Unearthed Treasure (12 page)

Some things were difficult to explain.

He’d ended up carrying her into the flat, wild with worry. Her porcelain skin was flushed and damp from sweat. Her top was swimming in her blood. Should she need a transfusion he’d break down and call the Agency—rules and the final link be damned. Chelsea’s life came before the mission. She’d chew him out for it later, but he’d bear that if it meant she’d be here to do so.

After laying her down on his bed, he’d first given her an injection of morphine. The sting of the needle had roused her, though she was still groggy.

“Forgive me, darling,” he’d pleaded and urged her to bite down on his belt. Her gorgeous eyes had widened, understanding what she’d woken up for, putting a look of fear in her he sincerely hoped to never see again.

Digging the bullet out of her shoulder had been the hardest task he’d ever had to do. The morphine had taken the edge off, but he knew he’d hurt her. Near the end she’d passed out, and he felt grateful for that.

Now, after wetting a washcloth from a basin of warm water, he cleaned her wound. Already a giant, ugly bruise marred her delicate skin.

“I’m going to stitch this for you in a minute,” he spoke to her. Even though she wasn’t conscious he hoped that the sound of his voice would calm her, be with her wherever her mind currently dwelt. “If you hadn’t shown such compassion, chances are good I’d have killed both those dangerous men and this wouldn’t have happened. Proof for you, darling, that no good deed goes unpunished. I’ll just be one second.”

Laying the basin and bloodstained cloth on his bedside table, David went back into the bathroom. His emergency medical kit was open, paraphernalia spread out everywhere. Neatness had not been his concern earlier, nor was he fussed now. He broke the wrapping on a sterilised needle and bit open a packet of surgeon’s thread.

The bullet wound was nasty, but not huge. With luck he could close it with three, maybe four stitches. It had been a long time since he’d had to do this himself, but it was not a skill one forgot easily.

When he returned to the bedroom Chelsea was murmuring, though still clearly unconscious. Making the mental note that next time he’d make certain he carried some liquid antibiotics he could inject when necessary, he was careful not to rouse her. Chelsea was one of the strongest women he’d ever encountered, but watching someone stitch up your torn flesh was not a particularly pleasant memory. He’d rather shield her from it if he could.

He laboriously, carefully closed the wound with precise, careful moves. Finished, he heaved a sigh of relief. Lastly, he returned to the bathroom, picked up a glass of water, some antibiotic pills and antiseptic gel. When he dabbed the gel onto the raw skin with a wadded tissue, the sting from the iodine roused her again.

At first she looked at him with confusion, but memory returned swiftly. Chelsea glanced at his face, then around the practically barren room.

“I hope your home has a bit more décor than this,” she murmured. Her humour had returned. David felt something that had been tightly knotted within him ease.

“My home is a sensual, lush paradise you will crave to never leave,” he joked. As hoped, she chuckled.

When she moved her shoulder carefully, she winced at the motion. “I can’t explain it, but it feels better even though it’s more painful.”

“The body senses when it has a foreign object in it,” he said seriously. “You’ve heard of the healthy pain of a cleanly broken bone, rather than a messy shattering or being stabbed? This is similar. Here, take these.”

He held the glass of water and pills out to her. She took them without hesitation, sipped the water and swallowed the tablets.

“Antibiotics,” he said, even though she didn’t ask. Her faith and trust warmed him anew.

“How much longer do we have?” she asked.

David glanced at her. He’d cut her shirt off with scissors, not willing to hurt her further or spare the time to remove her top any other way. Blood still stained much of her skin—though her wound now was perfectly clean. She no longer sweated from the physical taxation of running or being on her feet.

Summed up, Chelsea appeared drawn, tired and shaky, but fine.

Part of him wanted her to remain there, safe and preferably asleep so she could heal. He doubted she’d do either of those without an almost fight—one that would further drain her reserves. In particular, he knew her well enough to understand that if she could feel the strength of her second wind coming to her, she’d understandably want to see this to the end.

“We have a short while before I have to leave,” he said. Chelsea winced as she sat up. David instinctively reached behind her and lifted the pillows to support her back, knowing this would not be pretty.

“Are we going to have our first serious argument?” he asked, ruthlessly using his lilting accent in the hopes of staving off or distracting this stubborn woman beside him.

“Of course not,” she replied. He wasn’t taken in by the innocent look she gave him, obviously no more than she was distracted by his accent.

“We’re partners, aren’t we? Equals?” she said.

David hesitated before responding, feeling the trap close around him but at a loss on how to stop it before he was stuck. “Yeeeees,” he drew the word out, searching mentally for a way out.

“And we’ve always been side by side on this journey. It’s our mission. Not mine. Not yours. That’s how we started and have progressed for over eighteen months now. Together.”

“You’ve been shot, sickened by blood loss and—”

“I’m a big girl,” Chelsea insisted. “This’ll be a few hours, maximum. We go to the docks, we meet with Kent and Luke and this final figure, and hand over the painting. We have some bullshit discussion to argue our right to start a new crew. We get photos, a voice recording, and then we’re out. McIlroy can organise for some other poor bastards to shadow the three guys. Maybe we help later for them to run down Thaddeus, though I’m sure McIlroy is already well on top of that. Then we’re done. We take a well-earned vacation alone together—I’m partial to warmer climates and the beach, just so you know—and screw each other in every conceivable position on the sandy beach. Am I missing something?”

David sighed. He sat on the corner of the bed and took her hand in his. He caught her gaze and held it for a long moment.

“And what if something goes wrong?” he asked in a soft tone. “What if this boss of Phillipe’s thinks we’re moles, or that it’s the trap it actually is? What if he has back-up, people willing to shoot at us? You’re not at your best, darling. It’d be a risk even if you were a hundred per cent healthy. A cornered animal is always the more vicious one. You know this.”

“And knowing that,” she continued, “do you really think I’d let you face the three of them alone? Phillip has already let us fend for ourselves twice in less than twenty-four hours. Do you honestly expect me to lie here and be sick, or to rest while you go out there and face them alone? Either your brains are addled with sleep deprivation and worry, or you don’t begin to comprehend the depths to which I love you. You’re not the only person here who treasures their partner. I’m not immune to that tone in your voice, the accent you’re stressing right now, or the heat of your eyes, the worry and love I can see in your every movement. I feel all that back at you and more.”

David couldn’t begin to reply to that. What could he say? She watched him, her heart and soul bared in her eyes and offered practically to him on a plate and waved under his nose. How could he possibly knock it back?

“I could tie you to the bed.” He grinned, tempted but mostly teasing. Sort of. She chuckled, tugged his hand to bring him closer. She tilted her head, her lips just inches from his.

“If you tie me to this bed,” she purred, throwing his words back at him, “then you bloody well better be sticking around to use it to good purpose. I’m not some delicate, fainting virginal miss. If you bring out those guns, Mister, you better follow it up with hard, exotic actions.”

“You’d give me that much control?” he asked, surprised. Chelsea was a wanton, wickedly delightful woman. But he’d not have guessed for her to be up for those sorts of games. She grinned, a tiny dimple flashing at the corner of her mouth.

“Within limits I’d do anything for you,” she agreed. “If you wanted to test those waters I’d be more than willing. Using such methods to keep me here while you faced danger alone and undefended, with no real back-up—now that’s a different breed of beast and I’d make sure you lived to regret it.”

Knowing defeat when he faced it, David nodded. In this situation he figured it would be better to accept with grace than be hog-tied on the floor still kicking and screaming.

“Let’s make certain you’re up for it then,” he conceded. He tilted her chin, lowered his head and kissed her tenderly. He moved his hands lower, stroking over her bloodstained skin, taking great care to give a wide berth to her wound and the nasty bruise the force of the bullet lodging in her had left.

As he stroked his fingers over her bra-covered nipples, he loved the moan she gave. A small tremor shook her body and David quickly removed his hands, then sat on them. He slowly pulled his lips away from hers, hating the loss of warmth and contact.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she complained. He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose and moved back on the mattress.

“You need me to stop,” he countered. “Your body has been taxed enough. You might not feel it yet, but I bet you’re a lot more exhausted than you realise. Come on, stand up and let’s go to the bathroom. While you wash up in the basin I’ll find another shirt for you to wear. It will have to be one of mine, I’m afraid.”

He assisted her in getting up from the bed. David could see it bothered her in the annoyed set to her mouth. Being so weak and reliant rubbed her the wrong way, but at first her moves were stiff. Chelsea flexed her legs, stretched her muscles and warmed up a bit, her innate grace returning. Her upper body remained rigid, the pain evident, but apparently manageable.

When Chelsea made her way to the bathroom he grabbed two shirts that were slightly smaller than the others and followed her, hooking them over the doorknob.

“Took a bit of a beating,” Chelsea commented. David watched her. She appeared calm, but he could see deeper. He thought this might be the first time she truly understood just how much damage she’d taken and how lucky she’d been. A few inches lower and things could have been very different.

“You can change your mind at any time,” he offered her. She cast him an angry glance that seared him.

“Let’s not go over that again,” she warned. She picked up one of his hair elastics and handed it to him. When he worked he often pulled his hair back into a short ponytail. Lately, though, he’d become used to wearing it down since that’s how Chelsea seemed to enjoy it. He took the elastic and raised an eyebrow at her.

“I love your hair,” she commented. “But it’s distracting. You usually tie it up when we’re not relaxing, and I think of it as your focused persona. I’d rather keel over than admit to the pain I’m feeling right now. My pride can’t take another blow. But I will acknowledge that I’m not at my best at this moment. I don’t want to be fantasising about your hair caressing my naked skin while I need my energy focused on the mission. I can’t afford to be visualising how it felt when you were thrusting inside me, and those soft tendrils moved softly over my face. So, the hair tie.”

A darkly sensual, very masculine part to him rose and roared its approval, pleased by the admission. He would have loved nothing better than to spread her wide on the bed, strip her naked and make long, slow, languid love to her. He’d brush his hair over every inch of her skin just as she wanted, then lick and kiss it again and again.

Sadly, that would have to wait.

He pulled his hair into a ponytail and tied it back.

Chelsea sighed, seeming torn between being pleased and sad, and returned to cleaning up.

“I’ll get my phone. We need to give McIlroy the details and a heads-up,” he said. She nodded and he left the room to go get his phone. Pulling it out of his small kit, he then turned the phone on, and dialled their boss’s number. While the phone rang he walked back to the bathroom.

“Yeah?” McIlroy answered.

“It’s Greer. Is this secure?”

“Yeah. What have you got? I’ve been on tenterhooks since we got your beep.”

Chelsea turned to watch him as he entered the bathroom. He stood beside her, tilting the phone so she could hear everything.

“It’s one of Cézanne’s earlier works. A forest or garden scene with a white woman and an olive-skinned man embracing or fighting on a path. Subjective, but beautiful and brilliantly executed. We’re meeting the Boss on the docks, down near the seedier side of Canary Wharf at three. There was a snag, though.”

“Give me a moment,” McIlroy said. David heard him dial a number on a different phone—McIlroy, he knew, often had three or even four at any given time for different high-priority missions. “Canary Wharf at three. We’ll want a sharp shooter and a minimum of three teams circling to pick up the bogeys… Just get there, I’ll call back with more details in a minute. You already have pictures of two of the targets, so it shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Right. Greer. I’ve already heard about the second attack on the Gallery. Do you realise the shit I’m going to be in tomorrow morning with London over all this?”

“You live for the politics and wrangling,” David replied calmly. “As I was saying, we have a problem. Chelsea was shot.”

“What?” McIlroy shouted. “You need to make this meeting. Almost two years will be down the drain if you can’t identify this bloody Boss. We didn’t even know he existed until the two of you went undercover. He’s the reason I’ve accepted the length and cost of this whole mission. There’s no sense cutting an arm off this group
—
we need to round them all up in one hit and this is the last link we need.”

“I’m well aware of that,” David replied frostily. “And if it were up to me I’d be going in alone. Chelsea, however, has other ideas. She’s weak, but will be okay. We’ll need that back-up, though, presumably the groups you just sent now. I need confirmation you can take it from the exchange onwards. We’ll get your photos and voice print, and extract ourselves with our covers intact in case we need to reopen the investigation at a later date. But I’m telling you, McIlroy, you better have this sewn up tight, because once we egress the docks we’re out on leave. For the full two weeks you owe us.”