Operation Willow Quest (5 page)

She could only wish for sweet
dreams—unfortunately, the only kind she had were of the bitter variety.

* * * *

Willow
walked out of her room
and saw Del
glance up and follow her progress across the room with his ever-watchful gaze.
She tried to ignore the warmth she sensed as his gaze trailed across her skin,
scoffing at her overactive imagination.

She came to a standstill as she took in the
precious bundle he gently cradled in his arms. There was something so vulnerable
and heart-wrenching about watching a big man hold such a tiny baby. Her throat
tightened and she had to turn away before he caught a glimpse of the weird
emotion that stung her eyes and wet her lashes.

“I came out to start dinner, but you’ve beaten
me to it,” Willow
chided her sister, as she watched her putter around the kitchen.

She shrugged. “I found a baby sitter,” she said
with a grin towards Del
standing in the doorway.

“So I see,” Willow murmured, her gaze skittering towards
the wide chest and big hands. Looking up, she took a slow breath as he watched
her steadily—a small smile tilting his lips and an expression in his eye she
found difficult to read.

She turned away and began chopping tomatoes and
shredding lettuce in an effort to keep from thinking about Peter Delaware and
his annoying habit of throwing her off balance.

Emily began to fuss not too long afterward, and
Summer left to feed her, leaving Del and Willow alone in the kitchen.

Willow
was uncomfortably
aware he was watching her from his position across the kitchen where he was leaning
against the bench, his arms folded across his chest. She clenched her jaw and
forced herself to concentrate.

“Do you want kids, Sheldon?” he asked, breaking
the silence and her concentration—enough for the knife to slip and cut her
finger. With a startled gasp she cradled her injured finger in her other hand
and squeezed tight. Del
was beside her before she knew it, taking her hand and putting it under running
water in the sink. Willow
sent him a glare, which apparently bounced off him without doing anything to
deter him, as he clasped her wrist to take a look at the cut. “You’ll live,” he
assured her, turning to pull out the first aid box from a cupboard high above
the stove.

“Thank you, Doctor, I’m so relieved,” she
muttered, closing her eyes as she saw the rich red blood dripping from the cut
into the sink. She tried to force away the familiar light-headed feeling and
the spots which were dancing before her eyes.
No ,no, no, don’t faint!
She felt a cold sweat break out and begin
to run down her back.
God, I hate the
sight of blood!

“Here—let me fix your boo
boo
,”
he said, turning off the tap and drying her hand. As he touched her, his gaze
latched on to her pale face. “You’re not going to pass out on me are you,
Sheldon?” he asked, ducking his head to look at her closely. “Here, sit down,”
he ordered, snagging a bar stool over to the bench for her to sit down on.

“I’m fine,” she told him weakly, hating that
her voice came out sounding like some pathetic wimp, and tried to brush off his
concern.

Taking her hand in his once more, he quickly
dealt with the cut, covering the wound with a band aid.

It crossed her mind to pull her hand from his
warm grasp but she found herself distracted by his close proximity. His short
hair gave him a dangerous, rugged look and his five o’clock shadow, something
she’d once thought didn’t appeal to her, was
suddenly
alarmingly attractive. The tanned skin on his neck
contrasted with the silver chain that held his dog tags, and the fragrant scent
of coconut oil, salt and man, assaulted her senses.

He glanced up and his blue eyes flickered with
awareness. Slowly he released the hold on her hand, skimming his touch along
her arm, moving to her waist, and pulled her from the bar stool, until she was
leaning against him. He felt hard and tough, and something so wonderfully
dangerous that she almost forgot to breathe—and as his head lowered toward her,
she could almost feel the touch of his warm breath on her face.

The burst of her mobile’s ring tone made her
start. Jumping back guiltily, she dropped her gaze from his, reaching for the
mobile beside her on the bench where she’d left it earlier.

“Hello?”

“Willow?
Hey it’s Terry Sinclair, long time no hear, baby,” a familiar voice boomed over
the phone.

“Terry? Hi, wow—this is a surprise.” Willow darted a brief look up at Del’s face and knew he’d heard the conversation
on the other end, his deep scowl indicating he was clearly not happy for the
intrusion. Easing away from the tight grip he still had on her waist, she
headed outside to the privacy of the back deck to take her call.

“Listen, I thought you’d be interested…I might
have some news about
Trèago
…”

* * * *

Willow
snapped her phone shut
and stared out over the dark expanse of water into the distance for a few moments,
until she’d managed to absorb the details of the call she’d just received.

The rumble of the door sliding open dragged her
from her troubled thoughts and she turned to see her sister standing in the doorway.

“Dinner’s ready; you okay?”

Forcing a smile to her lips, she shoved away
her dilemma and moved toward her, following Summer inside and closing the door
behind her.

Tate arrived home as they were sitting down to
eat and Willow
found it difficult to join in the general chit-chat in her current mood, but
she forced herself and prayed the meal would end soon. Jumping up the moment
Summer put down her cutlery, Willow
gathered the plates and began to clear the table.

“You got a hot date or something, Sheldon?” Del drawled. He’d noted
her hurry to leave.

“Yep, with my laptop,” she said, sparing him a
small glance before she moved away from the table and into the kitchen where
she stacked the plates. Turning back to retrace her steps, she found Del standing behind her,
the cutlery clenched in his fist.

“You into cyber sex or something?” he asked,
wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Flashing him the coldest glare she could
summon, Willow
rinsed the dishes, preparing to load them into the dishwasher. “Not that it’s
any of your business, but I’m following a story.”

“This have anything to do with that phone call
before dinner?” he asked, eyeing her across the counter top.

“Yes, actually, it does—and, it’s still none of
your business,” she added before he could ask what it had been about.

She finished packing the last of the dishes
into the dishwasher and headed to her room to work for the remainder of the
evening. Terry’s phone call had indeed sparked her interest. Willow brought up a picture of
Trèago
, one taken at his trial as he’d been led from the
court room in hand cuffs. “What the hell are you up to now,
Trèago
?”
she murmured softly, as she looked down at the cold eyes in the picture staring
back at the camera—defiant and vengeful. They were the eyes of a killer…and she
was damned if she was going to sit back and allow him to continue playing this
cat and mouse game with her life any longer.

* * * *

Two days later, Willow
decided to go down to Colombia
to meet with Terry. His phone call had left her tossing and turning, and she
couldn’t stand waiting any longer for his promised update. She needed action to
take her mind off all the horrible possibilities her over-active imagination
had been creating.

Summer and Emily were home and life was
settling into a new routine. Willow
sat down across from her sister as she fed the ever-hungry Emily. The room was
peaceful—the only noise was the smacking sound of a baby drinking from its
mother.

“Sum, I’ve decided it’s time to go.”

Summer looked up, alarmed, and said, “But it
hasn’t been two weeks yet! That’s not a holiday,” she protested.

“It’s the longest I’ve ever stayed in one spot
that wasn’t work related,” Willow
pointed out.

“But we haven’t done anything.”

“You’re a new mum, you don’t have time to do anything.
Just enjoy your daughter. I’ll be back in a few months for another visit,” she
promised, smiling at the small bundle in her sister’s arms.

“You promise?”

“Try and keep me away from my new niece,” Willow said, dropping
into baby-talk mode.

“I suppose it hasn’t been much fun for you
lately,” Summer admitted.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s been great, but I’ve
got stuff to do that I can’t do from here.”

Willow
felt a twinge of guilt
as she booked a flight to Colombia
instead of back home to Brisbane,
and kept her destination a secret from Summer—not wanting to get into any
lengthy details or explanations. She kept it from Tate and the others—because
she didn’t care to be hog-tied and locked in a cupboard!

Bringing up flight schedules, she took note of
the first flight to Colombia
from Honolulu
and was relieved when she discovered there was a flight leaving early Thursday.

Under the legitimate excuse for not bringing
baby Emily out to the airport unnecessarily, Willow convinced Summer to say goodbye at the
house. It was harder to leave than ever before. Emily’s warm, baby-scented body
snuggled against her, and she forced clucky thoughts far out of reach as she
handed the infant back to her sister.

She couldn’t, however, convince them she could
take a taxi to the airport, and Tate hustled her into the car, ignoring her
protests completely—driving her in and staying with her while she checked in
her luggage. Casting a suspicious glance at the flight number on the board, he
gave her a sidelong glance. “Why are you going to South
America? I thought you were going home.”

“I got an assignment and had to change my plans
at the last minute,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“You
do
know there are travel warnings over parts of South America
at the moment? Where are you going?”

“Tate, I haven’t had anyone to answer to in a
very long time. I don’t intend to start now,” she said and reached up to kiss
his rough,
stubbled
cheek. “Thank you for dropping me
off—I should go through now. Go home to your wife and baby, I’ll be fine.”

He stared back at her with a foreboding frown,
which Willow returned.

“That look won’t work on me, Mister, so don’t
waste your time.”

“Willow…”

Tate’s urgent tone made her hesitate as she was
about to walk away.

“Be extra careful, okay?”

When she frowned and took a small step toward
him he shook his head as if to reprimand himself and lifted a hand to still the
threatening barrage of questions she knew he saw coming.

“
Summer’ll
skin me
alive, if something happens to you that I could have prevented,” he muttered.

“Short of throwing me over your shoulder,
there’s not a whole hell of a lot you can do about it, is there?” she snapped,
walking backwards in case he decided to do just that. “I’ll call when I get
there,” she said with a wave, leaving a stone-faced, Marine in her wake.

Chapter 4

Arriving at El Dorado
International Airport,
Willow cleared
customs without drama—as always travelling light. It was her camera equipment
which took up the majority of her luggage. Outside, she walked into a
pleasantly warm day, the sub-tropical climate easy to
acclimatise
to—unlike other places where that first step from the sterile,
climate-controlled terminal out into the real world seemed to suck the life
from her.

While she was here, she would use writing a
travel piece on Colombia
as her cover. Being an investigative journalist would draw too much
attention—something in this country you
didn’t
 
want to do. Dropping her luggage on
the floor once in her room, she gave the bed a longing glance, but quickly
dismissed the idea—she had too much to do to waste it on sleeping. Splashing
water on her face and retouching her light makeup, she grabbed her shoulder bag
and headed back outside.

As the doors of the elevator slid open, she was
busy digging through her bag in search of her sunglasses. With a small
triumphant sigh, she slipped them onto her face and stepped out into the
lobby—straight into someone’s path. Instinctively putting her hands out to
steady herself, she stepped away from the man she’d collided with,
apologising
quickly.

“Not at all, entirely my fault,” the man said
in a pristine English accent.

Willow
flashed him a smile
before moving around him, but he caught her arm. “Please allow me to introduce
myself,” he said without giving her time to back away. “My name is Alistair
Whitehall.”