than he remembered. Although her delicate features were masked by fear, and her slender frame looked fragile, engulfed by the plaid wool blanket that wrapped around her shoulders.

  Without makeup, her blue eyes surrounded by pale lashes were as wide and innocent as a girl’s. And right now, they were filled with confusion and disbelief that etched another groove into his already battle-scarred heart.

  “Irina,” he breathed, and dared to move one step closer.

  She held up a hand in warning. Her gaze tracked him like a doe watching a hunter. He hated seeing her like that—the way she’d been when he’d rescued her father, dissident Soviet scientist Leonid Tankien.

  But he’d come to know her well in the past six years. Irina Castle was no doe in headlights. In about five seconds that wild-eyed fear was going to change to fury, and woe to anyone who stepped into the path of her storm.

  Woe to him.

  “Irina.” His throat was scratchy and sore, his voice hoarse from disuse. He’d talked more today than he had in two years. He cleared his throat. “I’m not—”

  “What is going on?” She stiffened her back and tucked her chin. Her eyes narrowed and the spark he’d been waiting for flashed in them. She eased sideways. Again.

  A weak thrill fluttered in his chest. If he could’ve remembered what muscles to use to smile, he would have.

  She was doing exactly what he’d expected her to do. She was edging toward the closest weapon—a Glock .23, hidden in a shelf of dog-eared paperbacks opposite the fireplace.

  He pushed back his open shirt and slid his weapon from the paddle holster in his waistband. He held it up. “Here,” he said, flipping the Sig Sauer’s handle out. “Take mine.”

  He bent down and slid it across the red oak floor toward her, then straightened and leaned against the mantel, doing his damnedest to appear nonchalant.

  She picked up the gun, never taking her eyes off him. The blanket slipped off her shoulders, and Rook saw her perfectly shaped breasts beneath a thin covering of silk. He gritted his teeth as his body reacted to the familiar, lush curves and hollows he saw, and those he knew only from memory. Her beautiful body, which he’d yearned for every night during the past two years.

  Was that the red silk gown and robe she’d bought for their yachting cruise in the Mediterranean? He’d never gotten to see it on her.

  He’d died on that trip. As the thought formed in his head, the heat in his groin dissipated.

  Clutching the Sig, Irina pointed it at him and straightened. One shoulder of the robe slid down her arm. She didn’t notice.

  Her delicate shoulder was made more vulnerable, more fragile looking by the little bump of bone that interrupted its curve. Her skin stretched across it, appearing translucent. He knew that bump, and the matching one on the other side. He knew how it felt, how it tasted. Like clean, white linen. Like her.

  Rook winced inwardly and lifted his gaze to her face. Her gaze met his with faint horror, as if he were a stranger ogling her and she could read his thoughts.

  Suddenly, a different kind of sparkle lit her eyes, and it twisted his heart painfully.

  He knew better than anyone that Irina never cried. And he knew why. That he’d caused the tears that reflected the firelight gouged another chunk from his heart.

  She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and, miraculously, the dampness in her eyes disappeared.

  “So tell me. What is the big emergency?” she asked tonelessly.

  “What?”

  “Obviously, you never planned to—” she paused briefly “—to come back here. But something has happened. Something involving me. Something you couldn’t handle any other way.”

  She wrapped her left hand around her right to support the weight of the gun. “You were never fond of theatrics, so I have to assume that it is urgent, or you wouldn’t have sneaked me out here in the dead of night. So get to it.”

  Rook nodded. That’s my girl.

  She was doing everything she could to stay in control. It was one of the things he loved about her. That need to keep everything steady in an unsteady world. It was embedded into the core of steel that had drawn him to her the first time he’d seen her. But that steel core made her slow to trust.

  And if anyone ever betrayed her…

  If he could hate himself any more than he already did, he would. But his self-loathing was maxed out. There was no way he could explain to her why he’d done what he had.

  Hell, he’d been second-guessing his decision for two years.

  “Is it because of what happened to Matt and Deke? I’m sure Deke has briefed you—” Her voice cracked.

  “Deke didn’t know,” he said quickly. “Not for sure. Not until yesterday morning. Don’t blame him.”

  “No. I do not blame him. I blame you.” The staccato words were coated with frost. “Spare me the explanations. Just get to the point.”

  “Why don’t you sit down—”

  “Get. To. The. Point!”

  Rook pushed his hands through his hair and wiped his face. He still wasn’t used to his naked cheeks and chin. The beard—his mask—had been a part of him for the past two years. He lifted his gaze to Irina’s. Her eyes were as hard and opaque as turquoise.

  “Novus Ordo is after you.”

  “Da,” she said, then, “Yes. That I know.”

  “When you stopped looking for me, and called Matt back to Wyoming, it alerted him. Deke was right about—”

  “About Novus acting on the theory that I stopped because I had found you,” she fired back at him in a rapid staccato. “Not because I ran out of money or gave up. How silly of me. I waste so much time and money looking for you when I could have—” her voice broke and she laughed sharply, the sound like breaking glass. “You should tell me something I do not know.”

  “Fine. But I’m going to sit down. You stand there if you want.” Rook dropped into a worn leather chair that smelled like oil and pipe smoke. It had been his dad’s.

  He couldn’t believe how shaky he was. How unsure. He didn’t remember ever feeling this way before. Back when he’d made the decision to fake his death to stop Novus Ordo from targeting Irina, he’d felt like his life was spiraling out of control.

  But this uncertainty was new—born of lies and deception, of stealth and secrecy and living in exile.

  He’d been alone too long. In the past two years he’d barely spoken a word to another person. He’d spent all his time studying and searching for his enemy. The world’s most dangerous terrorist, Novus Ordo.

  He feared he might never feel human again, now that he’d lived inside himself for so long. He’d hoped to find a way to keep up with her, to make sure she was all right.

  But by the time he was healed, he knew if he saw her he wouldn’t be able to stay away from her.

  And if he didn’t stay away from her, she could die.

  When he looked up, she hadn’t moved, although the gun barrel had tilted downward. Her face was still expressionless, but her body was rigid—so tense he was afraid her bones might break.

  “You said you know Novus Ordo is after you. Do you understand why?”

  Irina’s throat moved as she swallowed. “I understand that it has to do with you. That secret mission to save the senator’s son, before you left the Air Force.” She took a shaky breath. “When you rescued Deke.” Then she shot him a look of pure suspicion. “Not that you ever told me anything about it.”

  “Do you know why Novus wants me?”

  She shrugged and her arms dropped. The Sig slid from her fingers and hit the floor with a thud. “
You saw him.”

  He nodded wearily. “Apparently I’m the only person in two hemispheres, other than his trusted inner circle, who’s ever seen him without his mask.”

  “Why didn’t you kill him then, when you had the chance?”

  He shrugged without lifting his head. “We’ve been through this. I was out of ammo. I was sure I was a dead man.”

  Irina moaned audibly. “But now, you’re not the only one who knows what he looks like. The CIA has the drawing. Why can’t they figure out who he is? Find him? Kill him?”

  “Believe me, Irina, if it were that simple—”

  “No!” She shook her head, and the clip that had been holding her hair slipped free and clattered to the floor. Waves of shimmering gold fell over her shoulders.

  He swallowed against the lump that suddenly rose in his throat.

  “No,” she repeated. “Believing you is something I will never do again.”

  Rook slammed his fist down on the arm of his leather chair. “Then what do you want from me?” he yelled.

  Too late, he realized he’d done what he always did when backed into a corner. He’d turned a weak defense into a strong offense.

  And this time he’d aimed it at his wife. His wife. The one person in the world who least deserved it. Who had never deserved what loving him had put her through.

  She winced, then lifted her chin. “I want the truth. But, as I am sure you can understand, I’m a little shy right now.”

  Gun-shy, he almost said, but he bit his tongue. She’d always laughed when he’d correct her English. She wouldn’t appreciate it now.

  “Why don’t you ask the questions, and I’ll answer them.”

  “Truthfully?”

  Rook growled and rubbed his aching jaw. The muscles there and in his neck throbbed with tension.

  “Did you plan all this?” she snapped.

  He looked up at her from beneath his brows. “All what?”

  Irina let fly a string of Russian that Rook was sure would have shocked her father, were he still alive.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, feeling mean and cornered and exposed. “I planned to die. It was the only choice I had—”