Dangerous Secrets (17 page)

Charity could never be bought, never be forced. She’d die first and that was what had Nick terrified.

This buzz of imminent danger Nick was feeling was making him nauseous. He’d sweated the problem all morning.

For the time being, he was at her side. As long as he was alive, no one was going to touch her. But suppose he wasn’t alive? How the fuck could he keep Charity safe even if he bought it? How could he protect her, even from beyond the grave? It roiled around in his head, a dilemma with sharp edges that sliced, drew blood.

Though last night he’d fucked her frantically, for hours, when he finally quit because she was exhausted, he still couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t even come near it.

The early morning hours had been spent on his back, staring wide-eyed at the shadows in the ceiling, Charity snuggled up close to his side, head on his shoulder. He couldn’t hear her breathing and would have panicked if he hadn’t felt her narrow rib cage slowly rising and falling.

Such a thin line between life and death. He’d seen countless men and some women cross it. In battle, the line was crossed in a microsecond. You were there one moment, a fully alive, thinking human being, and the next you were meat.

Charity was crossing a minefield, with no one to look out for her. She could cross that line between life and death in a heartbeat.

Nick couldn’t stand even the thought of it. His head churned uselessly throughout the night, as he ran through improbable scenarios in his mind.

And then, as the sky turned from black to slate then pewter, a solution hit him. There was a way to keep her safe, even if
he was snuffed. One thing he could do that would protect her no matter what happened to him.

Marry her.

Or rather, Nicholas Ames would marry her. Didn’t make any difference that Nicholas Ames didn’t exist. The important thing was that a member of the Unit, a federal agent, had married her.

It was against every rule that existed, even illegal, since he’d be using fake ID. It was unheard of, in the Unit, and in every law enforcement agency in existence. Undercover agents seduced, lied, cheated, and killed. But they didn’t marry, not while undercover.

The shit would hit the fan back in D.C. If he lived, they’d throw the book at him, his teammates would chew his ass out good, he’d probably have to retire in disgrace, but by God…it would work. Oh yeah.

If he got whacked, the Unit and all its resources, his teammates, even his boss would provide a shield for Charity, protect her. The Unit took care of its own. By marrying her, he would make Charity one of theirs. As soon as he announced the marriage, he’d make sure they understood that.

Charity was staring at him, light gray eyes wide.

“I—” She cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon? What did you say?”

Her astonishment brought a smile to his face, a lightness he hadn’t felt all morning. The way ahead was full of darkness and traps, but there might be a path through it, if he could just feel his way.

Nick took her left hand and slowly removed the supple kid glove. Her skin was soft, warm. He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed her fingers, watching her eyes, choosing his words carefully.

“I know this sounds crazy, honey. We’ve only known each other a week. But it’s been a…very intense week. I know that I’ve never felt this way before about any other woman, and that’s not going to change. In my job, I’m forced to make fast decisions and so far, they’ve all been good ones. This one is a good one and time won’t change it in any way. I don’t want to wait. I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

What was left of it, anyway.

Nick watched her carefully. Her hand had gone slack in his, then had tightened. What was she thinking?

“Marriage,” she whispered, eyes searching his.

It sounded crazy to him, too. But he had to convince her. Now that he’d come up with his plan, he couldn’t wait to put it into effect.

He nodded. “Marriage. Now.”

Her hand jerked in his. “Now? You mean—
right now
?” She looked at the gray courthouse wall. “Just…walk in and get married?”

“Yes. Right now.” He wished it were already done. He kissed her hand again. “I’m not certain, but I might have to go away on business next week, and I might stay away…awhile.” This time next week, he might be dead. “I want to know when I leave that you’re mine. Forever.” And alive, he added silently. “I’m thirty-four and I know myself. I know what I feel and I know this is serious. This is it.” He paused. “At least for me it is. I’m hoping you feel the same.”

“Yes, I do,” she said simply, and his heart soared. His lovely Charity. How typical of her. No coyness, no dancing around, no games. “Yes, I feel the same. That it’s serious, and true, and deep.”

“Exactly.” Inside, he exulted. This was going to work! He
couldn’t think about when he’d leave. Right now, he was concentrated on getting her into the Unit’s protective embrace. “Now, you know and I know that we could have a long engagement. We could date for another six months, a year, and nothing would change except we’d be a year older. I’d still feel the same and I hope you would, too.”

She nodded, eyes unwavering on his.

“My job as a stockbroker is basically to understand not so much what to do but when to do it. I have an instinct for good timing. And my instinct says that this is the right thing to do. Right now.”

“Nick,” she said quietly, looking troubled, slowly sliding her hand from his. “You must understand, I can’t move to Manhattan, much as I’d like to. It would be exciting, and I can’t hide from you that I love the idea, but I have responsibilities here. I’m sorry. I don’t know if you can accept that.”

His heart squeezed and for a second he lost his voice.

She loved him. He knew that, or else he’d never have had this crazy idea, never could have hoped to make it work. It was there in the way she looked at him, touched him, fucked him. No—made love with him.

It spoke to her nature that she’d be willing to give up marriage to the man she loved for her elderly aunt and uncle.

“I don’t have to live in New York,” he said gently. “They have these fantastic inventions called the Internet and e-mail. I can do most of my business from here. What little I can’t do over the Net, I can take care of on short trips.”

With each word, he saw joy blossom more brightly on her face, artless and devastating, because he knew what he’d be leaving behind after he was gone. He was going to break her heart.

But—however miserable she’d be when he disappeared,
however devastated and grief-stricken, she’d be alive, and that was what mattered. Nobody dies of a broken heart. They do die of a meat hook through the heart.

Nick was a hard man. Hard men made hard choices. And he’d made his.

“Come with me,” he murmured, lifting a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear. He gestured out the windshield at the big door set in the gray wall in front of them. “In there. We can be married in an hour. And since we’re doing this the unconventional way, afterward we can go shopping for rings. Soon, maybe next week or when the weather clears up, we can have a little reception for your folks and friends. I was thinking at Da Emilio’s. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded, smiling. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“As long as they let me pay,” he added.

He stroked her face, the skin so soft. Warm. Alive. “I need to take care of something this afternoon, but I’ll be back by five, six at the latest.” A quick kiss. “And we’ll have our wedding night tonight.” He stirred, just thinking of it.

It came to him with a quick punch to his stomach that tonight he could be making love to his wife. Words he never thought he’d ever say. Not even in his head.

Even if the marriage lasted only a week or two, and he disappeared forever afterward, he’d have had that. More than he ever thought he’d have.

Nick nodded at the big steel doors leading into the courthouse. “What do you say, darling? Shall we get married?”

She didn’t say anything, just looked at him. Charity had an open face and Nick could always tell what she was thinking. All her emotions were up front and visible. Except now, when he couldn’t read her at all.

Charity said nothing. And it suddenly occurred to him that she hadn’t said yes yet.

Sweat gathered along his spine, under his arms. Fuck. It had never even occurred to him that she might say no. If she refused, what the hell was he going to do?

The only other option would be to take her into protective custody. Essentially jail her. And he’d do it, by God. Cuff her if he had to. Drag her into custody kicking and screaming and keep her there until this whole sorry mess was settled.

“So?” he growled.

Nick could feel his muscles tensing. The low, insistent noise of imminent danger in the back of his head dialed up a couple of notches. If she said no, he was taking her in, right now. To hell with Worontzoff. They could get Worontzoff on their own. Nick would go crazy worrying about her, compromise the mission, so the only way he could function was to restrain her and drive her immediately into Birmingham.

They’d put her in a safe house, under guard 24/7. Safe houses were miserably dingy at best, and most were downright seedy. He’d been in more than one with cockroaches. And anyone under guard in a safe house subsisted off stale pizza and beer. Standing guard in a safe house was the most boring security work imaginable and the only way men could stand it was to let themselves go. Inside a day, any safe house in the world looked and smelled like Animal House and the men on guard lost about twenty points off their IQ. Lighting farts was a big diversion on guard duty.

She’d hate it—used to pretty surroundings and perfumed rooms and cut flowers in vases and fresh fruit and vegetables. She’d hate being in a safe house, with no privacy, none of her things around her, guarded over by loutish, uncaring men.

“So,” he said again. He tried to keep his voice soft. Nicholas Ames, asking a woman he’d fallen in love with to marry him. Not Nick Ireland, willing to abduct her if she said no. “What’s your answer?”

Charity suddenly smiled, eyes shining. “Yes,” she said softly. “Oh yes!”

It went smoothly. And fast.

Nobody else wanted to get married on this dark, icy winter day, so after filling out forms and producing IDs, the clerk ushered them immediately into a large room with a podium at the other end.

The room was filled with remnants of weddings past. Big vases of wilted flowers flanked the podium and formed a little honor brigade on either side of the aisle. White satin bows hung from the windows and the smell of scented candles still lingered in little pockets of fragrance. The empty chairs were like ghosts in the room.

A smiling woman and a gray-haired man stood at the podium, watching benevolently as Nick and Charity walked up the aisle, hand in hand.

Half an hour later, they walked out, man and wife.

Or rather, Nicholas Ames walked out a married man. Nick Ireland was still…what? Single? Legally, yeah, he was single. He didn’t
feel
single any more, though, not with a
beaming Charity on his arm, responding happily to her new name, Mrs. Ames.

Like pulling the petals off a daisy. Married. Not married. Married. Not married…

It was a farce, of course. The whole marriage thing. He was a nonexistent man taking vows to be faithful until death. Ridiculous. He didn’t even believe in marriage. Nothing in his lifetime had ever led him to think that marriage was anything but a legal way to scratch an itch. Stupid, expensive way, too, when there were so many other ways to get laid.

Most of the men in Delta Force were divorced. Several times over, too, which just proved that the smartest men in the world could be led around by their dicks. For a while, at least.

And in the Unit—few of them even managed girlfriends, let alone wives. A long-term commitment was twenty minutes. Roll on, roll off, good-bye. It wasn’t a lifestyle conducive to relationships. That wasn’t anything that bothered him, until now. Marriage was for civilians.

And yet—and yet.

There’d been a moment there, when the gray-haired man read aloud some bible thing about cleaving unto each other, then made them repeat vows to look after each other in sickness and in health, then quietly pronounced them man and wife. When Charity lifted her radiant face for his kiss. When a goddamned shaft of sunlight unexpectedly broke through the slate gray sky to fucking shine at their feet like some fucking sign from heaven.

Then, right then, the whole thing felt…real. For an instant, he could believe he really was Nicholas Ames, businessman, marrying a wonderful woman, till death do us part. They’d live in that beautiful house which they’d fill up with kids.
Take a week’s vacation in Aruba each winter. Plant roses and establish a wine cellar and buy a goddamned dog.

It was like a fork in the road and he could see far down where that road would take him. He’d become a family man, pillar of the community. Mow the lawn on Saturdays, coach Little League. Father, husband, neighbor…

Nah.

Nick wasn’t born for that life. What the fuck did he know about families? Dick is what he knew. His mother had abandoned him at an orphanage; she probably didn’t even know who his father was. He had tainted, renegade blood in him. And his upbringing, well…Charity could never know what his childhood had been like. What he’d done, what he’d seen. She’d recoil in disgust. Any woman would. And what he was would come out, sooner or later. No one can stay undercover for a lifetime. So a real marriage wasn’t in the cards, ever.

But still, for just a minute there…

Afterward, he took her to a jewelry store.
The
jewelry store, the only one in Parker’s Ridge. This was one thing that was on him. He wouldn’t make Uncle Sam pay for this. But what the fuck, he had a million dollars now, didn’t he? He could afford a pair of rings.

The store didn’t have a big selection and he was just about to settle for a plain regular wedding band size extra large and a band and a diamond for Charity, when he saw them.

A pair of claddagh rings, set in a velvet box under glass. A large, broad band of gold with four claddaghs etched on the ring for him, and the symbol itself as a gold ring for Charity.

The claddagh, the Celtic symbol of true love.

It was the only thing he had of his mother.

On the twenty-first of December, 1976, the night watchman of the orphanage heard a bell ring. It rang only a few
times a year and it was the sensor of the only baby hatch in America at that time. Now there were 150 of them, most of them funded by Jake.

The hatch was a warmed baby bed, and it was why Nick had survived that night, the coldest night of the winter of 1975. He had been placed in a cheap plastic basin, wrapped in a blanket stolen from the downtown homeless shelter. The doctors wrote down that, in their estimation, he was three or four days old and that he’d been breast-fed sporadically. The only object in the basin was a small, cheap trinket, sold by the millions in Ireland. A claddagh medallion.

Nick had that medallion in his pocket.

“Honey,” he said, “come here.”

Charity put down the ring she’d been looking at and walked over to him.

Nick picked up the smaller ring, meant for a woman’s hand. He placed it in the palm of her hand. “Do you know what this is?”

Charity picked it up, turning it around. Two stylized hands clasping a heart topped by a crown. “No, but it’s very pretty. An unusual design, though.” She looked up with a frown. “What is it?”

“A claddagh. It’s an ancient Celtic symbol. Look, see the hands holding the heart?”

Charity nodded. “And what’s that on top?”

“A crown.” Nick smiled mysteriously. “There’s a story behind it. You’ll love it.”

The jeweler had discreetly retreated to the other side of the room to give them privacy. A wind-borne burst of sleet rapped against the big picture window, rattling it. If it rattled, it meant it was a thin pane of glass loose in the casement.

Jesus
, Nick thought. The geezer didn’t even have bullet-re
sistant windows. A small fortune in gold and diamonds and any dirtbag could smash his fist through the window and grab a handful. What was
wrong
with these people?

Without thinking about it, he angled his body so that he was between the front window and Charity.

He placed the two rings on his open palm and held them out to her and told her the story of the claddagh. One of the stories. There were dozens. He chose the one he thought Charity’d like best.

“Many, many years ago, in Galway, Ireland, a man named Richard Joyce left his true love to go to the West Indies to seek his fortune. He promised her he’d come back to her a rich man and marry her. But on the way he was kidnapped by pirates and taken to Algiers, where he became a slave to the most famous goldsmith in the Mediterranean. Joyce was an enterprising young man and the goldsmith trained him well. He became a master goldsmith.

“One day the British king demanded the release of all British prisoners held in Algiers. The goldsmith offered Joyce half his fortune and his daughter in marriage if he would only stay. But Joyce wanted to go home and marry his true love, and he did. While still a slave, he’d forged a ring to symbolize his love and upon his return, he gave it to his sweetheart, who’d waited faithfully for him all those years.”

Charity was listening intently to him, face rapt. “When the ring is put on the right hand, it means that person’s heart is open. When it’s on the left hand ring finger with the heart facing outward, it means the person is engaged. When it’s on the left hand ring finger with the heart pointing towards the body, it means that person is married to their true love.”

Nick picked up the smaller ring and gently slid it onto her left ring finger, heart facing the body.

A perfect fit. He curled his fist around hers.

“When Joyce gave it to his wife, he said, ‘With these hands I give you my heart and I crown it with my love.’” He smiled down at her. “And that’s what it means to me, too.”

“Nick,” she whispered. Her eyes were shiny, white throat moving as she swallowed.

“No crying,” Nick said, alarmed. Jesus, that was the last thing he needed, a bawling female. No tears, she couldn’t cry, no way. His own throat felt tight and hot. She’d set him off and he never
ever
cried. Never. Iceman.

“Here,” he said swiftly and held out the man’s ring. “Put it on my finger.”

She slid it on and they both looked down at his hand. It was a little tight, but that could be taken care of. Or not. He wasn’t going to wear it for very long, anyway. Another week, two, max.

The thought dimmed some of the joy and he pushed it out of his head. Concentrate on the moment. And this moment was a fine one, one he’d remember for a long, long time. Charity, looking up at him as if he’d invented sunshine and found the cure for cancer, the old geezer smiling at them both as if they were his beloved grandkids.

Oodles of love and warmth floating around. Nick was surprised they weren’t melting snow at a hundred paces.

Okay. Enough of this. There was stuff to do, pronto.

He had to break the news to his teammates camped out in an uncomfortable van that he’d married their prime contact.

Nick knew he was going to take a lot of flak for it, he’d be yelled at and threatened, he might even be demoted, and his boss would have a coronary, but in the end, they’d agree to protect Charity as long as necessary and that was what counted. A team of good guys would have her back.

Let them scream. He was tough. He could take it. What he couldn’t take was the idea of Charity alone and in danger. He’d just brought the talents of a lot of very tough guys and an entire government agency over to her side.

He paid for the rings in cash and bundled Charity back into the car. She kept her left glove off, holding her hand up and admiring the ring. It
was
pretty.

He flexed his own left hand. The broad band felt heavy and cumbersome on his hand. He didn’t like male jewelry and never imagined he’d ever wear any, let alone a wedding band. It felt weird, awkward, alien.

Even driving at his poky Nicholas Ames speed, it wasn’t that far to Charity’s house. In ten minutes they were there. Nick parked on the curb and kept the engine running.

He lifted Charity’s chin with a forefinger and bent down to her. Her mouth opened immediately, tongue touching his with an electric stroke that went all the way to his balls.

Nose against her cheek, he drew in a sharp breath, scented with shampoo and cream and her perfume. He didn’t know what it was, but it was worth every penny she paid for it. It was sheer dynamite. Though it was light and springlike, it went straight to his dick, in a pure Pavlovian reaction. It was automatic. Smell Charity’s perfume, get a woody.

Charity murmured into his mouth, a soft groan and cupped his face with her ungloved hand. This was supposed to be a little peck—
bye honey, be good, I’ll be back soon
—but Charity’s mouth was a little honey trap, warm and wet and welcoming, almost as exciting as her little cunt.

He hadn’t gone down on her yet. Chicks loved it. He could take it or leave it, but he’d long ago figured out it was a fast, easy way to make the woman wet and soft enough to take
him fully. So it was basically a little speed bump on the way to what he considered real sex.

Suddenly, holding Charity’s head still, tongue in her mouth, he had a sharp, sudden hunger to kiss her pussy. Exactly as he was doing with her mouth. Not as a prelude but as the main course. She was so soft down there, even her pubic hair. He flashed on the two of them in her warm bed on this freezing winter night, Charity spread-eagled on the flowered sheets, with his head between her thighs, tongue in her cunt like it was in her mouth right now.

He could see it. Charity’s slim, lithe form stretched out, sharp hip bones bracketing her concave belly, pale breasts trembling with every breath, heartbeat visible in her left breast.

He loved it when she came, loved the feeling of the sharp contractions of her cunt around his cock. Jesus, how much better would it be to
taste
her climax, feel her coming against his mouth?

Just the thought of it brought him fully erect, when he had nowhere to go with his hard-on.
Ouch.

He broke away from her, breathing hard, and curled his fingers resolutely around the steering wheel.

Her mouth was wet, a little swollen, the way her cunt probably was….

Think of something else
.

Nick flashed on telling Di Stefano and his boss about marrying Charity. Their reaction, the reaction back in D.C. It was like dipping his dick in a glass of ice water.

He smiled at her, at her confused look and nodded toward the house. “Go in now honey, or I’ll never get these things done. I’ll be back around five or six and we’ll spend the entire night…celebrating.”

She turned pink and Nick laughed and reached across to open her door. “Hold that thought.”

Charity turned and smiled at him. “You betcha,” she said softly and got out. Nick watched until she was in the house and the living rooms lights went on, then pulled out.

He called Di Stefano and was relieved when he got a busy signal. Bumped over to voice mail, he left a brief message that he was on his way.

Then he called Jake on his cell. “Hey big guy,” Jake answered. “Or should I say rich guy?”

“That’s funny, coming from you. You have more money than God.” He heard Jake chuckle complacently, because he did. “You could buy me out with what you spend for breakfast.”

“Maybe. But I think I’m going to set another goal for you. How about another million by this time next year? I’ve been crunching numbers and reading some interesting stuff on Moldovan bonds. And there’s this new Brazilian company making hybrid cars. I’m going to make you so much money, you’ll figure it’s ridiculous keeping that job of yours and you’ll quit and do something that won’t get you killed.”

Perfect opening. “Hey Jake, about that getting killed stuff…”

“What?” Jake’s voice rose with tension, all humor gone. “What? Are you in trouble? Goddamn you, Nick, how many times have I told you—”

“Can it, Jake,” Nick said wearily. Jesus, what had he got married for, when Jake did the nagging wife thing so well? “I’m not in danger.” Yet. “What I am is married. I think.”