In the Dark (13 page)

He was immediately aware of her crotch, positioned over his hips. She smelled of the French milled soap that came courtesy of the B and B. And the only thing between him and her naked skin was Westy's Harley-Davidson T-shirt and a pair of running shorts. His ears started ringing for the blood that surged abruptly.

But there was just enough moon glow coming through the gauzy curtains to illumine Hannah's dazed expression. She wasn't trying to seduce him. She was caught in a state between dreams and reality. He'd seen that look on the faces of exhausted SEAL candidates during Hell Week.

"What's happening?" she asked, disoriented.

"You were dreaming," he explained, wriggling out from under her.

"Oh," she said, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Yes, it's always the same damn dream. I'm so tired of it.'

Her vulnerability tugged at him. The Hannah that he knew was amazingly strong, intelligent, fearless. This was the side of herself she kept under lock and key.

"You want to talk about it?" he invited. It couldn't hurt to alleviate some of the pressure she was under.

She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "For some stupid reason, I'm in the plane with my parents. I'm the copilot, trying to help my father recover the plane, only it keeps going down."

Jesus, he hadn't realized this was about her parents. He didn't have the words to comfort her on that level. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear. The endearment startled him, rolling off his tongue so easily. But then, he'd been calling her that all evening as a part of their role-playing.

To his dismay, tears welled up in her eyes. She twisted away and dropped her face into her pillow. She lay there as still as a statue, not making a sound.

Luther heaved a silent sigh.
Shit.
He couldn't ignore her upset just because she threatened his self-control. That would make him an ass.

He lay down cautiously beside her. Keeping several inches between them, he swept a comforting hand up and down her back. Her chest convulsed. God, he hurt for her. He didn't even want to imagine what it would be like to lose both parents at once.

And then to be the oldest child, to put her dreams on hold in order to care for her sibling. It took a special kind of person to get through that, still capable of smiling.

Without warning, Hannah rolled toward him. She threw an arm around his neck and held on tight. And just like last night, her trim, athletic body conformed to his. Last night he'd had jeans on. Tonight he wore pajama pants that did nothing to conceal his mounting awareness of her. But Hannah seemed oblivious. She sniffed, wiped her eyes, released a shaky sigh. And then she fell asleep.

Again.

Luther regarded the flecks of moonlight dancing along the ceiling. Honestly, this had never happened before. He'd had women drooling over him for years, practically begging him to get in bed with them, and here Hannah had fallen asleep on him, not once, but twice. He felt a little chagrined.

On the heels of chagrin came flattery and gratitude. She must really trust him. Nor did she tempt his restraint by trying to seduce him. He knew what would happen if they made love: He would like her even more than he did now, which was a hell of a lot.

Hannah wasn't for him—no way. In fact, aside from her unfaithfulness, Ronnie had come closer to fulfilling his idealized version of the perfect mate. Hannah was a future case officer, eager to put her information-gathering skills to work and to head out overseas. She was the last woman in the world who'd want to settle down and live a simple life.

So, come morning, he'd be glad that he didn't slide a hand up under her T-shirt. But all night long, apparently, he was going to have to battle the impulse.

Hannah hummed in her sleep, reveling in her starkly sensual dream. Her arms were locked around a massive chest, one leg crooked over a muscled thigh. This had to be Luther she was touching. No other man in the world had a body like this.

She smoothed a hand over a flexing pectoral muscle. His skin was velvety smooth, sprinkled with crisp chest hair that tickled her fingers as she sifted through it. Remembering the line of fuzz that arrowed over his abdomen, she traced it with her fingertips, driven by female curiosity.

The fuzz grew softer, less distinct. To her disappointment, she encountered the barrier of an elasticized waistband. But, wait, this was a dream, so the only true barriers were those in her mind, right?

She slipped her fingers under the elastic band and ...
oh, my.

He was as hard and smooth as a fantasy ought to be. And that code name, Little John, was a serious misnomer.

Thrilled by her obvious effect on him, she banded the offering and he jumped against her palm.

"Do you know what you're doing?"

Luther's rough inquiry had her questioning reality. She cracked her eyes open and found herself lying hip to hip with him, her mouth pressed to his shoulder, her hand inside his pants.

She snatched it free, looking up at the same time into his dark blue, highly alert gaze. "Sorry!" she exclaimed. She rolled away so fast that she fell off the bed.

"Careful."

"I'm fine." She jumped up, too mortified to look his way. Throwing open her suitcase, she snatched up the clothes she would wear that day, along with her disguise. All the while, she could feel Luther's brooding gaze on her.

With her hands full, she raced for the bathroom, shut the door between them and put her back to it, humiliated.

Now he knew that she found him h-o-t, hot. Not only was his body incredible but he was hero material right down to the bone. He'd held her all night long because she'd needed him. He was appealing enough to begin with—earnest, honest, all-American. But his kindness was the clincher. It made him irresistible.

Only Luther couldn't make it more obvious that he didn't want to get with her. Sure, he'd offered comfort when she needed it, but there was a look in his eyes that warned her to keep her distance. She could only guess that he wasn't over Veronica yet. Or maybe he found Hannah revolting in her disguise. Or, more likely still, he figured she'd make a lousy lifelong partner.

That last possibility bothered her the most, though of course it was probably true. What kind of wife took off to the other side of the world, giving everything to her career and feeding leftovers to the man she loved?

Loved?
Holy cow, where had that thought come from? Hannah turned abruptly toward the shower and cranked on the hot water. She wouldn't waste another moment thinking of her and Luther.

He was standing at the window when she reemerged wearing a mauve pantsuit that was a decade out of style. In the guise of Rebecca Lindstrom, she felt considerably less exposed.

"I think we found Ernie's lover," he drawled, glancing at her briefly.

Hannah crossed to the window to peer outside. Magnolia Manor stood on a hill overlooking a line of cedar trees and a wide, snaking river. On the opposite shore stood a large, clapboard warehouse.

The building boasted a substantial pier, wide enough for loading and unloading cargo. Half a dozen men milled about, enjoying cigarette breaks in the early morning sunshine.

"The water looks deep enough for big boats," Luther observed. He glanced at her sidelong. "They rent canoes here," he added. "I think we'll take one out."

"Yes," she said, eager for exercise.

He turned toward the bathroom, making no comment on what had happened earlier.

Grateful, Hannah turned to straighten up the bed. If he could forget about her behavior this morning, then so could she. If only this lingering yearning would go away also.

Luther had just discarded his shirt when his cell phone rang. He dug in the rear pocket of his jeans, careful not to disturb the balance of the canoe.

At the other end of the craft, Hannah shaded her eyes against the noon sun as she glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze touched briefly on his naked chest, then jumped away.

"Lindstrom."

"Sir, you look pretty conspicuous without a shirt," Westy drawled, telling Luther that he was close by.

"Yeah, well, it's hot," Luther countered. Not only that, but he had a perverse desire to see Hannah blush the way she'd blushed that morning.

Once out on the canoe, she'd become an uncomplaining helmswoman. They'd forged the river for hours, studying the activity at the warehouse. Luther acquainted himself with the water's temperature and tidal current. There was a chance he'd have to swim across the river tonight to get a closer look. Hannah wielded her paddle with the same skill and determination that she did all things. She'd retreated behind her disguise, leaving him feeling confused and dangerously aroused.

"Where are you?" he asked Westy.

"In the woods, a hundred yards upriver. Look for a sock on a tree branch."

"Be right there. Out." Luther slid his phone back into his pocket. "We need to talk to Westy," he said to Hannah. "He's waiting upriver."

Without a word, she swiveled in her seat and stuck her paddle into the muddy blue water. So much for unsettling her. He wasn't even sure exactly what he wanted—a civilized discussion as to why they shouldn't get involved … or more of the same.

"Do you mind watching the canoe?" he asked, pulling one end of it ashore a minute later.

She looked put-out but resigned. "Fine," she said.

Luther left her glaring after him as he stepped into a deserted bit of forest, leaves crunching under his tennis shoes. It was broad daylight. He was determined to spot Westy before the man had a chance to scare him, which was how he got his kicks.

Aside from a darting squirrel, the forest appeared deserted. Luther turned in a slow circle and nearly jumped out of his skin when Westy materialized beside him, having stepped from behind a tree. "Jesus!" he swore.

Westy, who was wearing a khaki-colored T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, clicked his tongue in mock disapproval and handed him a piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"Sketch of the warehouse. I just finished my interview. Don't think I got the job, though. They're leery of outsiders. But at least I got a look around."

"Did you see anything? Take any pictures?"

Westy shook his head. "There was nothing to see. I drew this, though." His idea of a sketch was an elaborate drawing with details that only an artist would notice.

"This is great. Any chance we can walk in?"

"Nope. The locks on the doors are complex, and there's an alarm system. We'll definitely have to swim in."

"Sorry about that." Westy's distaste for diving was no secret, but as a SEAL he'd learned to deal with it. What made this particular dive so dangerous was the fact that they didn't know the river well at all. Neither one of them had swum in it before. Doing so in broad daylight would only draw suspicion, which meant that it was going to be a night dive.

Fortunately, they had their diving gear with them. Their wet suits, complete with Draeger Rebreathers, were crammed into the back of Westy's car.

"Meet me at the Manor, down by the canoes, at zero three hundred hours," Luther decided, "ready to dive. Put your stuff in the car first in case we have to take off."

"Yes, sir."

"Questions?" Luther asked.

Westy peered off in the direction of the river. "How'd it go at the lovers' retreat?" he asked, that devilish smirk on his face.

The memory of Hannah's lusty palm on his joystick brought heat to Luther's face. "Fine," he said shortly.

"Have we heard from Valentino?" Westy asked, astute enough to change topics.

"He's still out of the country." Luther had tried to reach the
agent several times, "Presumably on a very hot lead. Wouldn't it be great if Lovitt and his boss could go to jail together?" he mused.

Westy muttered something about Lovitt getting it up the ass for the next twenty years.

"Keep your sketch, Chief. Use it to come up with a COA."

"Yes, sir," he said, content to plan their course of action. "So, what's Hannah going to do?" he inquired.

When had Westy started calling Hannah by her first name? "She'll sit tight," Luther replied, disliking the jealousy that nipped at him briefly.

"She won't like that."

Luther'd already guessed as much. "Well, unless the CIA trains their people on how to dive, she's not coming with us," he countered.

Westy just looked at him.

"I'll see you at zero three hundred hours, Chief," Luther said, releasing him. "Call me if something comes up."

"Yes, sir." Westy turned and melted into the forest.

Swear to God, the man hadn't taken five steps before he disappeared.

Returning to the canoe, Luther found Hannah swatting a fly from her head and flapping air under her knit top. Her face was flushed from the heat, and she looked more than just a little irritated. "What's the plan?" she asked.

"Westy and I have to swim into the warehouse through the berthing area," he said, pushing the canoe off the shore. "All other points of entry are secured."

Hannah faced forward. "And what am I going to do?" she asked over her shoulder.

He pushed the boat into the water, stepping in at the last second. It kept him from having to answer.

Hannah didn't paddle. She waited, one ear cocked in his direction as she sat there with the paddle on her lap. "Luther," she said on a warning note.

"We have to swim in, Hannah," he repeated, "using Draeger Rebreathers." He doubted she even knew what they were—special diving gear that eliminated bubbles, allowing for more clandestine insertions.

"That doesn't mean I can't take a canoe out. How are you going to bring the camera over?"

"It's waterproof."

That silenced her, at least for a moment. She sat there in her ash-brown wig, scratching an itch under her sweat-stained top, glasses fogged with perspiration. And she still looked gorgeous.

"You left me in the car at Quantico," she said, her voice taut with frustration. "You left me in Westy's house to chase down my would-be assassin. Now you want to leave me at the Manor twiddling my thumbs?"

"Hush," he urged. "Sound carries over water."