Angel of Desire (4 page)

"Your condition?" Comprehension hit with the force of a neutron bomb. Shade's startled glance slid to her flat stomach.

"I'm going to have a baby," Marianne announced with obvious feminine pride. "Con and I are going to be parents by Christmas. Which makes you, Shade—" she reached over and kissed his cheek "—an uncle-to-be."

That little bombshell sent Shade reeling. The idea of Conlan becoming a father stirred something deep inside him. Something he would not—could not—recognize as envy. Assuring his best friend's wife that he'd get her husband out of Yaznovia safely, Shade took her up on her invitation to stay for dinner, although she had to laughingly chase him out of the kitchen, accusing him of hovering around her as if he expected her to go into labor at any moment.

Over chicken curry, saffron rice and beer, he told her about his house, of the nightmarish closing, of the jungle yard that could serve as a location shoot for any Tarzan movie, of the family of raccoons that had set up housekeeping in the kitchen.

"You're lying about the raccoons," she accused, wiping away tears—this time born of laughter—with the backs of her hands.

"The hell I am." His lips curved into an uncharacteristic, seldom-used smile. "I evicted the little rascals the first day, but they refused to leave the property. When I left for the airport, they were sulking somewhere beneath the deck."

He'd purposefully exaggerated, rewarded each time her freckled face blossomed into that dazzling smile that had made Conlan fall in love with the lively pediatrician.

After allowing himself to be talked out of going to a hotel, he spent the night in the small but comfortable guest room.

The following day he visited old haunts, gathering all the information he could on the situation in Yaznovia. Neither Shade nor his informants worried overly much about the classified briefings given to him, a civilian, as being technically illegal. In the shadowy world of international espionage, the lines of legality and morality often blurred.

After his meetings, Shade had the gist of the problem, and the beginning of an admittedly sketchy plan. And as much as he wanted to leave for Yaznovia immediately, he was forced to cool his heels while a cadre of professionals created the passport and various papers that would give him a new identity. An identity that would not only get him into the renegade country but would actually make him a welcome visitor.

He was frustrated, impatient and in a generally lousy mood when he dropped into a bar in Washington, D.C.'s Union Station. The Beaux Arts building had been designed as a monumental public entrance to the nation's capital back in the days when passenger trains had been a luxurious way to travel.

After falling into decades of disrepair, the building had been successfully remodeled to include upscale shops, restaurants and drinking holes for all the bureaucrats working on Capitol Hill. This particular bar was in transition, having originated as an eighties' fern bar, only to become a
faux
Irish pub, and from what he could tell, was on its way to retro urban cowboy.

The western look extended to the customers—eager, upwardly mobile congressional staffers and intense, single-minded lobbyists. Several of the men had taken to wearing boots and bolo ties with their navy business suits. Revealing a bias toward this youthful clientele, the jukebox offered up stars like Randy Travis, Clint Black and Billy Ray Cyrus, with only an occasional nod to old-timers like Waylon and Willie and Merle.

"Times," Shade muttered to himself when a lissome young thing dressed in fringe and leather played "Achy Breaky Heart" for the third time, "are definitely achanging." And not, he considered, wishing for just one chorus of "Bar Room Buddies," necessarily for the better.

"You're tellin' me, buddy," the bartender, a man two decades older than his customers, muttered as he mixed up a blender of flurry pastel drinks. "These kids wouldn't know real country music if Johnny Cash himself suddenly strolled in that door and began belting out 'Orange Blossom Special.'"

The bartender poured strawberry daiquiris into a pair of frosted glasses. "And they damn sure wouldn't recognize a real drink if it bit them on their designer denim asses." After nodding his head approvingly in the direction of Shade's Scotch, he headed off to the other end of the bar to take an order from a cocktail waitress dressed like Dale Evans.

Damn, Shade thought, as he nursed his drink and slapped at the leafy Boston fern that kept brushing his head, the thing he hated most about this work was the waiting.

COMPARED TO THE bright spring sunshine outside, the bar was as dark as a cave. Rachel stood in the doorway and blinked twice, willing her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.

Finally she saw Shade at the far end of the bar, brooding beneath a huge fern. His broad shoulders were hunched as he bent over his drink, and he was staring into the Scotch as if seeking the answers to the universe in its amber depths. He was alone, isolated in his dark thoughts. Finding the burden of her mortal body unexpectedly cumbersome after all these years, Rachel edged her way toward him, through the crowd of attractive, enthusiastic young people.

She came to a stop behind his left shoulder and waited.

Nothing.

He took a swallow, ignoring her so completely she might have been invisible. As she admittedly had been on so many occasions when she'd felt it necessary to enter his life.

She murmured a soft, polite ahem.

Still nothing.

"Excuse me," she murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder.

That was a mistake. Shade was off the bar stool like a rocket shot, one wide hand raised to strike, the other reaching beneath his leather jacket. The expression on his chiseled face was definitely not welcoming. Well, at least she'd gotten his attention.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped as she was forced to look a long, long way up. She'd known he was tall, known that he topped most men by several inches, but she'd never before experienced the sheer power exuding from his body. It affected her like a physical assault.

The solitary little boy she'd once rescued from an icy grave had grown into a very large man. But she'd recognize that cautious, almost belligerent scowl anywhere. A thin white line encircled his lips and his face was as dark and potentially dangerous as a thundercloud. Beneath his sable hair, his eyes were as green as newly mined emeralds. And every bit as hard. A faint white line slashed its jagged way up his dark cheek, giving him a rakish, dangerous look.

"I didn't mean to surprise you."

Her gray eyes were wide and startled, but Shade saw no fear in them.

Her complexion was the almost mythical ivory classical writers had rhapsodized over. The kind of face, he considered fleetingly, that could have been plucked from a Renaissance painting of an angel on the gilded ceilings of all those Florentine cathedrals.

Her unadorned eyes—wide, innocent eyes laced with quiet strength—were thickly lashed, and her full, pouty lips, which had parted on a surprised gasp, appeared as soft and pink as a cherub's.

Taking in her attire—a decidedly unchic, starkly tailored black suit and practical, low-heeled shoes—he decided that she must be a companion to the two nuns who'd been standing outside the station, soliciting donations for the homeless.

He dug into a pocket, pulled out a stack of bills, peeled off a twenty. "Here you go, Sister. Put it to good use." The first pair had promised to pray for him, which had been a nice enough idea, but Shade wasn't holding out any hope for redemption.

Rachel, too, had noticed the nuns. She'd also observed Shade put fifty dollars into the donation basket. "I'm afraid you're mistaken." She smiled at his error, thinking she'd come a very long way in three hundred years. From a witch to a nun.

His gaze sharpened. "You're not a nun?"

"No. Were you, perhaps, seeking a nun?"

"In this place?" His lips quirked at one corner. "Hardly."

A little silence settled over them as each studied the other.

"So, who are you?" Shade asked. "And what do you want?"

Unfortunately, there was no easy answer to his second question. Although Joshua had warned her against revealing her identity, lying was also prohibited.

"Perhaps we could discuss it over a drink?" Rachel had never drunk alcohol. But surely the bartender would know how to brew a cup of tea.

Hell. So she was just another woman looking to get picked up. Telling himself that he'd overreacted, Shade relaxed. Slightly.

He ran his eyes over her with deliberate slowness. From the top of her gleaming head down to her feet, clad in sensible shoes. When that unnervingly thorough gaze lingered on her breasts, her throat grew arid and she had a sudden urge to cover them with her hands. An urge she resisted. Instead, she kept her arms stiffly at her sides, defiantly tilted her chin and submitted herself to his cool male study.

She definitely wasn't his type. Oh, the woman was attractive enough in a straightforward, unadorned sort of way, with her shiny, neat honey hair and wide, intelligent gray eyes. And although her black suit was too starkly tailored for his taste, beneath the lightweight wool jacket he could detect some very appealing, very feminine curves.

Under normal circumstances, he might find it intriguing to peel off that conservative nun's habit to discover what she was wearing underneath. Experience had taught him that the more sedate an image a woman projected to the world, the more likely she was to favor frothy confections of lace and silk beneath that carefully created facade.

But these were far from normal circumstances. And he couldn't allow himself to get distracted by a friendly blonde. Even one who seemed vaguely familiar.

"Sorry, Sister, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company tonight." He flashed her a savage grin that possessed neither warmth nor humor.

Bright color flooded into Rachel's cheeks as she realized he'd mistaken her for the type of woman who would tumble willingly, enthusiastically, into his bed. That forbidden idea created a flare of bright starlight heat; she felt as if all her nerve endings were being pricked by the star's sharp points.

Embarrassed, she attempted to gather her scattered thoughts, reminding herself of her mission.

"Oh, but I wasn't looking for company." Rachel had never been anything if not tenacious. Indeed, her very strong streak of stubbornness, unseemly maidenly behavior in 1692 Salem, had been more than a little responsible for her fate. "Actually, I had conversation in mind."

"If you want conversation, try the bartender," he suggested. "He gets paid to talk to customers."

Having been by his side for all of his thirty-five years, Rachel, of all people, should have known exactly how brusque and unfriendly Shade could be. Especially when his mind was on a mission. She'd seen his tongue practically strip the hide off a superior attempting to rein him in, and over the years she'd watched him reduce more than one intelligent, successful woman to tears when the job was done and it came time to move on.

Understanding that he was not nearly as bereft of feelings as he liked to believe, she'd always overlooked his cynical attitude and uncaring behavior. But never had she expected the pain of rejection to sting quite so badly.

Chiding herself for allowing a prick of very feminine and very mortal pique to get beneath her skin, she squared her shoulders and tried again.

"I don't want to talk to the bartender. I wish to speak with you."

He'd returned to his Scotch, but her no-nonsense tone garnered his reluctant attention. He spun around on the stool and gave her another, longer look. As Kathy Mattea started "Burnin' Old Memories" on the jukebox, he felt another distant tug of remembrance. He cursed softly. "Look, if it's about hiring me, I'm kind of tied up right now with other things."

"I know. And those other things are exactly what I wish to discuss with you."

His gaze sharpened. "You're not from Tony?"

Tony Bendetti had been arrested ten years ago for securities fraud and forgery. Not that there had been anything wrong with his work; if anything, under close scrutiny, his phony stock certificates had looked better than the originals.

Unfortunately, when he'd broken up with his girlfriend shortly after floating the bad paper, she'd taken a handful of the certificates to the Feds, who, recognizing talent when they saw it, had offered Tony a deal he couldn't refuse. They'd keep him out of prison if he came to work for them.

The partnership had proven mutually rewarding. Tony avoided spending ten to fifteen years behind bars and the intelligence community had their very own Michelangelo. The last three passports Tony had created for Shade had been masterpieces.

This woman certainly didn't look like one of Tony's usual delivery girls.

"No." She shook her head, dislodging a long spiral curl from the tidy knot at the nape of her neck. The silken strand brushed against her neck, appearing like honey on cream. "I'm not from Tony Bendetti."

Shade knew damn well he hadn't told her Tony's last name. "But you know him."

His right hand lifted the glass to his lips while his left moved instinctively to his belt to reassure himself that his 9 mm semiautomatic pistol was safely nestled against the small of his back.

She still looked harmless. But in his business a guy who took anyone at face value, especially an attractive woman who smelled like heaven, inevitably ended up laid out on a slab with a tag on his big toe.

As they faced each other, the music, the lull of happy-hour conversations, the laughter faded into the distance. At this moment, they could have been the only two people in the bar. The air around them was practically crackling.

"I don't know him personally. But I do know who Tony Bendetti is. I am also acquainted with his line of work."

Tension shimmered between them. Shade was all barely restrained
energy
, reminding Rachel of a jungle cat prepared to pounce. His green eyes glittered dangerously.

"May I make a suggestion?" she asked quietly.

"What?"

It came out on a low, dangerous growl, reminding Rachel of one of his former code names:
Panther
. At the time she hadn't realized exactly how well that alias had fit.