Atlantis Unmasked (11 page)

“Why didn't you ever go into P Ops, Sam?”

He glanced over at her. “What does that have to do with bubble baths, exactly?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. It's just that the Paranormal Ops teams would be thrilled to have somebody of your talents, and I'd think with your background you'd prefer their organization and structure over our raggedy group. For that matter, you should take over this training mission, and I'll be
your
go-to guy.”

The sounds of excited voices, unmistakably edged with tension, grew louder as Sam and Grace approached the stairs to the upper deck of the building. All the newbies ended up there, and Grace didn't blame them. The view was spectacular.

The fort sat right at the edge of the entrance to the harbor, strategically positioned to protect the oldest continuously occupied city in America. Grace had had time to learn some of the history of the area, and it was fascinating stuff. The abandoned gift shop was lined with dust-covered bookshelves filled with various books about the fort, the city, and the military history of the area. Cendoya, the Spanish governor of Florida, had been in charge of building the fort. He broke ground in late 1672, and with a military engineer named Ignacio Daza and labor in the form of soldiers, Indians, slaves, and skilled craftsmen, the work on the fort began. Poor Governor Cendoya died only a few years into the project, though, and the fort wasn't finished until 1695.

What Grace found most fascinating about the fort itself was the construction of the walls. The beautiful rock, coquina, was composed of tiny seashells that had literally been turned into concrete by the sea itself, as if Alexios's sea god had been playing with building blocks as a child. The Spaniards had ferried the coquina on an elaborate system of boats from nearby Anastasia Island. The enormous task had been complicated by pirate attacks and storms, but they'd persevered, and the fact that the amazing structure still stood today was a testament to those early builders.

These days, the harbor was often dotted with sailboats as residents and tourists enjoyed the mild winter weather and the glorious Florida sunshine. On the other side of the fort, the historic town was laid out in a wonderful panorama, with so much to see and do that Grace had spent one day from sunrise to sunset simply strolling from one end of the old town to the other, stopping at shops, historic sites, and artisans' studios.

Sometimes, in the midst of training, worry, and planning for battle, a girl just wanted to watch a glass blower at work.

“You still there?” Sam asked, making her think that maybe he'd asked before. She grinned and nodded, coming back from her reverie.

“P Ops wouldn't let me take my dog on patrol,” he drawled. “And Quinn tells me you have special talents that make you the right one to be in charge of this ball game.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and whistled. “Come on, Blue.”

The wrinkliest dog Grace had ever seen lifted his head from his paws, opened first one eye and then the other, then stood up and stretched in a motion that was about two city blocks away from graceful. Sam had told her Blue was a Georgia bloodhound. “The perfect dog for tracking bad guys and sleeping on porches,” he'd said. “Or tracking bad guys who're sleeping on porches. Something like that.”

But he'd had that unique Sam grin on his face, the one that told her he was pulling her leg so hard she'd be lucky if it didn't come clear off and leave her with only one, like the “one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest” Sam so often claimed to be busier than.

Working with a Georgia man was definitely an education for a Midwestern girl.

She took a deep breath and rubbed her suddenly damp hands on her jeans, and Sam narrowed his eyes.

“No call to be nervous about this bunch, Grace. They're all in awe of you.”

“Of me? Why?”

He ignored her question and answered the one she deliberately hadn't asked. “He's not here yet. Your important trainer fellow.”

The nervous butterflies the size of flamingos swarming around in her stomach dialed it down a notch, and she blew out a breath. “Okay. Good. We can focus on meet and greets first. I'm sure Alexios will want to meet them all, too, so we can save the intake interviews for later, when he gets here.”

“Fine by me,” he agreed, starting up the stairs. “You gonna let me know what it is about this guy that gets you so riled up?”

She didn't bother to deny it; Sam was a bit of a bloodhound himself. “As soon as I figure it out, you'll be the first to know.”

An hour later, Grace made her excuses to the fresh-faced young guy eagerly questioning her and headed to the refreshment table to fill her mug from the thermal carafe filled with hot coffee. An even dozen trainees. It was a pitifully small number, but recruits were down. Ever since the so-called “accidental” fire that had wiped out a training compound in northern California two months ago, during the same week that a “gas leak” had caused an explosion that killed twenty-six rebels at a training compound in Colorado, people had been more and more reluctant to have anything to do with the movement.

Grace couldn't even blame them. Most people had families and friends. Loved ones who would mourn if they died, even for so just a cause as freedom. Unlike her.

She had no one.

She scooped too much sugar and cream into the rich pumpkin spice coffee—one of her few luxuries—and stirred it mindlessly, giving herself pep talk number 67(a), the one in which Our Heroine refused to give in to self-pity. It's not like she was really alone. She had friends. Michelle, Quinn, Jack, and now Sam and—

“Hello, Grace.”

She jumped a little at the sound of his voice; the sound she'd been waiting for—and dreading—all morning. Coffee splashed over the rim of the mug, stinging her fingers. “Ouch!”

“Not the greeting I would have expected, but you do have a history of surprising me.” The amusement colored his voice until it was as rich and dark as the coffee.

She told herself the shiver snaking down her neck was simply because of the cold. He couldn't possibly be as formidable in reality as he was in her memories. It had been adrenaline-fueled attraction, that was all.

Pasting what she hoped was a friendly but neutral expression on her face, she put the mug down and swung around to face him. “Alexios. Welcome. We're glad you're here. Did you just get in through the magic doorway?”

It hadn't been the adrenaline.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean-hipped with the exact muscular body type she'd always found irresistible, but that wasn't what she saw first. It wasn't what anyone would see first.

In the bright afternoon sunlight that turned his mane of thick hair the color of molten gold, the sight of his scarred face was almost shocking. She'd seen him—seen his face—several times before, but always in the nighttime. Always in the dark. The merciless quality of the winter sunshine cast dark shadows along the jagged edges of the badly healed gouges. The left side of his face was scarred from temple to chin, leaving only his left eye and, oddly enough, his nose, whole and unmarked. But the right side was perfection; both counterpoint and mockery to the damage it mirrored.

The half smile that had quirked at the edges of his lips faded under her perusal and she was suddenly desperately ashamed. How long had Alexios been forced to endure the stares and speculation? And, worse, what torture and unimaginable pain had he suffered that could have caused such scars?

His narrowed eyes, rapidly turning the deep, turbulent blue of a storm-tossed sea at dusk, gave her the answers: far too long and far too much.

“No, I took the tram,” he replied to the question she'd almost forgotten asking. “The tour guide was excellent. Did you know St. Augustine is the oldest European city in the United States, first visited by Ponce de León in 1513?”

She smiled, gratefully accepting his unspoken offer of forgiveness. “I did, in fact. I've spent a lot of time exploring the city since we decided to establish this outpost here.”

“It still surprises me, when I think of it, to recall just how young your country is. Coffee?”

She blinked. “What? No, I have some, thanks.”

“I meant, may I have some? Coffee?”

She felt the heat climb into her cheeks, where it would probably stay for the rest of the time Alexios was in St. Augustine. She was twenty-five, damnit, and a trained fighter. A commander now, even. Not a giggly teenager with her first crush on a man. No matter that he'd kissed her like a starving man devouring a feast, and she, the feast.

“Coffee?” he prompted, amusement shimmering in his eyes, as if he could hear her ridiculous thoughts. Oh. God.

“Can you read minds?” she blurted out.

A slow, sexy smile spread over his face and every nerve ending in her body wanted to sing and dance. Even his teeth were gorgeous. Somehow, those sexy eyes and that sinful smile, combined with the sheer virile presence of the man, caused the scars to fade into insignificance.

“If I assure you that I cannot, may I have some of that coffee? It was a late night last night, and my head is not yet recovered.”

The blush burned through her cheeks again, so she quickly turned away to find a clean mug. This first encounter was not going at all as planned. She was supposed to be smooth, capable, and in command, and she couldn't even manage to give the poor man a cup of coffee.

“Cream and sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

She handed him the mug and their fingers touched as he took it. A shock jolted through her at the contact, and her startled gaze flew up to meet his, but he showed no sign that he'd felt it. Probably just static electricity, not a sign of “someday my prince will come back from wherever he'd
run away to
” nonsense.

Not that she believed in princes.

“Why were you up so late?”

He did a quick scan of the area, empty except for the two of them, then leaned forward. “The prince was born.”

Grace did a peculiar double take at his words. “The prince. Of course the prince was born,” she muttered, almost to herself, briefly closing her very expressive eyes.

He ruthlessly stole those moments to drink in the sight of her, from the rich chestnut hair glowing in the sunlight, to the high cheekbones that reminded him of the Native American peoples of the Midwestern states, to her rich golden skin. Just seeing her again, seeing the lovely curves that perfectly balanced her long, lean body, was like a balm to his ravaged nerves.

It terrified him.

He'd been wrong to tell Ven he could handle working closely with Grace. There was nothing about this situation that he was going to be able to handle.

She finally opened her eyes. “Is everybody okay? I felt . . .”

“I'll be fine,” he snapped.

“Well, I'm glad,” she said, tilting her head and drawing those lovely dark brows together in puzzlement. “But I meant the baby and his mother. Are
they
well?”

He ground his teeth together at his own stupidity. Ven would be laughing his ass off if he were here to witness this conversation. One sight of her exotically beautiful face and Alexios's mind had turned into sautéed jellyfish. Which almost made sense after the bolt of electricity that had damn near sizzled his insides just from the touch of her fingers on the coffee mug. The exact same electricity that had turned him into a lightning rod when he'd kissed her.

He thought he'd done a good job of hiding that reaction, though. Maybe.

“They are well. Riley, very recently wed to High Prince Conlan, had a difficult pregnancy, but both are well. Prince Aidan has an extremely large head, but they tell us that is normal with newborns.”