Morgan's Son (20 page)

Heat flared up into her cheeks, and Sabra died inwardly. She hadn't blushed like this in years! Craig's gentle tone was undoing her, just as his mouth had unfastened the gates to a cauldron of desire hidden deep within her. She'd had no idea of the power of her desire for him until that moment, and it frightened her. "It was a stupid mistake, that's all," she found herself rattling. "Let's just forget it, okay?" But how could she? She saw amusement lingering in his gaze. The man was going to drive her to distraction with looks like that! Did he realize his impact on her? She didn't think so. What hurt most was that he was apologizing for kissing her! If he'd meant to kiss her, he certainly wouldn't be apologizing like this.

"It's forgotten," he said huskily. He pointed to the other room. "Listen, I ordered us a late breakfast. It's here. Do you want to eat something?"

Touched, Sabra shrugged. Her stomach was in knots. Her lower body felt like it was on fire. She wanted only to throw her arms around his broad, capable shoulders and kiss him until they melted into each other. Moistening her lips, she said, "I could stand some coffee."

He allowed his hand to drop to his side. "Good. Come on."

She followed at a distance, but not because she didn't trust him. Oh, no—it was herself she didn't trust. With his day's growth of beard, Craig looked devastating, and now that she'd encountered the power of his kiss, she had to be careful not to respond to his looks, to any accidental touch. Her throat aching, she tried to put her turmoil and desire aside as she stepped into his room. Breakfast had been set out on the coffee table, and Sabra realized Craig must have done it. The coffee was already poured, her toast buttered, with jam slathered across it, waiting for her.

She sat down hesitantly at the opposite end of the couch, as far away from him as she could get. "You didn't have to do this," she murmured, motioning to the toast.

"Old habits die hard," he said wryly, trying not to stare at her too long or too much. Sabra's mint green blouse lovingly outlined her contours. Her white silk pants were as loose and flowing as her glorious dark hair. Once again, Craig was reminded of a graceful willow.

"What do you mean?" Sabra asked as she picked up the toast, barely noticing its whole-wheat flavor or the rich strawberry taste of the jam. Craig's powerful presence mere feet away from her was overwhelming.

He picked up his cup of coffee. "Back home in
Fort
Wingate
, it was my job to butter the toast and put jam on the table for everybody." Giving her a slight smile and holding her shadowed gaze, Craig said, "Everyone at our house was assigned chores. Dan made breakfast, Joe set the table and I made sure the toast was buttered and the juice poured."

Relieved to be discussing such a safe topic, Sabra took a sip of the fragrant Kona coffee. His voice sounded low and intimate in a way she'd never experienced from him before. His face appeared totally relaxed for the first time, and she was in awe at the difference in him between their first meeting and now. How much of himself had he been hiding from her? Had their kiss made this difference?
Flushing
hotly, Sabra put her cup back on its saucer and stared down at the toast in her other hand.

"You said," she began, trying to keep things light between them, "that you were raised on an Indian reservation?"

"Yes. All three of us boys were born at
Gallup
,
New Mexico
, about sixteen miles from the family trading post and grocery store on the Navajo reservation. We kids were more or less adopted by neighbors of ours, the Yazzies. Alfred and Luanne Yazzie had a pretty big family of their own. I think we were lucky growing up in the wilds of the
New Mexico
desert with the Navajo people."

Sabra nodded and forced herself to swallow another bite of toast, then take another sip of coffee. Silence descended on them, and she scrambled mentally for some safe response. But what came out of her mouth was anything but safe. "Do you think the nightmare will come back again? Tonight?"

Craig's hands stilled on his thighs. He saw the worry in Sabra's eyes and heard it distinctly in her voice. "No," he said, "I hope not." Giving her a sad smile, he added, "You've really been lucky. Usually, the nightmare only hits about once a week. The rest of the nights I'm just restless. I toss and turn a lot, but I don't remember…" His voice trailed off.

"Maybe you're upset over losing Jennifer?"

He nodded, resting his elbows onto his thighs and clasping his hands between his knees. Avoiding Sabra's gaze, he rasped, "I'm more than upset."

"Were…you two close?"

He caught the inference. Looking up at her, he shook his head. "She was a good teammate, nothing more. We'd been on assignments together the past couple months." His mouth turned down. "I guess what hurts is that Jenny was engaged to be married as soon as we got off this last mission." Running his fingers through his hair in an aggravated motion, he muttered, "If I hadn't let her tail that suspect alone, she'd be enjoying her wedding now."

"Maybe," Sabra said quietly. "Maybe not. You can't predict future events any better than anyone else. You didn't know she would get in an auto accident."

He nodded, staring at the floor beyond his hands. "Maybe…"

Sabra set the cup down. "I could walk out of here and be nailed by a car crossing the street, Craig. It could happen to anyone."

He snapped his head up, glaring at her. "I've lost people twice in my life to things like that. I'm not about to lose you the same way."

Stunned by his sudden emotional intensity, Sabra stared at him, her cup frozen halfway to her lips.

"Look," he said angrily, "I've lost people I've loved before. Good people who didn't deserve to die. I'm like a black cloud, Sabra. Bad things happen when I'm around." He avoided her compassionate gaze and rubbed his hands together slowly, feeling the pain of the admission. "I know you're supposed to be the leader on this team," he croaked. "My head knows it, but my heart doesn't. I just lost my partner. I'm feeling damned guilty about it." He raised his chin, his eyes stormy. "I'm not going to lose you, Sabra. You're too special…too—"

Craig caught himself and snapped his mouth shut. He'd said much more than he'd intended. Much more. Sabra set her cup down and clasped her hands in her lap. He felt her gaze on him, and heat swept into his face. "There's no sense in you trying to give me any arguments," he told her irritably, meeting and holding her gaze.
"None."

Gently, Sabra reached out, her fingers barely grazing his arm. She felt the tautness of muscles beneath her fingertips, felt the same heat as when he'd been in the grasp of that virulent nightmare. "Listen to me," she pleaded softly, "I'm not your past. I'm your present, Craig. You keep forgetting, I've been through a lot of scrapes and lived to tell about them. I'm not going to do anything stupid, trust me on that. I'll look both ways before I cross the street. I always drive defensively." She released his arm, though it was the last thing she wanted to do. Taking a shaky breath, she added, "If it makes you feel any better, you can drive when we go up to Kula to start snooping around." The look of relief on his face was telling, and the suffering in his eyes when she'd reached out and touched him was heartbreaking. She'd seen tears in his eyes. Or had she?

Craig sat for a long moment, battling his emotions. He picked up his cup, because if he didn't, he was going to slide over and put his arms around Sabra. She invited that kind of intimacy, and right now, he felt exceedingly vulnerable to her—more than ever before, because of the nightmare striking two times within a twenty-four-hour period. "Thanks," he rasped, and took a gulp of the hot coffee.

"Why don't we get going?" she suggested softly, looking around the room. Though the suite was large and spacious, she suddenly felt trapped.

"Good idea," he muttered, rising. "Let me grab a quick shower and shave. Get the map and the car keys?"

Sabra breathed a sigh of relief and stood. "Yes, I'll get them." Perhaps the tension that vibrated between them would dissolve if they were out on the road doing something to keep their minds occupied. As she went to retrieve her purse, she laughed at herself. No matter what she did with Craig, she would always be highly aware of him—of the charismatic power that swirled around him and of the danger he presented to her as a woman.

Opting not to wear the shoulder holster, she placed her pistol in her purse. Wearing the holster meant covering it with some kind of jacket, and with the temperature in the eighties, that was the last thing she wanted to do. Craig headed into the bathroom to shower.

"I'll go get the car," she called from the door.

"Fine, I'll meet you there."

Good. She had something to do. Opening the door, she saw a number of people, mostly families, in the hallway. She noticed both Japanese and Americans, and she heard a smattering of German from a couple ahead of her.
Hawaii
drew people from all over the world. And with good reason, she thought, as she took the elevator to the main level.

In the lobby, Sabra began to appreciate the unique beauty of the hotel. A huge, concrete pool stretched half the length of the place, with a man-made waterfall cascading noisily into it right outside the registration area desk. Below the falls, graceful swans and various species of ducks swam. All around the pool, hotel guests took photos of the extraordinary place, or tossed bread crumbs to the birds.

Just getting out the room helped Sabra start to unwind. She hadn't realized the tension she carried in her shoulders until she walked into the spacious lobby filled with antiques and art. Outside, a valet approached, but she waved him away, deciding to get the car herself. The sky overhead was a pale blue, with fluffy fragments of white clouds. In the distance, she could see the velvety green slopes of Haleakala. Once it was classified as a dormant volcano, but recently, she had read smoke had been spotted in the bottom of the crater, so it had been taken off the dormant list and upgraded to inactive status. More clouds circled the top of the ten-thousand-foot peak, Sabra noted as she stepped onto the asphalt driveway in front of the hotel.

The Westin was a very busy place, with a row of limousines, plus a number of Mercedes Benzes and BMWs, speaking to the wealth of the visitors. As Sabra made her way to the parking lot, she enjoyed the high, dark green bushes that surrounded the hotel. Hibiscus bloomed in colorful profusion, like miniature rainbows. Bougainvillea climbed walls here and there, and palms trees, for which
Hawaii
was famous, were scattered around the huge parking lot.

Sabra's instincts took over as she approached space 121, where they'd parked the white Toyota Camry they had rented. Dredging up her knowledge of car bombs, she carefully knelt down and checked under the car, especially around the doors. Sometimes terrorists placed bombs to go off when a car door was opened. She found nothing. Moving to the hood of the car, she visually inspected the opening, then ran her fingertips beneath the hood area, searching for any unusual wires.

Next she carefully lifted the hood and inspected the engine. Most car bombs were placed either in the engine compartment or on the fire wall, near the ignition.

Her gaze ranged knowingly across various areas where the plastic explosives might be placed. Though she found nothing, Sabra never relaxed her vigil as she checked under hoses and cables, sliding her fingers along them, just in case. C-4 was completely pliable and could be taped anywhere.

Finally satisfied, she gently closed the hood and went around to the car door, noting the new-car odor that lingered in the vehicle as she slid into the driver's seat. Inside, she automatically checked under the dash and in the glove box, where someone could have planted a bug to pick up their conversations. Leaning over, she visually inspected both areas. A bug could be put almost anywhere, and she knew that although she was trained to find them, one could be hidden in the light above her, or under her seat. Or in the trunk.

Popping the trunk lid open, Sabra got out and inspected the area. Often, a transponder device could be attached beneath the trunk lid, so a car could be followed with ease—either by road or by air. Finding nothing except the spare tire and tire iron, she closed the lid and relaxed a little, enjoying the warmth of the noonday sun. The wind was sporadic, tugging at strands of her hair.