White Heat

\

WHITE
HEAT
A Novel
CHERRY ADAIR
BALLANTINE BOOKS
NEW YORK

One
FLORENCE, ITALY

January 3

0200

COUNTERTERRORIST OPERATIVE MAX ARIES FLUNG A LEG
over the crumbling second-floor balustrade, then dropped lightly onto the narrow stone terrace. He’d spent some pretty damned phenomenal days and nights in this sixteenth-century palazzo. But he wasn’t here to seduce Emily Greene. Not this time.

He presumed she was here. Her little yellow Maserati was parked out
on the street, but she hadn’t answered the doorbell when he’d rung a few minutes ago. Of course there were any number of places an attractive, single woman could be at two in the morning. If
not for the urgency of her calls Max might have waited until a decent, civilized time to see her. He’d been awake for a straight ninety-seven hours, and he was punchy as hell. Sleep would’ve been good. A shower would probably be appreciated. But there hadn’t been time for either.

He’d been on the T-FLAC jet, halfway home from an op in Grozny, when he’d called his answering service to check for messages during a break in debriefing. He rarely had personal messages; operatives didn’t have time for real lives, so he was surprised to have received half a dozen.

All from Emily Greene. Apparently she’d been leaving messages for weeks. The messages had started out cool, but reasonable and sympathetic, then grown increasingly more annoyed as she’d practically summoned his ass to Florence for his father’s funeral.

Message received loud and clear.

Fine. He was here, wasn’t he? A few weeks late, and several dollars’ worth of sincerity short, but he was here. He hadn’t been that interested in the death of his sperm donor. But he was curious as hell to see Emily again. This was as good an excuse as any. And, he thought, amused, he’d practically been in the neighborhood.

The balcony doors were wide open to the chill damp air, and several of the spicy-scented potted geraniums crowding the patio were knocked over. There were dozens of possible reasons the pots had been toppled, but between one inhale and the next Max’s hand went instinctively to the custom Glock in the small of his back. He left the SIG Sauer and Ka-Bar knife in their ankle holsters where they were. For now.

He wasn’t the only one who’d entered her apartment this way. Exhaustion dissipated as adrenaline reactivated his tired brain. Unless she had Romeo and Juliet fantasies, Emily had an intruder. First the old man’s murder, now this? Max didn’t believe in coincidences. He stepped over scattered dirt to slip through the open French doors where sheer white draperies fluttered in the rain-drenched air.

The delicate fragrance of woman was underscored by the familiar, but out of place, smell of male sweat and gun oil. The intruder had passed this way recently. Very recently.

Shit.

Moving quickly and soundlessly through the stygian darkness of the living room, he circumvented the enormous, down-filled floral sofa where he and Emily had made love their last time together. Max’s night vision was excellent, and his eyes automatically adjusted to the almost-pitch-black interior even as he catalogued the blend of distinctive odors around him. The acrid smell of turpentine, the unmistakable smell of still-wet oil paint from Emily’s first floor studio, dust, flowers, garlic—

The intruder.

He felt that familiar spike of adrenaline and smiled.
Now
he was wide awake. Alert to the smallest sound or hint of movement, he followed the man’s trail like a bloodhound. Weaving his way at top speed through the overcrowded rooms, and heading toward the long hallway leading to the rest of the apartment.

Silently crossing the terrazzo floor of the entryway, he noted the flowers in a vase on the hail table, black in the darkness. A woman’s purse lay beside the crystal vase. An umbrella and long raincoat hung from a hook nearby. No sign of moisture, indicating she’d been home awhile. Two suitcases stood sentinel nearby. Where was she going?

He noticed a dark shape lying twenty feet ahead on the floor in the hallway, just this side of the open bedroom door. Max’s heart double-clutched.

Emily—

He raced toward the still figure.

God damn it.

Between here and there was the slightly less dark opening to the kitchen where he sensed someone standing in wait. He spun on his heel just as a hard object struck his upper arm with a bone-jarring
thud.
He deflected the second blow, grabbed the assailant’s wrist and twisted. A heavy object dropped to the tiled floor with a metallic clang. The second his fingers closed on the slender, bare arm, he knew his attacker was a woman.

He yanked her arm up behind her back, not letting up because his assailant was a
she.
He knew plenty of female tangos who could fuck a guy’s brains out one minute and put a bullet between his eyes the next. He used a little more force on her arm. The woman let out a bloodcurdling shriek as she struggled for freedom.

He didn’t ease up any. He wasn’t using enough pressure,
yet,
to snap her fragile bones. She wiggled and squirmed in his hold. He backed her into the kitchen. Separating her from the dark lump a few yards away on the hallway floor. Divide and conquer. “Settle down, I—”

She wasn’t listening.
“Mi lasci andare, figlio di puttana!”

Emily?

The second he released her, she pivoted and punched him in the stomach. “I killed your accomplice”—she yelled in rapid, almost unintelligible, Italian. Whack!—”and I won’t”—Whack!— “hesitate to”—Whack!—”kill you, too. The police are on their way.” Whack! “I’ll get a
medal
for killing you bo—”

Definitely Emily.

“Emily,” Max grabbed her
arms — much
more gently than he would have a tango — to stop the pummeling. “It’s me, Ma—”

She kneed him in the balls.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, woman!” Pain shot up into his brain with the intensity of a laser scalpel. He doubled over, fighting to remain conscious through the nausea. Direct hit. Christ, a rookie mistake not expecting
that.

She used this opportunity to strike him on the back of the head with her clasped hands, then tried to knee him in the face. He shoved her leg aside just in time to avoid a broken nose.

Testicles lodged in his Adam’s apple, he straightened with difficulty and pulled her tightly into his arms, lifting her off her feet and off balance. Screaming invectives, she struggled like a fish on a line, body arching, legs kicking.

Even in the dark he recognized the pale oval of her face. Her eyes glittered, reflecting the dim light on the cook top. She wasn’t seeing anything but escape as she swung wildly again.

He gave her a shake, trying to make eye contact. Strands of her silky dark hair caught in the stubble on his jaw. She still smelled like paint thinner and roses. How had he missed that when he’d first grabbed her?

“For Christ’s sake, Emily! It’s me,
Max.
Settle down.”

As his voice registered, she stopped fighting, freezing in his hold. “Max?” The fire went out of her like air out of a balloon and she sagged against him, dropping her forehead to his chest.

“Thank God.”

She felt good in his arms, damn good, but he settled her care- hilly on her feet the second she acknowledged she knew who he was.

Jesus-fuck, his balls hurt like hell. “Okay now?” he asked gruffly, straightening as best he could.

“Not by a long shot.” The light in the kitchen clicked on. Her chocolaty hair was wild around her shoulders and her dark eyes appeared almost black in her pale face as she blinked him into focus. The top of her head reached his chin, but she looked a lot taller as she glared up at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jesus. He’d forgotten how incredibly beautiful she was. Not moderately pretty, not just attractive, but drop—dead, breath-stealing
stunning.
Her dark hair and eyes made her creamy skin seem to glow from the inside like a light inside alabaster. Her nose was small and perfectly shaped, her long—lashed eyes were large and expressive, and her mouth—Man. Her mouth was made for sin. Her body, now dressed in skimpy pajamas, was lithe, toned, and sensational. Her breasts high and firm. Mouthwateringly perfect. Her legs were long, and Jesus, they’d been strong wrapped around his hips, his shoulders,
his—Focus—

“You pretty much insisted,” he said dryly, resisting running his hand around her smooth midriff to feel her bare skin again. He stuck his free hand in his pocket, and leaned against the doorjamb. A quick sideways glance and he could see that the lump outside the door hadn’t moved.

“Almost
three weeks
ago!” she snapped, running both hands through her thick glossy hair. The movement lifted the front of her small T-shirt just enough for him to get a view of the soft lower swell of her breasts and a tantalizing glimpse of her midriff.

His mouth went dry. Man oh man. She didn’t fight fair.

“And while I’m pleased you finally decided to show up,” she said with just a tinge of sarcasm, and oblivious to the fact that his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, “waiting a few more hours and ringing the frigging
doorbell
would have been the polite thing to do.”

She dropped her hands to her sides and glared at him. “But then
polite
isn’t really your thing, is it, Max? What’s the time anyway?”

She glanced at a clock over the stove. “Two bloody A.M.?”
She spun back to him. “Are you and your friend
nuts?”

The guy on the floor? “What friend?”

“What
frie—” Her eyes, big, brown, and expressive, went wide.

“Oh, my God. You mean the guy out there wasn’t with you? Then who
is
he?”

“Good question.” Not sure if he could walk yet, he was excruciatingly aware of every single whimpering nerve ending in his balls as he straightened up a little more. White suns spiraled and shimmied in front of his eyes as he pushed off the doorjamb.

Great. Just fucking great.
“Wait here. I’ll check.”

She bent down, exposing her pretty heart-shaped ass draped in baby pink cotton pajama bottoms. Picking up the sixteen-inch cast iron frying pan in both hands, she handed it to him handle first. “Here. Be care—Oh.” She noticed the Glock he’d managed to hang onto when she’d kneed him. Retaining his grip on the gun was a function of reflex and training. But even he was surprised to find it was still in his hand. She’d be excellent as a diversionary tactic in a T—FLAC training exercise.

She gave him a wary look. “Guess you won’t be needing this.” Despite her bravado he noticed the fine tremor in her hands as she slid the pan onto a nearby countertop.

They’d been together a handful of days and nights the last time they’d been together, and getting to know one another hadn’t been part of his seduction plan. Emily had been a means to an end a year ago. The fact that they’d been combustible in bed had turned out to be a bonus. But they hadn’t done a lot of talking. For all he knew she was pissed enough to brain him when his back was turned.

He shook his head, scared as hell that she could’ve been hurt when he grabbed her. Proud that she could hold her own. The frying pan was an effective weapon in a pinch, but nothing beat a speeding bullet. “Stay put.”

Max went into the dimly lit hallway. The lump was still there on the floor, halfway between the kitchen and Emily’s bedroom. He placed his foot firmly on the guy’s back.

“Is he dead?” she demanded, automatically slipping back to Italian. She’d lived in Florence long enough for it to be her first language, although she was as American as he was.

Flipping the guy over with his foot, Max kept the Glock aimed directly at the guy’s forehead. “Nope, you did a good job,” he told her, impressed with her handiwork. Looked like she’d whaled the guy a couple of times after he was down. No defensive wounds. “He’s just unconscious.”

She’d gotten in a couple of excellent blows to the man’s face with the pan. Good girl. There was a lot of blood and swelling, but the guy was still breathing. Which was a good thing. Dead men didn’t offer a lot of answers. And Max had a shitload of questions.

“Thank God,” she said on a shaky breath. She hadn’t moved from the doorway, and he motioned her over.

“Come out here and tell me if you recognize him.”

Emily had her weapon of choice, a sixteen-inch cast iron frying pan, gripped in both hands again as she stepped out of the kitchen doorway. “Light on or off?”

“On.”

The hall light overhead clicked on, illuminating the unconscious man. It also illuminated Emily. This time the thin PJ pants she wore drooped to expose the three tiny dolphins leaping over her belly button. The tattoo was sexy as hell, but the soft, velvety skin of her belly was more so. He’d loved to nuzzle his face against the silky, fragrant warmth. Loved the rose soap and woman smell of her. He’d used the tip of his tongue to taste her skin there, and she’d sighed, he’d brushed his lips lower, and she’d moaned.