The Bride and the Mercenary Read online

  It was the essence of Ainslie O’Connell that was flying up with him, she thought dizzily—the essence of both of them. She understood now, she thought disjointedly. She’d been wrong before—real had nothing to do with the bodies of Seamus Malone and Ainslie O’Connell, somewhere far below them. Real was this. Real was the part of him that loved her, the part of her that loved him, and it could never be destroyed. She’d asked for poetry, but that truth was as eternal as any sonnet.

  And here, too, were the stars he’d promised her. But they weren’t around her, they were passing through her, dissolving in her like liquid diamonds, bursting into crystalline heat as they flared inside her. She was lost in them, showered in them; and later she would never really be sure for how long it had lasted, because time itself had no meaning during that exquisite bombardment of sensations…

  But finally all but the last of them had disappeared. She felt it sparkling inside her, felt herself tumbling back down to earth, felt Malone’s arms cradling her as the shadowy light of the bedroom appeared once again through her half-closed eyes. The final tiny starburst came as his hand stroked back her damp hair and she felt a last tremor run through him, too.

  Through her lashes she saw him slowly open his own eyes and meet hers, his gaze still slightly unfocused. Lightly he traced the line of her parted lips with a gentle finger.

  And then he reached over her, fumbling with something on the wall near the floor. She heard a small click and the room went black.

  “I thought you didn’t like the dark, Malone,” she said cautiously as he settled back, snugging her head into the hollow of his shoulder.

  “It’s not dark in here.”

  She could hear the slight smile in his voice, and she knew he was looking at her.

  “For the first time in two years, it’s not dark at all, Lee,” he said huskily, pulling her close to his heart.

  Chapter Ten

  “Moira practically runs Sullivan Investigations when my brother’s not there. She said he’s taken off the rest of the week to be with Bailey, so as long as I get the car back before he shows up at the office he won’t even have to know I signed it out.” Ainslie looked around the small diner. “It’s a good thing this place serves a late breakfast. I was starving, for some reason.”

  “I don’t know why.” Malone drained his coffee. “Just because you kept me up all night with your insatiable demands—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Gramps.” She lifted an eyebrow at him, still unused to the gray rinse that dulled the sheen of his hair. “So when you woke me up at dawn this morning you just were trying to hobble off to the bathroom?”

  “Of course. Us old coots sometimes have that problem, you know.” He gave her an assessing look over the gold half-moon glasses he was wearing. “Although I might just give it another go tonight. You make a very sexy blonde, in a cool, hands-off kind of way.”

  “Down, boy, it’s just a wig. But you’re pretty sexy yourself, for an old guy. And I love the tweed jacket.” She shot him a smile, and then sobered. “Are we fooling anyone in these getups, Malone? I feel so conspicuous.”

  “I’ve spent a couple of years trying to look as unlike myself as possible. What you’ve got to remember is that people will accept just about anything at face value.”

  He passed a hand over his steel-gray hair. “A tattered coat and a beard turned me into a street person believable enough to fool even you for a time. Thanks to Moira and the resources of Sullivan Investigations, we now look exactly like what we’re trying to be—an absentminded professor type and a visiting guest lecturer on—” He paused. “What was your field again, Ms. O’Connell?”

  “The mating habits of sea turtles. The Galapagos Islands are beautiful this time of year, Professor,” Ainslie said promptly.

  She looked down at herself. Malone might be used to slipping in and out of disguise, but she still hadn’t gotten over the disconcerting feeling that she was playing dress-up. The tailored charcoal pantsuit was one that Moira, her brother’s invaluable secretary, had brought with her when she’d met them earlier at Sullivan Investigations. The smoothly bobbed wig was part of an extensive collection of hairpieces, accessories and clothing that was kept at the office for the use of operatives.

  Moira hadn’t asked questions, and for that Ainslie had been grateful. All Sully’s secretary knew was that yesterday’s wedding hadn’t gone as planned—and that today the renegade bride had shown up with another man in tow, seemingly intent on spending the next few days incognito.

  Moira’s imagination was probably running along the lines of an enraged Pearson, gunning for the man who’d stolen his bride from him at the eleventh hour, Ainslie thought, smiling sadly at the unlikely image. Her smile faded as another, more horrific picture entered her mind.

  In the borrowed sedan—the police would be on the lookout for any vehicle matching the description of Malone’s car, so alternate transportation had been their main priority—they had finally felt marginally less exposed. That illusion of safety had been shattered when Malone had switched on the car radio in time for them to catch the morning news.

  The authorities were being closemouthed about Paul’s murder, but some details had leaked out to the media. He’d been killed at the same side doorway to his house that they’d entered through. A single bullet had been fired through the back of his head in a manner the press was already characterizing as “execution-style.”

  Ainslie took a sip of her coffee, now tepid, but in the very act of swallowing a thought struck her and she almost choked. She set her cup down hastily.

  “He knew his killer, Malone.” She felt sick. “Whoever it was that carried out the hit, Paul knew him—and trusted him.”

  “Yeah, I figure it that way, too. And at that time of night, it’s a safe bet that Paul could only have been expecting a visitor he himself had summoned.” Malone’s gaze hardened. “It wasn’t the Executioner who killed him, Lee. It was someone Paul contacted at the Agency after we left.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” She shook her head firmly. “Maybe Paul didn’t work for them anymore, but he was still on their side. He phoned the Agency to alert them that you’d returned from the dead. He was helping them, Malone.”

  “Put that in the past tense and I think you’ll be closer to the truth,” he said shortly. “Paul’s usefulness to the Agency was over as soon as he informed them that I was back. Unless—”

  He stopped, his gaze suddenly bleak.

  “Unless what?”

  “There was one final way he could be of use to them.” Malone’s jaw was tight. “But he had to be dead first.”

  “Dear God.” All at once the diner’s atmosphere seemed suffocatingly close. “You’re saying he was killed just to reactivate the official hunt for you?”

  “That convenient description of us and the car we were using didn’t come from some suspicious citizen, dammit. That neighborhood was all tucked up in bed for the night, remember?” Even with the gray hair and the glasses, he looked suddenly formidable. “Paul told whoever arrived that I’d been with you, and had left in a beat-up Ford with a dented front fender. That was enough to give to the police—after committing the murder the Agency needed to pin on me to make catching me a priority.”

  “But it’s a legitimate government organization.” Her voice had risen enough so that a young couple sitting at a nearby table looked over with mild curiosity. Ainslie lowered her tone, but her eyes still sparked with outrage. “What kind of a mandate does it operate under, that even murder can be sanctioned?”

  “I don’t think the Agency does sanction murder—not officially, at least.” Malone shrugged tightly. “I think there’s a traitor working behind the scenes, and he’s high enough up in the organization so that he’s been able to pursue his own agenda with the Agency’s resources.”

  Ainslie frowned. “But who’s the mole, Seamus? Who infiltrated the Agency—and why?”

  “Whoever he is, he’s not the Executioner himself,
” he said flatly. “Look at it this way—assassination isn’t a full-time business, Lee. The Executioner has a life that he disappears from occasionally in order to indulge his hobby of murder, and that alternative persona has been in place for at least ten years. From what Paul told us, the first killings that could be definitely attributed to him occurred around that time.”

  “And if he’d been an Agency mole all that time, he would have derailed their investigation long before it got off the ground. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Before he could reply, their waitress, a hatchet-faced older woman whom Ainslie had heard barking out orders to the cook in a no-nonsense voice for the past half hour, bustled up efficiently with a full pot of coffee. She fixed an automatic smile on her face while the woman refilled their cups and dropped a handful of creamers on the table. Malone would be captivating the ladies when he was an old codger, she thought, watching him turn his charm on the grim-faced waitress.

  Don’t fight it, sister, she silently told the woman as she saw the pursed mouth curve into an almost girlish smile. I’m a professional, and even I found myself on the ropes two minutes after I met him.

  Where would she and Malone have been today if their lives hadn’t been ripped away from them that fateful night? she wondered, her gaze clouding. Would their relationship have withstood his eventual revelation about his mercenary past? And if they had married, would they have had a child of their own by now, a little girl or boy who could have been a cousin to Sullivan and Bailey’s Megan?

  The image that came into her mind of a black-haired, green-eyed little girl was suddenly so real that she felt a stab of grief when it faded. She blinked, squaring her shoulders tensely under the tailored jacket.

  Daydreaming about what might have been was futile, she told herself flatly. The past two years had been stolen from them, and even now their lives weren’t their own—not while there was a very real possibility that their deaths might come as unexpectedly and as brutally as Paul’s, not while Malone was still being hunted down for crimes he hadn’t committed. Even her hopes for a future with the man she loved would have to be shelved until she knew for sure that they had a future.

  But not everything had been taken from them.

  Last night they’d snatched a few precious hours for themselves—and a day ago she hadn’t expected to know even that much happiness again. As the now-beaming waitress walked away and Malone looked absently down to stir his coffee, Ainslie gazed at him, her vision suddenly misty. Living without him had been like enduring a drought, she thought, like praying for rain every day, and going to bed every night with the landscape of her heart still cracked and parched.

  But last night the rains had come, bringing her back to life again. She and Malone had made love three times before they’d finally fallen asleep, his arms cradling her tight to his chest, one long leg thrown over hers. They’d awakened shortly after eight this morning, and they’d made love again—this time with all the dreamlike slowness that they hadn’t allowed themselves before.

  It had been a physical confirmation of the bond that had never broken between them. But as sweet as remembering those hours in his arms was, last night had been an interlude that they would have to put behind them for now. Their lives depended on it.

  “She gave me real cream. I see you only got skim milk,” Malone said complacently. He handed her one of the small plastic containers in front of him. “Of course, yesterday I probably would have been booted out of here before I’d even sat down.”

  “Yesterday you were a bum.” She unpeeled the lid from the creamer. “It’s like you said, people take things at face value, and that’s probably how the Agency mole’s escaped detection so far.”

  “I think you’re right. He’s someone with a spotless record, someone whose authority isn’t questioned.” Malone touched the side of his head lightly, and Ainslie immediately frowned.

  “Is the pain back again?” If it was, they wouldn’t even be able to get him to a doctor, she thought with a spurt of helpless anger. The Agency would have covered that possibility, too.

  “Not really. It was just a twinge.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with a weary gesture. “It seems to happen when a memory comes close to the surface. I think that’s why it got so bad yesterday, just before everything came flooding back, but whatever prompted it this time, it’s gone.”

  “Maybe we’re going at this from the wrong angle,” she said slowly. “The mole could be anyone in the Agency. It’s like trying to pick out the right needle in a haystack full of them. We’ve been overlooking the one element that we are sure of.”

  “And that is?” Behind the glasses his gaze sharpened.

  “You, Malone.” She sat back, meeting his eyes. “Why were you picked to be the fall guy? In fact, why were you brought in on the investigation in the first place? You were an outsider, for heaven’s sake. I’m no expert on how an organization like the Agency works, but that must have been unusual in itself.”

  “I remember them questioning me several times about an incident that had happened at some airport a few years previously. I couldn’t give them much. In fact, I personally thought they were barking up the wrong tree, but since I usually collected a paycheck by letting people shoot at me and shooting back at them, I looked at it as one of the cushier jobs I’d ever had.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “They seemed to think I might actually have seen the Executioner in the process of changing from his Dr. Jekyll identity to his Mr. Hyde persona, and from what I know of him, that means I belong to a select club.” He shrugged. “So select, apparently, that none of the other members are still alive.”

  “For once the Agency had to have gotten it right.” Ainslie tried to control her excitement. “Don’t you see—even if you didn’t have much faith in their theory at the time, what’s happened since bears it out.”

  “Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Unless I was right the first time, and that memory of seeing Joseph Mocamba between the crosshairs of my rifle is the real one.”

  “Which it can’t be.” Her tone was sharp. “Paul’s death has to be part of this. As terrible as his murder was, at least it should have convinced you of your innocence, Malone. The Agency has been tracking you from state to state. The only justification for that has to be that your very existence is a threat that the Executioner can’t overlook, and his puppet in the Agency is pulling out all the stops to find you. Even to the point of killing one of their own people.” She paused, trying to put her ideas into some kind of order. “Did you come to them with this information about the airport incident, or did they come to you?”

  “They came to me.” His gaze clouded in thought. “I must have gone over my story dozens of times for them, which is why I remember it, I suppose. Like I told you before, the only period that I recall with any real clarity is the couple of weeks before I was shot, and that’s when these debriefing sessions were going on.”

  His words came out slowly, as if he were dredging up the recollection with reluctance. “The incident they were questioning me on would have happened about three years earlier—five years ago, now. From what I can remember telling them, I’d just come off an assignment where I’d been fighting with a band of rebels in a region that had once been part of a dictatorship. A core of hard-liners were trying to turn the clock back to the bad old days, but eventually the rebels ousted them, and my job there was finished.”

  “So the good guys won that time?” Ainslie asked tightly.

  This had been his life, she reminded herself. As much as she hated to acknowledge the violent business he’d been in, to pretend that part of his past had nothing to do with him now was foolish. He’d been a soldier for hire. Death and destruction were commonplace to him. But his answer surprised her.

  “No one really wins any war.” His tone was harsh. “It took me too long to learn that simple fact, and by the time I did, it was too late. I didn’t know anything else but soldiering, so I kept taking on the next
job, and the next. And in between jobs I tried real hard to blot everything out by getting drunk and staying drunk until they poured me onto whatever transport plane I’d been booked on.”

  He stopped and looked up at her, a bleak smile on his face. “I guess I finally made it. After all those years of trying to wipe out my memory by any means I could, in the end someone did it for me. Maybe I owe that shooter in the alley that night a vote of thanks.”

  “Except those memories are still inside you, no matter how deeply they’re buried,” Ainslie said evenly. “All that’s changed is that you can’t confront them anymore.”

  “Perhaps I don’t want to confront them.” His gaze flickered away from her. “Anyway, the plane I was on developed engine trouble. We barely made it to an airport, and when we did we were told that it would take at least twenty-four hours to arrange another flight out.” He grimaced. “An unscheduled stopover in Paris or Rome is one thing. But hell, I couldn’t even pronounce the name of this place. It was one of those breakaway Balkan republics, not exactly a hot spot for nightlife by any means, and I was just telling myself I might as well buy a bottle of vodka, unroll my sleeping bag and camp out in the terminal instead of going into town, when I heard someone calling my name.”

  He saw her raised eyebrows. “Not that unusual, Lee. I’ll bet if I walked into Logan Airport right now, within a couple of hours I’d see someone I once fought with—or against. I ran into Sully in downtown Boston, and I’d last seen him on the other side of the world.” He shrugged. “This time it was Chris Stewart, a guy I hadn’t seen for years, but we greeted each other like long-lost friends. He told me he knew of a bar that had pretty decent booze, pretty decent music and a pretty accommodating hostess—” His head jerked up, and Ainslie saw a flush of sudden color under his tan. She sighed.