Dead Ringer (18 page)

She checked her watch. Finn had insisted she get one with a luminous dial, and the greenish numbers shone up at her even under the room light. Twelve-fifteen. She would have liked to duck out the window, but the drop was a good twenty feet down, and a broken leg was not part of the plan. Turning off the light, she picked up the low-heeled pumps she'd worn earlier, eased back the interior label on the left shoe, and extracted a square of paper. Wadding it into her pocket, she slipped into the quiet hallway, skin tingling at the thought of seeing Finn again.

Two minutes later, she stood flattened inside the front door, heart in her throat as she waited out the nightly Jeep patrol. She checked her watch, melting into the shadows until the spotlight skimmed the front facade and faded into the dark. Seventeen minutes after the hour. She'd have fifteen minutes before the next patrol passed by. Cracking open the door, she peered out, saw the empty grounds ahead, then slipped out and scrambled down the porch steps.

Stomach in a knot, she took off at a brisk pace, praying she'd make it out of the immediate area in time. Above her, the huge sky stretched endlessly, stars thick as glitter against the black velvet night. The full moon sat among them, a queen surrounded by her consorts. Together with the dim night lights of the ranch, there was enough illumination to see the outline of Devil's Teeth to her right. Keeping the three-headed mountain dead ahead, she strode toward the stables. Once past those, she'd put on the scarf. The Jeeps patrolled all night, and she didn't want to be caught anywhere near the mine. One look at the equipment Finn was likely to bring and their cover would be blown for sure.

Ahead of her, the stables loomed beautiful and neat, carved out of the same stone and dark wood as the house. She made a mental note to search them tomorrow; the stables might make the perfect place to hide the pluto-nium. Besides, it had been years since she'd been on horseback. A ride would give her an excuse to get out of the stifling atmosphere at the ranch.

Tapping into vestiges of her old self?

Maybe.

What would Agent Carver say to that?

She threw back her shoulders. Who cares?

She did.

Before she could continue the argument, the stable doors swung open and Grisha stepped out.

Her heart nearly flew out of her chest. She drew in a sharp breath and back-pedaled furiously into the shadows around the side of the ranch house. Had he seen her?

Damn, damn, damn.

Her mouth went dry as he lumbered toward her, his massive shoulders rolling bearlike. If he caught her, would he search her? The paper she carried could be a dangerous indictment.

But Grisha didn't round the corner toward her hiding place. Instead, he lumbered up the stairs and went into the house.

Legs shaking, she collapsed against the wall. God, there must be a better way to get her thrills. She peeked around the edge, saw the way was clear, and leaned back, taking a moment to check her sanity.

Definitely on the blink.

She stepped out, cautiously at first, tiptoeing away from the house like a cartoon. But the tiptoeing gave way to a fast walk that soon turned into a trot. Before she knew it, she was flying away from the ranch toward the mountain. And Finn.

CHAPTER
10

The minute he heard footsteps, Finn drew his weapon, flattened himself against the mine wall, and crept up to the entrance. Tracers of moonlight filtered through the scrub he'd placed to camouflage the opening. The brush rustled and a shape broke through the ragged branches. A hand.

In a heartbeat, he grabbed the wrist, pulled its owner through the thicket and into his arms, the gun pointed at her head.

Her. Angelina. He'd know that body anywhere. In the dark, deaf, and blind. He inhaled her scent, different now, with a sharp, spicy edge, but still her. Undeniably. A wave of relief washed over him.

"I hope that's you, Sharkman," she whispered.

"Yeah, it's me," he whispered back, sick at how glad he was that she'd finally arrived, and in one piece. "Don't move." He shoved the Glock into the waistband at his back, retrieved the flashlight from his back pocket, and turned it on.

His chest squeezed. She looked so good in the dim glow. She'd covered up her hair the way he'd told her to, and now she reached for the bandana and slid it off. White-gold tumbled to her shoulders in a froth of light Against her black clothes it gave her face a pale, angelic cast so unlike the woman she wanted him to think she was.

"You all right?"

She threw him one of her tough-guy looks. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Because undercover work is damn hard. Lying about yourself, your motives, your feelings, takes a toll. Because it's dangerous.
But he only shrugged. "I don't know, Angel. Just thought I'd ask. Come on-I'll take you back to the camp I set up and you can brief me."

He flashed the beam ahead and gestured for her to proceed him. She moved gingerly, favoring her left foot. He frowned. "What's wrong with your foot?"

"Nothing."

She walked ahead, her stride definitely off. "Nothing my ass. Come here." He pushed her onto a small outcropping and knelt to check her foot.

"It's nothing," she repeated, holding back her leg. He heard something like embarrassment in her voice.

Without another word, he pulled off her black slip-ons and shone the flashlight over her feet. Blisters had torn the skin in two places, leaving raw, ugly sores.

"I told you it was nothing." She snatched her foot out of his hand and put her shoe back on.

He thought about the long walk from the ranch. "Where are your sneakers?"

"Did you ever look at a pair of sneakers, Sharkman? No heels, no pointy toes, no rhinestones."

"They're a damn sight better than those"-he pointed to the thin-soled shoes she wore-"for walking long distances."

She slapped a hand to her head. "Now you tell me."

A flash of anger raced through him. What the hell was wrong with her? Why would she want to hurt herself? If she couldn't take care of minor things like her feet what would happen when she had to take care of the big things? Like her life?

The fear that had been stalking him all day and most of the night-fear for what might happen to her-stabbed him, sharp and hard. He rose in an instant, hands on her shoulders shaking her,

"Jesus Christ, Angelina. Are you
trying
to screw this up?" He'd meant to say be careful, don't put yourself in danger, but it hadn't come out that way. Hurt flit across her face before she smothered it in the shadows beyond their beam of light; he wanted to kick himself.

"Yeah, Sharkman, that's exactly what I'm trying to do." She wrenched herself away and headed farther into the mine, limping as she went.

I'm sorry.
But he couldn't get the words out. Instead, he caught up with her, handed her the flashlight, then scooped her into his arms.

"Whoa," she said. "They're just blisters." She gave him one of her insolent grins. "But any excuse to put your hands on me, right?"

He compressed his lips, refusing to rise to the bait. "Just keep the path lit." He set off, but had only gone a few steps when the thought that was uppermost in his mind burst out. "Why the hell do you take chances with yourself?"

With a sigh, she snuggled closer, making him grit his teeth against the instant wash of pleasure her body ereated in his. "If I knew this was going to be an Olympic event I would have made sure I had the right equipment, okay? Like I said, they're just blisters, not leprosy. They won't kill me."

"How are you going to explain limping around to Bo-rian tomorrow?"

She didn't respond right away. Uh-huh. Hadn't thought that one through, had you, Angel?

But her speechlessness didn't last long. It never did.

"I'll tell him it's from all the dressing up I've been doing. That I'm not used to high heels."

He snorted at that whopper. "What dressing up?"

"Victor threw a party for me tonight."

His interest quickened. "A party?"

Briefly she told him about the gathering, about the dress Victor had asked her to wear, and about meeting Marian.

Her voice changed at the last piece of information, a subtly different inflection that sent up warning signals. "How did that go?"

They'd reached the campsite, and he unloaded her onto a ledge he'd covered with his sleeping bag. He switched on the lantern, flooding the area with light, then put the Glock in the holster he'd hung from a rusty nail embedded in one of the mine supports.

"Piece of cake," she said. But her face wore that shuttered, don't-come-close look that said she wasn't telling him everything. A pulse began to hammer in his head.

"She recognize you? Make the connection with Carol?"

Angelina shook her head. "Nope." Her smile was wide and brittle. "So ... I'm fine. No problem."

He studied her in the lantern light, and she avoided looking at him. All at once, he understood. She was such a liar. A beautiful, expert, and right now very vulnerable liar. But she wasn't hiding something dangerous. At least, not to their assignment. "I'm sorry, Angel," he said softly, resisting the powerful urge to comfort with more than words.

She shrugged. "Don't be."

But he sensed the hurt she was hiding. "It's better this way. Having Marian tie you to your mother would only have complicated everything."

She nodded and busied herself with her injured foot, and he let her. No point in pursuing what couldn't be altered, especially if it made him weak when he needed to be strong, tender when he should be tough. So he took the hint and changed the subject.

"I think I have something for that." He rummaged around in the first-aid supplies he'd lugged down the mountain, found the salve and bandages, and tossed them to her. "That should help. Fix yourself up."

That was when she reached into her pocket and handed him the map.

"What's this?"

"A rough map of the ranch house interior. I thought it might come in handy."

He glanced at her sharply, then slowly unfolded the paper to reveal a hand-drawn diagram, crude but easy to interpret. "I'm no Da Vinci, but I think you can figure it out. Entry, living areas, den, library." She pointed to squares representing rooms. "Here's Victor's office. And here's where he's got me stashed." She pointed out a room on the western corner of the second floor. "Great view of the mountains. His room and Marian's are on the same floor."

Finn glanced at Angelina, reviewing the implications. He'd told her she would meet her aunt, but having her so close ... "Can you handle that?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He didn't mince words. "No. But you'll have to do it all the time. Hiding your real relationship on an everyday basis won't be easy."

"Look, I'm not going to throw my arms around her and suddenly blurt out I'm her long-lost niece."

No, but you 'd like to, Angel.
And despite himself, he was sorry she couldn't. "Good. Because you can't. Not without compromising yourself and your assignment."

"I know."

And she did. He heard it in her voice and saw it on her face. Something he never expected. Something Suzy never had.

Commitment.

He blinked at the realization, and at whatever it was he felt in his chest. Pride. That's what it \vas. He was proud of her. Damn proud.

His breath caught. Christ, what a shocker that was.

But she'd already moved on. "The only part of the house I haven't seen yet is the north wing." She pointed to a section that was outlined but not squared off into rooms, and he turned his attention back to the map.

"How come?"

She shrugged. "Victor decided I'd had enough touring for one day. Didn't want to weaken my essence."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Doesn't he know that's impossible?"

The same half smile answered him back, accompanied by a teasing glint in her green eyes. "I don't know, Sharkman. Did you tell him?"

She was flirting with him. Worse, he was flirting with her. "No, but next time I see him I'll be sure to."

For a moment their gazes held, heat and liking flaring up between them. God, she could be so smart about some things. How had he missed that?