Morgan's Son (12 page)

The apartment was pitifully decorated, if you could even use that word for this starkly utilitarian place. The living room held one sofa and one overstuffed chair, in an early American style, while the glass-topped table and chrome-legged chairs in the kitchen were strictly contemporary. Worse, the kitchen windows had no curtains.
Barren.
That was how the apartment struck her. The only evidence of life were those two photos on his television set.

Forcing her thoughts back to the essential business at hand, she walked back into the living room. Marie had given her a large manila envelope containing a great deal of information. The airline tickets were in there, and their hotel confirmation. Two passports gave their own first names with "Thomas" as a last name. Even driver's licenses in the new names, issued from the State of
New York
, were there. Automatically, she began organizing the credentials into her purse. Then, digging to the bottom of the big envelope, her hand touched something else, and she pulled out a small, white envelope.

What was in it? As Sabra carefully opened it, her heart dropped. Inside were two plain gold wedding bands—sized for a man and a woman. What would it be like to be married to Craig? The unbidden thought sent a spasm of panic through her, coupled with an unwanted surge of heat and desire. No question, the man appealed to her on a strictly physical level. But in every other way, he was enough to confound the wisest of women.

"Those the wedding rings?"

Sabra jumped. She'd been so intent on the rings in her palm that she didn't hear Craig approach. Angrily, she turned, upset at allowing herself for allowing her to lose the outer awareness she took pride in—and depended on. If she continued in this unaware mode, she could easily get one or both of them killed.

"I—uh, yes, they're wedding rings." Swallowing, Sabra tried not to stare as Craig came around the end of the couch. He wore a casual, short-sleeved navy shirt with white chinos, the blue of the shirt emphasizing his dark looks. Shaven, he looked less threatening, but that potent animal power still swirled around him.
He even walks like a cougar,
a little voice inside her whispered.

Craig saw shock and anger ignite briefly in Sabra's eyes. He took a seat on the couch about a foot away from her. "Well, like it or not, we're married," he said, taking up the larger, thicker gold band from her palm and slipping it onto his left ring finger. "Hmm, Marie did a good job of picking the size." The ring fit snugly, but moved onto his finger easily. Looking up, he saw that Sabra still held her ring, betraying emotions flickering in her shadowed gray eyes. He gave her a cutting, one-sided smile. "Don't worry, this isn't for real. Go ahead, put it on. It won't bite."

Sabra's palms were damp. Grimacing, she slipped the ring on. It fit perfectly.

"Not bad," Craig murmured, reaching out for the long, slender hand sporting the shiny new band. Her skin felt warm and slightly damp as he captured her fingers, admiring the ring. Her gaze snapped to his. What lovely eyes she had. Suddenly he wanted to tell her that—wanted to express her the pleasure that touching her, even briefly, brought to him. Did Sabra realize the island of calm she offered in his chaotic life? Probably not, judging from the panic in her eyes.

"You look like a woman who just walked in front of an oncoming car," he noted wryly, releasing her hand. She snatched it back and quickly got to her feet.

"It's not that," she whispered nervously, smoothing her silk skirt.

"You've gone undercover before, I'm sure. You said ‘Terry' was your partner's name?"

Sabra stood a good distance away from Craig, still feeling like a target beneath his hooded gaze. She felt stripped before him, as if he could look inside her heart and read her fear—and her crazy longing for him. "Yes," she said, her voice clipped with wariness.

"I'm sure you posed as man and wife many times."

"We did."

"This won't be any different, Sabra. Quit looking at me like I'm some kind of monster who'll make you come to bed with me."

She stared at him, openmouthed. "I—I didn't think any such thing!"

His smile was sad as he rose. "Really?" he taunted softly. "I know you don't like me, Sabra. That's all right. A lot of people hate my guts. So what's new? You can add your name to a very long list." He held out his hand. "Where's our dossier?"

Hurt by his remarks, Sabra pointed to the envelope on the couch. "In there."

"Okay," Craig murmured. He pulled some papers out and studied them intently. "I suppose you've got your part memorized already."

"I'm Sabra Thomas, wife to Craig Thomas," she recited. "We're professional photographers on assignment from Parker Publishing out of
New York City
. They want a book on the flora and fauna of Haleakala,
Maui
's inactive volcano." She pointed to the envelope next to him. "Your driver's license, passport and credit cards are in there."

"This is new to me," he admitted, looking over the information. "On my assignments, we've always kept our own identities."

"In high-risk," Sabra murmured, "we never put our real identities in jeopardy."

"No doubt," he agreed, sliding the new driver's license into his wallet and taking out his own.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Our cameras and other equipment will be waiting for us at the airline desk."

He looked up. "Do you know much about photography?"

"Not really."

"I'm surprised. You strike me as a woman who could do anything."

Sabra glared at him. "And I suppose you're a camera expert?"

"Only with your basic, all-American snapshots." He saw the pain in her eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, so stop looking at me like that."

Sabra stood very still. Was she that readable? Scrambling internally, she muttered defiantly, "I'm not hurt."

But she was, Craig knew and he tried to modulate his tone of voice. "I'm exhausted, Sabra. I've been two nights without sleep, and I'm a little raw around the edges. Sometimes I say things that wound other people."

His apology—as close to one as he probably ever got—soothed her. "I—it's okay. I understand."

He glanced at her. "You're awfully forgiving. Are you always like this, or is it part of your wifely act for the mission?"

Tempering her sudden anger, Sabra moved to the couch and picked up her shoulder bag. "It's me. Like it or not."

He caught and held her mutinous look. His mouth pulled into what he hoped was a smile. "I like it." He liked her—way too much. Taking his various papers from the folder, he wadded up the empty envelope. "Let's saddle up. I've packed a bag. We need to get going."

Sabra walked to the door. "I'm ready." But was she? Keeping Jason's plight in front of her, she tried to ignore the reality of her situation. Once they left the safety of his apartment, they would assume the demeanor of husband and wife. She watched Craig walk down the hall to his bedroom to retrieve his single piece of luggage, tucking his ticket and passport in an outer pocket. When he returned and met her at the door, she said, "I need to understand our married relationship."

He set his bag down. "In what way?"

"Well…" Sabra hesitated. "Are we a couple that's close or distant? In the dossier, it says we've been married five years." She cleared her throat and had a tough time holding his amused gaze.

"What's comfortable for you?"

"Uh, maybe holding hands in public from time to time?"

He shrugged. "Okay."

"What about you?"

Craig placed his hand on the brass doorknob. He could see the depth of wariness in Sabra's eyes. "My parents held hands in public, kissed a little here and there and made no apology for the fact that they loved each other very much." The panic in her eyes mounted. "But," he said, "judging from your reaction, I might as well be the Hunchback of Notre Dame, so I'll keep my distance. Occasional hand-holding it will be, Ms. Jacobs."

Avoiding his gaze, Sabra whispered, "I don't think you're the Hunchback!"

"Really? You look scared to death of me, Sabra." He lost his smile. "Don't worry, I'll keep my hands off you. If there isn't a second bed or couch in our room, I'll be more than happy to sleep on the floor. That way, you can feel safe from your frightening husband." He opened the door, gave her one last penetrating look and stepped into the hall. "Come on, Mrs. Thomas. We have a plane to catch."

Sabra was quiet, mulling over a number of apologies as they sat in the first-class section of an airliner speeding across the country. They'd been in flight for over an hour and had been served food and drink. The first-class section was nearly empty, and for that she was grateful. No one sat near them, and when the flight attendant had passed, Sabra leaned over and said, "I'm sorry."

Craig had been pretending to read a magazine. He lifted his head and met her gaze. "For what?"

She licked her lips. "For what happened at the apartment. I don't think you're ugly, and I'm not uncomfortable around you. Okay?"

He saw the sincerity in her eyes. "Don't fix what isn't broken, Mrs. Thomas."

"What does that mean?" Sabra's voice was very low and taut.

Craig picked up his glass of wine and took a sip. "It's okay to admit you don't like me. I understand."

"But I don't dislike you!"

"Really?" He set the glass aside and devoted his full attention to her. Sabra had changed clothes and now wore a loose, light green silk top with dark green silk pants—completely tasteful, yet provocative as hell on her, Craig thought. She really didn't seem aware of her stunning beauty, or the grace that had made nearly every man in the airport twist his head for a good, long look at her. She had caught her hair up in a French roll with soft, wispy bangs across her brow, making her look very cosmopolitan and accentuating the emerald green earrings in her delicate ears. He had a mad urge to caress her flushed cheek as she leaned closer, her shoulder barely touching his.

"It's just that—well, I don't know you."

"I see…."

"No, you don't!" Her eyes flashed. "You don't make anything easy, do you, Craig?"

"I've been accused of that," he said agreeably. Deliberately, he reached over and picked up her left hand, then pressed a light kiss to the back of it. Her skin was soft and fragrant and suddenly he wanted to turn her hand over, run his tongue provocatively across her palm and watch her eyes grow dark with desire. Laughing at his own unexpected idealism, he released her hand as shock registered in her eyes.

Sabra jerked back her hand, her skin tingling wildly where he'd kissed it. Of all things! She looked at him angrily, her hands rigidly clasped in her lap, and saw the laughter in his eyes. He'd known full well she would overreact to his deliberate kiss. But she'd seen a pleasure in his stormy eyes, too, as he'd touched his lips to her skin. She wondered what it would be like to feel that strong mouth against hers, to explore those lips with the one corner turned slightly upward in a sad, sardonic expression.

Her heart was pounding in her breast, and she absently raised her hand to her chest, realizing belatedly that she was blushing furiously. She heard Craig chuckle and snapped her head toward him.

"What's so funny?"

"You." He smiled a little. "You don't like my touch, Sabra. I wanted to see if you were lying, and now I know the truth."

"You are infuriating!" she said through gritted teeth. "You have no idea how I feel toward you."

"The way you jerked your hand back," he rasped, leaning forward till his mouth was mere inches from her ear, "told me more than any words could ever do."

"I hope," Sabra rattled under her breath, "that you don't use the same kind of faulty judgment once we're on
Maui
, or we'll both be dead."