A Kiss to Kill (16 page)

“Rebel!” he called, hurrying in pursuit. “Hey! My quitting has nothing to do with you . . . with us. I’m worried, is all. I don’t want anything to happen to you because I’m not right in the head.”

“Too late,” she shot back, striding into their small stateroom and yanking her overnight bag out of the mini-closet.

Ouch.

He halted at the door and watched her furiously pack her things, warring with himself over what to do about it. If he had half a brain, he’d just let her go. For her own good. He should let her stay mad at him. Break off this doomed affair right here and now.

How did he ever think he could just sleep with her and not want more? And yet, more was impossible. He knew that as viscerally as he knew his own glaring deficiencies. No woman as vibrant and alive as Rebel would want a man who could only disappoint her. Painful as it was, he should just let her go. That was the honorable thing to do. Even if it hurt her now. In the long run, a clean break was best. For them both.

Swallowing down the need to explain all that, ruthlessly suppressing the need to hold her one last time, he forced himself to turn away from her, and went back up on deck.

Throwing out the buoys to mark the wreck of the
Allah’s Paradise
felt all too depressingly like marking the abandoned wreck of his own heart. Hell, of his whole damned life.

Christ. Things had been so much easier with Helena. Straightforward. Unemotional. No pain. No indecision.

Of course, he hadn’t been in love with Helena.

Blackness swamped over his mood. Obviously that was a
good
thing. Maybe he should call Helena and beg her to take him back. Plead with her to reconsider, and solve both their problems for good—as was their original plan.
That
would put an end to this agony of hurt once and for all.

Along with any chance ever to make things right with Rebel. Which was an even better thing.

It
was
.

He turned over the engine and started the boat forward with a lurch.

Call Helena. Yeah. That should solve
all
his problems.

Sure it would.

FIFTEEN

“YOU
called
Helena
?” Rebel could hear the disbelief and pain in her own voice. She’d thought her heart couldn’t hurt any more than when Alex had announced to Quinn this morning he wanted to quit the mission. But, wow. Seriously?

Yeah. She’d seen right through
that
one. It hadn’t been the mission he’d wanted to quit. It was
her
. And if there’d been any doubt in her mind before now, this announcement proved it.

And she’d
slept
with him, the two-faced, deceiving jerk. She’d actually started fantasizing that he really cared for her! That he wanted to be with her—if not forever, then at least for more than a single night.

How could she have
been
such a fool?

During the whole trip returning the
Stormy Lady
to the marina, she’d been so angry she hadn’t exchanged more than five words with him. In Norfolk they’d split up, he checking in with the Coast Guard detail that was to take over the search of the sunken yacht, and she checking in with her boss to make sure her absence was authorized. Unfortunately, it was. Once they got to D.C., she was supposed to go to the hotel where STORM had set up headquarters, then join Commander Quinn at Walter Reed Army Medical Center to help investigate the murder of Gibran Bakreen, the suspect from
Allah’s Paradise
. Before going to the airport, she’d also stopped by her apartment for some different clothes to bring along. She was now dressed in a subdued but elegant slate-blue business suit and heels.

She carried an overnight bag, which Alex insisted on taking from her as they stood waiting for the private STORM jet Quinn had sent back to fetch them to taxi up to the gate. That’s when, straight-backed, eyes front, duffel over his shoulder, Alex had calmly sprung it on her that he’d spoken with his ex-fiancée.

The morning after they’d made love for the first time ever.

She wanted to kick him with her pointed shoe. Hard. Where it counted.

“I was just returning her call,” he said, still without looking at her.

Oh. And that made it
so
much better. “I see.”

Not.

Rebel fumed as they climbed up the steep stairs to the door of the jet when it opened. The wind whipped through her hair and she had to hold her skirt down so she didn’t pull a complete Marilyn Monroe. Naturally, he was five steps below her, looking up. But his sense of self-preservation was well-honed enough at least to pretend not to notice.

She had never been on a private jet before, and for a moment she halted on the threshold in awe. The STORM Hawker eight-seat jet was the epitome of pure masculine luxury. Decorated in the company’s black and silver signature colors against a fuselage of storm-cloud gray, the main cabin seats were full-swivel recliners in soft leather, complete with footrests, an abundance of suede pillows, and warm fur throws. It even smelled masculine; a low note of sandalwood scented the air. She looked longingly as she walked past an oversized sofa that turned into a bed. Not that there was time for a nap. It was a short flight, just over half an hour.

She and Alex were the only passengers. Wonderful.

After takeoff, the cute stew poured them glasses of French champagne and set out a delicious spread of cheese and crackers on the low walnut coffee table between their two seats.

Too bad Rebel was in no mood to enjoy any of it.

All she wanted to do was close her eyes, drink herself into oblivion, and forget about the man sitting across from her.

She proceeded to try.

But apparently he had different plans. Yep. The one time in the history of the
planet
when a man actually wanted to talk, and of course it just
had
to be this man. And only now, after the damage had already been done.

She
so
did not want to hear about his phone call to his ex-fiancée. Or anything else he had to say. Not after this morning.

However, as soon as the attendant disappeared up front with the pilot, he continued his announcement. “Helena wanted to know how we’re getting along,” he stated.

Sure
, she did. So, how had the other woman found out they’d been together to begin with? And why would she care? Unless . . .

Rebel tapped a sharp tattoo on her champagne glass with a fingernail. “What did you tell her?”

He must have picked up on her inner cynicism. “Not that we’re fucking,” he ground out, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Her foot actually twitched.

“
Lang
uage, Zane,” she gritted out before taking a big sip of champagne and saying, “Well, that’s good, because we’re
not
.”

“Not what?” he asked, feigning not to understand.

She gave him a death-ray glare. He didn’t flinch. Probably didn’t even notice. He was too busy examining the untouched Gouda.

“She also wanted to apologize for leaving me at the altar,” he added.

“Better late than never,” Rebel drawled.

He sighed. “Helena’s not a bad person. She just has . . . pressures.”

So generous of him to forgive her. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

“Angel, we’re not—”

“And
enough
with the angel stuff, Zane. You got what you wanted from me. Now please allow me the dignity of not continuing with that whole ‘you saved my life in captivity’ naked dream farce. I can’t be
lieve
I ever fell for that story.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, hurt that she’d think he lied about something so viscerally and elementally real. Or that he’d used those awful memories to . . . what? Seduce her? “And you obviously have no fucking idea what I want, Rebel.
That’s
a damn fact.”

“Oh?” She turned away from him. “And what could that possibly be?” she spat out. “Because I think you’ve made it
very
clear what you want. And it’s not me. Except to—” Her knuckles blanched white around the stem of her glass.

He snapped his mouth shut. Regrouped. “Listen, I know you’re angry with me—”

“Ya think?” she muttered, taking another gulp of champagne and setting down her glass with a loud
clink
. “No, actually, I’m mystified, Alex. Tell me. Why
did
you sleep with me, if you’re just going back to her? I really don’t understand.”

“I’m
not
going back to her,” he insisted.

Like she believed that. He
still
wouldn’t look at her.

“What. Ever.”

“Actually, she’s been trying to call and tell you something important, but you won’t answer, and you won’t call her back.” He drained his flute and set it aside. “Boy, does
that
sound familiar.”

She snorted. “Yeah,
you’re
the wounded parties here.”

He sighed again, leaned forward in his seat, and took her hand between his. She
so
wanted to pull it away, but he brushed his lips over her knuckles and she couldn’t make herself do it. The pain in her heart needed soothing too badly.

He studied her fingers intently. “I know you’re hurting. But please, let me explain. It’s not what you think.”

No, she was pretty sure it was. But did she really want to know? “Is this going to make things better or worse?” she asked. Already guessing the answer from his posture.

“Honestly? I have no idea,” he said, and kissed her hand again. He finally looked up, his gaze filled with misery. “But it’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for years.”

Years?
Her distrust slowly deflated as last night’s shocking revelation from him arced through her mind. She took a giant mental step back.

Okay. She wasn’t being fair. He had to be feeling vulnerable, too.

What could possibly make a man feel worse than not being able to have children? She was still too stunned herself to think rationally about all the implications. She could only imagine what he must have felt. Must still be feeling.

She really didn’t want to deal with anything else right now. Certainly not if it was just one more reason they couldn’t be together. But he seemed determined to tell her.

She braced herself for yet another blow. “All right. What is it?”

For a moment he gathered his thoughts. “It’s about Helena,” he said. “She finally gave me permission to share this with you. But you have to swear not to tell a soul. Especially not her parents.”

Rebel blinked. Okay. This was not what she’d expected. She’d expected something about his job. That he’d killed people. Or about the torture he’d endured. Maybe even some awful, fatal disease, God forbid. But . . . “Helena? What about her?”

“Swear you won’t tell.”

“Yes. I promise.”

He took a deep breath. Let it out. “Helena’s gay.”

Wait.
What?
Astonishment whooshed through her. “Ex
cuse
me?”

“Yeah. Your friend, my ex-fiancée, is a lesbian.”

As soon as he said it, a wave of relief flooded across his face. It seemed as though a huge weight had suddenly lifted from his broad shoulders.

Rebel just stared at him in disbelief. “Really?” Not that it would normally be any big deal. But . . .

“Really. And thank
God
it’s all out in the open now.

Well. Between the three of us, anyway. You can’t imagine how good it feels to finally tell you,” he said. “I’ve been pleading with her for years.”

“She’s
gay
?” she repeated, filled with bewildered in-comprehension. This was
crazy
.

“Technically, lesbian,” he confirmed with a nod.

A million questions burst through her mind. But one stood out clearly above all others. She cut to the chase. “Alex. If you’ve known that all this time, why on
earth
would you want to
marry
her?”

How would he even contemplate something like that? What could possibly be his explanation?

The whine of the jet engines pitched higher, filling several long moments. She could relate.

At length he said, “Baby, I get that this might be hard for you to understand.”

An understatement if ever she’d heard one. She fought not to feel even more hurt by this than she already felt about everything else this man had heaped on her over the past twenty-four hours. Make that the past several years.

“Believe me, at the time, it seemed like an ideal solution,” he said. “For both me and Helena. Me with my overly dangerous job, and my . . . physical inadequacies. Helena with her ridiculously conservative parents and their unbending social expectations for her. Marrying each other would let her keep her family . . . and it would keep me from wanting one.”

Taken aback, Rebel reeled as though he’d struck her physically.

His eyes softened, his expression filling with remorse. Then he said the one thing that turned her world completely upside down. “And it would also keep me out of your bed.”

GINA
and Gregg checked into the Watergate Hotel. The property had a great view of the Potomac and was fairly close to the Pentagon. Despite a recent major renovation, the place felt familiar to Gina. And safe. She’d stayed there on the few occasions she’d come to D.C. for a conference or a government funding interview and her ex-fiancé, Wade, had been off on assignment or a case. But she’d always been on an expense account before. Her eyes popped when she saw the nightly rate on the bill.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gregg said when she suggested staying somewhere cheaper. “I want to stay. I like the irony. Of the name,” he added when she shot him a startled look. She definitely hadn’t pegged Gregg as the political type.

She remembered learning about the infamous old scandal when President Nixon’s henchmen had broken into his opponent’s Watergate campaign headquarters disguised as maintenance men. “Okay,” she said with a chuckle. “But from which point of view? The victims or the plumbers?”

He just winked, requested a suite on the top floor, and signed in as Mr. and Mrs. G. Gordon Paisley. She rolled her eyes. Like they hadn’t seen
that
before.

The view from the private balcony was indeed magnificent, and opulent didn’t begin to describe the room itself. Marble floors, antique furniture, deep feather canopy bed, spa tub. It even had a fifteen-bottle wine cooler, fully stocked. Naturally.

She turned back from the French doors and let her gaze travel over the luxurious appointments to where Gregg was bending over the minibar checking imported beer labels. He was dressed in black, as was his habit. Snug black T-shirt, low-slung black leather pants, black boots. He’d taken off his black leather motorcycle jacket—the one with the silver chains looped artistically across the front—and slung it on the sofa. Therefore she couldn’t miss the black shoulder holster strapped across his broad back with his platinum SIG Sauer tucked under his arm.

He always wore the SIG. She’d seen him with it a hundred times before, if not in its holster then stuck into the front of his waistband where he could always reach it. But for some reason, a shiver now ran down her spine at the sight of the powerful weapon . . . which she knew could just as easily turn on her as protect her.

And suddenly once again she wondered,
was she wrong about him
? What if his remorse was false? What if all those feelings she was experiencing about him were just her needing someone,
anyone
, to protect her? What if the drowningly good sex between them had blinded her—for the second time—to his intent? If he were innocent, shouldn’t he have signed the Watergate register as a permutation of the
good
guys rather than the infamous plumbers? Had he made her trust him, spun lies about his childhood, only to lower her defenses and lure her here to another big, anonymous city, away from her home and her STORM bodyguards, far from where anyone was searching for her, in order to—

No
. She had to stop thinking like this. He
was
on her side. They
were
after the same thing: to find the traitor who had betrayed them both, so they could get on with it and go back to their normal lives.