First to Burn (14 page)

She opened her eyes. In the mirror over Wulf’s shoulder, her tanned hands contrasted with his white shirt. Her fingers shifted to his hair. It was multicolored from the sun, like gold and sand and honey gliding over her skin.

“You’re watching us, aren’t you?” His lips hummed over the nerves on her clavicle. Her neck begged for the magic of his mouth, while his hand slipped from her waist upward along her ribs, toward breasts that swelled to invite him. His reflection claimed her reflection, consumed her with his kisses.

A phone rang somewhere far away.

What was she doing? Even with the folding doors latched, they were in a lobby. Strangers could open those doors, see them, post a picture on the internet. One careless keystroke could ruin their careers. Her shoulders stiffened.

Wulf’s breath slipped across her neck like a noose. During the day he’d seemed like other men, but he had secrets. She couldn’t forget what had happened on the helicopter ride, the lies and half-truths he’d told since, and under no circumstances could she fall deeper into his web.

In the mirror, he blotted out every bit of her except a blur of dark hair and one of her eyes. Her sclera completely circled her iris, like a horse she remembered from a trip to the Meadowlands with her stepfather. Right before the mare had tried to jump the wall in front of her seat, its eye had been a giant white-rimmed spot of fear, like hers now. The horse had broken a leg and men had dragged out screens and downed it right there, on the track. She rolled her head and saw the lobby lights through the slats of the louvered doors. Her stomach spun.

“Stop.” She pushed his shoulder. “Stop!” Anxiety quivered in her tone.

His deltoid jumped under her palm. Then, one long heartbeat later, he pulled away. “You’re right.”

Immobilized, they locked stares while their pulses slowed. She shouldn’t have regretted the right decision this much.

He stood and offered his hand. “I’ll say good night at the elevator.” As soon as she reached her feet, he let her go. “Share tomorrow with me.” His request was quiet. “Please.”

She thought she saw need in his expression, not merely desire, and his ten combat tours weighed on her conscience. “You’re willing to do more sightseeing after today’s fiasco?”

“Fiasco?” He glanced at the imprint they’d left on the couch, and his mouth slowly turned up and into another wicked promise. “I think not.”

She fingered her collar and hoped he wouldn’t ask about her itinerary. She’d probably blurt
you
. “Get one thing straight. We’re not going to—” She couldn’t say it. A doctor, and she couldn’t spit out
have sex.

“We will. And soon.” His outstretched arm indicated she should precede him into the lobby. “But you’ll have to ask very nicely.”

“Not a chance. I won’t—” She spun to contradict him. He raised an eyebrow as if daring her to issue a challenge or an ultimatum, either of which would have been an absurdly bad idea, so she gave up and strode toward the elevator.

“Tomorrow it’s my turn to choose where we go.” Following, he opened the elevator cage without guidance from his eyes, which were occupied staring at her legs.

“You could lose a finger that way.” She pointed at his hands.

“Not worried. Much as I appreciate you in a skirt, wear pants for my plans.”

“What plans?” She stepped into the space, but he didn’t follow.

“I’ll be here again at nine.” He shut the doors. He really wasn’t going up.

“What plans?” If she rattled the folding metal
she
might lose that finger, but he was toying with her.

“A ride you won’t forget.”

The image of herself straddling his hips and looking down at him weakened her knees to the point that she reached a steadying hand for the control panel. She knew how his eyes would look half-closed with his face taut below her, because that was how he watched her, but the fantasy couldn’t become reality. Not unless she traded her career for it.

Then the outer doors closed, removing temptation for at least nine hours.

* * *

The under eye concealer from her mother didn’t match Theresa’s soldier tan, so dark circles advertised her sleepless night. She’d rejected her travel-stained jeans for cropped black pants—“pedal pushers” on her mother’s list of outfits—and a black-and-white plaid shirt that tied at her waist like a fifties cliché. Thankfully her mother hadn’t been in a Bond girl phase.

This morning’s double-thump knock caused her heart to pick up speed even though she wasn’t startled. She’d brushed her teeth twice, just in case Wulf tried to pick up where they’d stopped. Before she reached for the knob, she wiped her palms on her pants.

Wulf’s faded jeans outlined every bulge of his thighs, and the stand-up collar of his black leather jacket emphasized the cords of his neck. Complete with finger-tousled hair and a half grin, the man leaning on her door frame looked like a very bad boy.

“Will this work with your mysterious plans?” She held out her arms, then dropped them. It was silly to worry about her clothes, and worse to invite him to stare.

He stared.

If she crossed her arms over her chest, she’d appear defensive. If she didn’t, he’d notice her nipples through the cotton.

His smile deepened. He’d noticed.

She stuck her fingers in her pockets, thrust her elbows out and hunched her shoulders forward, which lifted the starched shirtfront away from her chest.

“Do you have different footgear?” he asked after his gaze reached the floor.

“What’s wrong with these?” She pointed the toe of her ballet flat at him.

“No protection against the road.”

“Why would I—”

He pulled his arm from behind the door frame and showed her two motorcycle helmets.

“Not a chance.” Becoming that personally acquainted with Roman traffic was not on her to-do list. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.” His boots crushed the carpet pile while he swung the helmets as if to hypnotize her. “You really, really want to go for a ride with me.”

Of course, as medical personnel she had a responsibility to monitor Wulf to ensure he didn’t freak out again like he had at the Mouth of Truth.

Her rationalization almost sounded legitimate.

“Yesterday I shared you with thousands of strangers.” He headed for her closet. “Today’s for the two of us.”

“I intend to survive this trip.” She followed him, eyes on the helmets. “That means no motorcycles.”

He hunted on the floor. “These—” a running shoe dangled between his thumb and first finger, “—are the sturdiest shoes you have?”

Three pair of boots at Caddie, useless at this moment. “Nothing’s wrong with my shoes. They’re perfect for visiting the Borghese Gallery.”

“It’ll be another four hundred years before I—” He snapped his mouth shut and picked up her purse, which looked so ridiculous in his grip that her last resistance melted. “Come with me.”

* * *

Draycott settled once more into his chair after his foray to the street next to the Hotel d’Inghilterra. In less than the time it took his Earl Grey to steep, he’d popped a button-size tracking device on the frame of Wardsen’s motorcycle. With no need to hurry when his target and the brunette doctor emerged from the elevator, he rather hoped they became busy upstairs.

Two days ago Wardsen’s bread crumb trail—airfare in Karachi, clothes and shaving gear in Dubai—had led to Rome. One phone call, and Draycott had possessed the name of the only traveler the Bagram Air Field office of Black and Swan had processed during the last ten days who’d had a similar destination: Captain Theresa Chiesa, M.D. Unsurprisingly, she also hailed from Cadwalader. Aviation flight manifests also listed the doctor on two recent Special Forces missions, and her credit card had been swiped at the terminal thirty feet across the lobby.

He enjoyed a slow sip of his favorite tea blend. After yesterday’s debacle at the Basilica of Santa Maria—only the worst novice asked to photograph a target like Wardsen—he’d assumed lobby surveillance until experienced professionals arrived. This pathetic crew was only authorized to follow at a distance via the global positioning system.

Thirteen minutes after Wardsen had ascended to the doctor’s room, the couple exited the elevator. Sad what seven months in-country did to a man’s stamina.

Camouflaged by his
Continental Daily News
, Draycott assumed they wouldn’t register his presence. If they remained as absorbed as they’d been in each other yesterday, the smartphone concealed beneath the trilby on his knee could sing “God Save the Queen” and they wouldn’t turn.

“Sorry to break your heart,” the woman said. “But I don’t like shopping.”

“Humor me.” Wardsen passed within fifteen feet of his seat, the doctor on his far side. “You need better footwear first.”

So they weren’t headed directly for the motorcycle.

* * *

Wulf’s cheekbones and tight denim achieved what Theresa knew she never could have: two Prada salespeople reduced to kittens lapping milk. She should have been mortified that he insisted on kneeling in front of her rather than allowing the assistants to do their jobs, but as his fingers wrapped around her calf and he eased the second black knee-high boot on to her leg, she liquefied. When he traced the open V of the leather upper, a line of fire tattooed her skin. The tiny grind of zipper teeth rent the charged silence as the smooth calfskin closed.

“How’s the fit?” Behind the inner bend of her knee, his hand provoked tremors while his expanded pupils drew her into swirling blue and amber until she felt nearly dizzy.

Guaranteed she’d collapse if he asked her to stand or walk; answering seemed to be nearly as difficult.

“The signorina will wear the boots.” He held her ballet flats in the air for the male clerk. “Please deliver these to Signorina Chiesa at the Hotel d’Inghilterra.”

“Yes, I’ll take them,
grazie.
” Theresa swallowed and opened her purse. The boots passed perfection, transforming her from Audrey Hepburn in a classic screwball comedy to a femme fatale, an international assassin, a woman men
noticed.
She offered her credit card.

“Signorina, it has been done.” The female employee’s eyes flicked to Wulf.

“You can choose these.” He hadn’t stood, so his eyes remained level with her glare. “But you can’t pay. It’s completely inappropriate and I can afford—”

“My day.” He pressed his finger over her lips. An impish smile dared her to contradict him, as if he wanted to misbehave in front of the clerks. “My gift.”

His cockiness punched her last button. He couldn’t tease her and then expect her to mold herself to his dictates. “No.” She bit his fingertip.

The salesman squeaked.

Wulf sucked in his breath and stood, towering over her as he picked her up by her elbows and set her on her feet. “We’ll go
now.
”

“Yes, master.” Arms crossed, she glared. “Shall I walk three steps behind?”

He hustled her out of the store and around the corner. Before she could ask about the red-and-chrome motorcycle, he thrust her against the stone wall and covered her lips. This embrace resembled last night’s as much as molten chocolate lava cake resembled office Halloween candy. He didn’t play or coax. He demanded that she open for him, and she did. As his tongue traced her lips, she tried to bring him into her mouth, but he controlled the kiss. His body pressed hers at every point, legs and hips pushing into the cradle of her thighs in a way they hadn’t while sitting on the couch. His hands shielded her head, but the roughness scraped her shoulder blades through her shirt. If the building disintegrated, she’d spiral into the depths of space with him, uncaring and unaware.

“You bit me.” He slid his mouth along her cheek to her ear. His teeth closed on her lobe, making her shiver. “Did you think I’d let that pass?”

“No.” She clutched his shoulders, the jacket leather too slick, not what she yearned to touch, not his skin, the heat and suppleness that made even the best leather seem monotonous.

“You want this as much as I do.”

“Yes.” Tilting her hips matched the bulge under his fly to the part of her that most wanted to be pressed. She slipped her hands under his coat and up his chest, then around to his—

Gun. She froze, her hand on a hard shape strapped over his upper ribs. Although she could barely move her lips, she managed to ask, “What’s that?”

“You know what.” He shuddered and separated their bodies.

“Why?” Chilled without his embrace, she waited for his answer. He took so long she wondered if he hadn’t heard the question.

“I’m not entirely convinced yesterday’s adventure was my imagination.”

The sun seemed to disappear, leaving the cobblestone alley merely gray and musty. “But a gun is more dangerous to—”

“I’ve carried one nearly every day since before you were ali—allowed to drink.” His expression told her nothing. “You carry one everywhere at Caddie too, Doc.”

The reminder made her wince.

“Haven’t shot an unlucky patient, have you?” He cocked his chin as she slowly shook her head. “Not your foot? Well, I’m going out on a limb, but I bet my weapons training is a bit more intensive than what you get in the Medical Corps.”

That she couldn’t dispute.

“And before you ask, I have an Italian gun permit in my back pocket.” He twisted to show her the area in question. “Want to fish it out and check?”

“In your dreams, bud.” Her cheeks heated at her predictability. Certainly not at the view.

“Then let’s get moving.” He jerked his thumb toward the motorcycle. Triple exhausts, chromed to a precious-metal shine, swooped along each side like an orchestral horn section. On the gas tank and body panel, the bike proclaimed itself a Benelli 750. No way could he rent such a spectacular ride.

“Where’d you get that?” Her stepbrother would pant with excitement over a Benelli.

“Friend.” His answer didn’t even attempt subterfuge.

“Another top secret pal?” While he lowered the helmet over her head, she recalled the accidental-death statistics Colonel Loughrey had brought up at a staff meeting. “You know vets are five times more likely to die on a motorcycle than a civilian?”