In the Dark (22 page)

Hope flared in the commander's eyes. "Where'd you find that information?"

"On the Internet. I'm sure it's in the public records. All you have to do is query the magistrate's office in Sabena," Luther reassured her. "Do you think we can make our case now?"

She fingered the documents on her desk. "Captain Garret has a reputation for shooting down the admission of evidence. We'll have to make sure that the authenticity of each claim can be verified. These pictures could be hoaxes but if Lovitt's ties to Sabena can be proven... There's just one problem."

"What's that, ma'am?" Luther prompted.

"None of this information actually addresses my client's charges. Three sailors died on board the USS
Nor'easter.
Clearly one of them was killed in self-defense, but the argument that the other two jumped overboard doesn't begin to hold water, regardless of your corroboration.”

"It does if they were working for Lovitt," Luther insisted. "Those
men
were former Special Forces, ma'am— mercenaries. If the Individual loaned them out to Lovitt, then they had orders not to be caught and questioned."

"I understand that, lieutenant, and I honestly believe it. But according to their paperwork, Daniels, Smith, and Keyes were all legitimate Navy personnel." The JAG rubbed her forehead with agitated fingers. "God, I wish this process weren't so rushed!"

Luther glanced sideways and met Hannah's astute gaze. He could tell what she was thinking: that Jaguar's future rested in the hands of this frazzled lieutenant commander.

"Just do your best, ma'am," Luther offered. "If there's anything we can do to help, say the word."

"You've done plenty," admitted the lawyer, stacking the evidence in orderly piles and sending them a forced smile. Her gaze lingered on Hannah as if marveling at her transformation. "I'll see you tomorrow morning before the trial starts," she told them. "Be here at seven in the morning."

"Yes, ma'am," Luther said, saluting her.

The woman was so overwrought she forgot to salute back.

The trio stepped from her office, making their way to the exit. At, the checkout point, Luther retrieved his cell phone, which wasn't permitted past security. Powering it on, he noted that he had a message.

While Westy held the door for them, Luther listened to the missed call. On the front steps of the building, he came to an abrupt stop. He was conscious of the sun's warmth on his shoulders, the scent of mown grass mingling with the aroma of sausage biscuits coming from the Burger King on base. But he couldn't get his mind to accept what he'd just heard.

"What's the matter?" Hannah asked, turning to look at him.

Westy's gaze was just as perceptive. "Sir?" he said, stepping closer.

"Valentino was attacked in his apartment," Luther relayed. "He's in critical condition at Inova Fairfax Hospital."

"No shit," Westy breathed.

"Guess who went after him?" Luther added, shaking off his stunned surprise.

"Obradovitch," Westy guessed, on a growl.

"Bingo. Valentino crippled him with a return shot, and Obradovitch fell to his death trying to fast-rope off the balcony."

"Son of a bitch," Westy cursed

Hannah said nothing. She looked dazed, unresponsive.

Luther looked to Westy for his interpretation. "What the hell's going on, Chief?"

Westy shook his head. "Maybe Westmoreland wanted Valentino off his back."

"Maybe." But the explanation didn't satisfy Luther. He turned to Hannah. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, wrapping her arms about her shoulders. Despite his better judgment, he put an arm around her. She accepted his comfort, melting against him without protest.

It felt good to hold her again, Luther thought. Shading his eyes against the sun, he sought out the Winnebago in the parking lot. Thank God for Newman's bodyguards. He didn't want to say it out loud and shake up Hannah's equilibrium any more than he already had, but he had the dampening suspicion that the Individual wasn't done causing mischief.

Sebastian tugged on the door of Leila's dance studio, disconcerted to find it unlocked. He stepped inside, setting off the electronic bell that chimed a refrain from
The Nutcracker.
Leila looked up from the cash register. She was counting money.

Counting money. With the door unlocked.

He stood there disbelieving, aware that his usual self-control was crumbling beneath an avalanche of anger, panic, and desperation. "The door is open," he pointed out as she paused to look at him inquiringly.

"Yes, I was expecting you." She had, in fact, called him this afternoon with news that she'd found Jason Miller's letter.

"What if it wasn't me" he said, stepping in and letting the door fall shut behind him. He locked it.

Her questioning look turned to one of wariness as he stalked toward her, silent, his alarm and anger mounting, bubbling inside of him like lava.

"What do you mean?" she asked as he rounded the counter wordlessly. "What are you doing?"

"What," he said, not once breaking eye contact, "if I was a very desperate man, the same who'd robbed the shop two doors down from yours the other night?" With that brief warning, he snatched the money out of her hand, stuffing it back into the register.

Leila flinched away, looking at him as if he'd lost his mind.

Perhaps he had.

"What," he continued, pursuing her, "if I was not content with stealing your money." He raked a hungry gaze over her body, even more unsettled to find her wearing a form-fitting white top, a short pleated skirt, and tights. He trapped her against the wall, locking her in place with an arm on either side of her.

"Stop it," she said, on a fearful note.

Her fear was like a slap in the face. "Leila," he said, stricken by the realization that, for a moment, she was actually afraid of him.

Frustration drained out of him. He lowered his head to her shoulder, suddenly repentant.

She stood stiffly beneath him, not understanding.

At last, he looked up. "Forgive me," he said. He brushed the pad of his thumb across her elegant cheekbone. "Please," he added more gently, "please lock your door when you count your money, invest in an alarm system, one that notifies the authorities the minute your security is breached. I don't know what I would do if something were to happen to you."

He didn't know whether she would appreciate the advice, but it had to be a better tactic than scaring her.

She searched his face with her dark, exotic eyes. "Do you worry about me that way?" she asked him. The answer seemed important to her.

He gave her an incredulous look. "Of course."

"Because I might be carrying your baby," she guessed.

"No." He captured her face between his hands. The words "I love you" burned a path to his tongue. He held them in check, afraid to send her running. "Even if there is never a baby, I would worry." He kissed her tenderly, with all the reverence that roiled in him, wishing at the same time that he could find her ex-husband, who'd clearly never cherished her, and cripple him for life.

Leila swayed against Sebastian, weakened by his soul-sucking kiss. What was happening? One moment she'd been counting her money, congratulating herself on inviting Sebastian over- to the shop instead of to her home, where she'd found the letter. Here at the studio—where there was no bed—she'd be less tempted to rip his clothes off.

Yet here she was, clinging to his broad shoulders, rubbing her tongue enticingly against him, her legs turning to rubber beneath her.

He broke away, giving her a thoughtful look. "Let's dance," he said.

"What?"

"Yes, I've wanted to dance with you again, since the night we met. Let's dance here." He gestured toward the studio with its large polished floor.

He was a fabulous dancer, she recalled, fluid and flawless. She was just as eager to relive the magic as he. "All right," she agreed.

He pulled her into the studio with him, not bothering to turn on the lights. The open space was illumined only by the setting sun, shining through the front door and finding its way through the front room to the studio. Amber sunlight fingered the polished floor.

"Music," Leila said, turning toward the small room that housed her collection of CDs and sound equipment. Quickening with anticipation, she selected a CD of Brazilian samba music and wondered if Sebastian knew the steps. If not, she'd teach him.

As the first exotic drumbeats came over the sound system, she approached him.

Sebastian held his hands out. She took them, waiting to see what he would do. With a drumbeat setting the tempo, he began to move. His steps were easy and elegant, but they weren't right for a samba.

"Like this," she told him, showing him how to move one step at a time, rolling on the balls of the feet. "Mirror my movements," she said. He did, stepping back as she moved forward. Within minutes, he had mastered the dance.

"You have a gift," she said without exaggeration.

"It is only that you instruct well," he countered, his syntax more Spanish than English.

Something within her eased, making her limbs less tense, freer to give outward expression to the quick, joyful music. He was doing it again, she realized, making her like him in a way that went beyond mere physical attraction.

They moved across the shadowed floor, stepping in and out of the patch of sunlight by the door. As with the last time she'd been alone with him, she was caught up in the pleasure of his company.

Suddenly the music changed, shifting from a quick samba to a sultry rumba. Without hesitation, Sebastian pulled her into his arms, so that her breasts were pressed to his chest, her hips flush with his. They moved with sensuous leisure, their thighs brushing with each step. The dance reminded Leila of the night they'd met and how their dancing had been a prelude to lovemaking.

Sebastian seemed to be thinking along the same lines. When her back came up lightly against the rails in one corner of the room, she realized he'd maneuvered her there for a reason. She lacked the resolve to chastise him. Instead, she met his kiss eagerly, relishing his lean hardness as he pressed himself against her.

For a long, long while, he was content to kiss her, drawing little moans of pleasure from her, rousing her passion. He brushed her nipples into aching peaks. He smoothed his hands over her backside, molding her against him.

Without warning, he sank to his knees. Leila's heart fluttered as he ducked beneath her skirt, kissing her thighs through her leotards. His tongue was hot and seeking. As it laved the most sensitive part of her, Leila clung to the bars on either side of her, shocked by his scandalous behavior but too overcome by pleasure to make him stop.

He tugged the waistband of her leotards over her hips. His tongue speared her again, this time with no barrier in the way.

Leila's knees gave out. She clung to the bars, sinking lower, delirious with need and want commingled.

He stood at last, working quickly to free himself from the confines of his uniform. That feat accomplished, he lifted her off her feet.

Leila locked her legs around him, urging him with frantic words. He kissed her breasts through her blouse as he claimed her with one stroke.

Inflamed by his single mindedness, Leila shuddered around him, climaxing embarrassingly early. "Oh, I love you!" she cried, filling her starved lungs as her orgasm subsided. Immediately she realized what she'd said, and she froze, looking at him.

Sebastian's eyes blazed with triumph. He seized her hips, pulling her down on him as he drove inside her, groaning against her throat as he followed her into bliss.

Leila came rudely to her senses. She should not have said that! Raw fear caused her to wriggle free of Sebastian's embrace. She fled, leotard trailing from one ankle

as she ran for the bathroom in the front of the building and shut the door.

"Leila!"

She locked it before he had a chance to pursue her. His reactions were slowed by the need to refasten his trousers. The doorknob jiggled, but the lock held.

Leila stared at her reflection, pale beneath the halogen light. What had she done? Her heart beat so erratically she could see the pulse point fluttering on her slender neck.

"Leila," Sebastian repeated, his mouth by the crack in the door. "What's wrong,
queridal
Talk to me."

She twisted the water on, needing to drown out his endearments, needing more time to determine how she was going to survive loving a SEAL. She didn't want to do this—no. It required strength that was beyond her capabilities. She couldn't love a man who waltzed into danger on a regular basis.

The thought made her queasy. She bent over, splashing water on her flushed cheeks. Feeling moisture between her thighs, she seized a handful of paper towels and wiped herself. At some point—she didn't know when—tears started streaming from her eyes.

"Leila," Sebastian crooned outside the door, "it's a simple matter for me to unlock the door. I am respecting your need for privacy, but I’m concerned."

"I'm fine," she lied, half wishing he would unlock it. She felt strangely light-headed, like she just might faint He must have heard the tears in her voice, must have guessed she was lying, for the lock released with a click, and there he was, looking at her.

"You are not fine," he determined. He stepped inside and took her in his arms. "Come. You need to sit down."

He urged her into one of the chairs in the waiting area  right outside the studio doors. Leila sank weakly onto the cushion. Sebastian snapped on the lamp beside it and crouched down, his gaze searching. "Is it such a terrible thing to love me?" he asked perceptively.

"Yes," she said, wiping a stubborn tear from her cheek.

"Why?"

She drew a shuddering breath. "Because I can't be with a man who will leave me."

"I will never leave you," he said with burning sincerity.

"Of course you will," she replied, gesturing with frustration. "Every time your pager beeps, you'll be running off in the middle of the night. I'm not like Helen, Sebastian. I'm not strong enough to stand the thought of you in danger"