Kathleen Creighton - Secret Agent Sam

She tensed as the object of her frustration slid off the exam table and began quietly to pace. She watched him for a few minutes, annoyed to find her heartbeat quickening, then called softly to him.

“Hey, Pearse, pacing won’t make them come any quicker. Maybe you should try and get some sleep.”

His reply was a grunt. “Yeah, right.”

“Your friend doesn’t seem to be having any problems.”

This time the grunt was more of a chuckle. “Tony’s a battlefield photographer. He can sleep through artillery fire.”

She tilted her head back in order to follow him with her eyes. “Why not you? You’ve seen your share of battlefields.”

He paused in his pacing to turn his head toward her, and though she couldn’t see it in the shadows, she could hear the smile…the wryness in it. “This is hardly the same.”

“No? Why not?” And her breath caught as he prowled slowly toward her.

“For starters, you’re here.”

An oddly enjoyable tension gripped her chest. “Ah,” she said softly, “do I disturb you that much?”

He was standing over her now, looking down at her. “You worry me,” he said thoughtfully.

A little thrill of warning shook her-not, she told herself, of fear. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “I worry you? Why?”

Taking her move as an invitation, he sat on the bench beside her. Instead of answering directly, he gazed at her for a moment, then said quietly, “This is a dangerous mission we’re on, Sam.”

His voice was stern, almost parental. She felt a chilly wash of disappointment. Same old, same old…

She said stiffly, “You don’t have to worry, Pearse. I can take care of myself, you know.”

He turned his face toward her and after a long pause replied, “Maybe that’s what worries me.”

She gave an involuntary hoot of laughter. “What’s that supposed to mean?” And heard the sigh of his exhalation as he looked away.

“I don’t know what I mean.” He hitched in a breath, then contradicted himself. “This is a dangerous mission, and yet you don’t seem to be concerned. Not even a little bit…you know, keyed up. Apprehensive. Nervous. Any of the things any sane, intelligent person should be in this situation. Since I know you to be both sane and intelligent, I can’t figure out whether you’re simply clueless, don’t fully understand the situation…”

“Well, that’s flattering,” Sam said dryly. “I’m hoping there’s an or coming.”

“Or, you know a whole lot more about what’s going on than you’re letting on-maybe more than I do.”

She hitched herself around to face him. It was a defensive move; he’d managed to jolt her in spite of all her preparation, all her training. She fought to keep the anger out of her voice. “Did it occur to you maybe I’m not worried because I have confidence in myself, that I understand worrying isn’t going to help anything, and I have the self-discipline to keep myself calm-in short, that I’m a mature adult, capable of reason and self-control?”

“Jeez, Sam.” He drew a hand over his face and shook his head in a weary, long-suffering way that only stoked her anger. “You don’t ever forget or forgive, do you?”

“Maybe,” she snapped back at him, “I’d be more willing to forgive if I could see some evidence you’ve changed. As far as I can see, nothing’s changed between us.”

“You’re right. Nothing has.” His voice, as he gazed at her, suddenly had a different quality. A huskiness that should have warned her, but didn’t. Before she had any idea he was going to, he caught her by the arms and at the same time rose to his feet, taking her with him.

Once again her breath caught, this time with an audible gasp. “You promised-”

“Are you kidding me?” His voice seemed to grind through his chest. “After what you put me through last night, all bets are off.”

She felt the rush and heat of his body coming against hers, and his head coming down for the taking. The breath left her lungs and her chest filled instead with the fierce ache of joy. Yes, her heart cried, Oh, yes. Finally.

His mouth claimed hers with the passion, the roughness she remembered he could reveal, at times, that had been so much the more thrilling to her for being unexpected, so at odds with the gentle and compassionate man he was. And she thought, This is why. Not just the sex, not only that. For the fire and passion she knew were inside him and that he worked so hard to hide-from her, from the world, from everyone.

From the world, she could understand. But why does he keep this from me? Except at times like this…times when he lets himself go, and it’s so good…could have been…

But sex isn’t enough. It could never have worked between us. I know it…have to accept it.

The desire welling up inside her shattered suddenly, like a glass bubble bursting. She felt the loss like pain, and pulled away from him with a sharp and bitter cry.

But his hands still held her head prisoner, gentle again now, fingers splayed wide, burrowing through her hair in a way she remembered with a sweet and terrible ache.

“Sam,” he said-just that, in a voice too raw for more.

“Don’t,” she whispered, trying to swallow. Hurting too much to swallow or speak.

His fingertips scraped over her scalp, touching her nerves with his particular brand of electricity. And found the tender spot beneath its freshly healed scar.

She winced; she couldn’t help it. She heard the sharp hiss of his breath and jerked free of his grasp, a reply to the question she could see forming in his eyes and on his lips already balanced on the tip of her tongue.

But the sound that came next was neither his voice nor hers. It was a cough, a polite, almost comical little “Ahem,” followed, as they both whirled toward the sound, by a gruff but somewhat feeble, “Uh…guys?”

Tony stood in the doorway to the cabana with his hands behind his head. As he stepped into the room, several dark shapes separated themselves from the shadows and followed him. In the dim lantern light the shadows became men dressed in camouflage clothing. They weren’t wearing masks or hoods, and their expressions were stoic, their eyes dark and hard. They all carried automatic weapons.

Still reeling, his senses glutted with the taste, the smell, the feel of Samantha, Cory watched the men slip into the room, seeming to fill it with their silent menace and the threat of violence in their weapons and their hard, cold eyes. His eyes leaped from one impassive face to the next, looking for the one he’d come so far to meet. He wasn’t there, of course. These were the messengers, he realized; the retrieval squad, nothing more.

One of them, the designated “spokesman,” apparently, motioned with his weapon. Come.

Cory nodded. So far, so good, he thought as he picked up his laptop and tote bag.

But as he stepped toward the waiting cadre of armed men, the leader again motioned with his weapon, this time holding it up to bar his way, and his hard black stare had gone shooting past Cory to something behind him. Turning, Cory saw Sam, waiting to follow him, her face calm, body relaxed, one hip canted and the straps of the backpack slung over one shoulder.

The terrorists’ leader spoke, his voice sharp and unexpected in the stillness. “Who is this?” The rifle in his hands jerked toward Sam.

“She’s the pilot,” Cory explained, and it took all the self-control he had to say it calmly with every nerve twanging and his heart thumping. When the man’s face remained blank, he hooked his thumbs together and made flapping motions with his hands, and for good measure added, “She flies the airplane.”

The man jerked half around, and several of his companions leaned closer to confer with him in unintelligible mutters while Cory waited in silent agony, cursing the fates that had conspired to bring Sam into harm’s way. This harm he’d created. If anything happens to her, he thought…

The spokesman turned back, and with yet more jerking motions of his rifle to emphasize his words, said sharply, “She stay here. I am told to bring only you-” the gun barrel pointed toward Cory “-and you-” now toward Tony. “Come, now.”

Fear flooded Cory’s body and prickled his skin like frost. His heartbeat was a distant booming in his ears. Horrifying images, reports of extraneous captives being beheaded flashed through his mind. He could feel himself screaming, “No!” inside his head in the silent, chest-burning, throat-tearing way of nightmares, and again it was a shock to hear his own voice, sounding calm and in command. “No. She’s needed. She’s also my interpreter. She comes with us.”

The gunman thrust his chin upward in a manner that was both arrogant and dismissive. “I speak English. No need for interpreter.”

“She goes,” Cory said flatly, “or I don’t.” To demonstrate the conviction of his declaration he lowered his laptop and tote bag to the floor and folded his arms on his chest. “Tell your leader there will be no interview.”

The silence that followed shrieked in his ears. The ultimatum was, he knew, a ridiculous, utterly meaningless display of bravado; he had only as much bargaining leverage as these gunmen…terrorists, rebels, insurgents-whatever they might choose to call themselves tonight-decided to give him. And that, he was sure, depended solely on how much their infamous leader desired this interview. Or, putting it another way, how compelling was his need to get his message out to the world.

The spokesman’s face darkened as he turned once more to consult with his companions in clipped and rapid phrases. Cory couldn’t look at Tony or Sam. Literally could not; tension had him paralyzed. He felt as if his neck would crack if he tried to move his head. I’ve put us all in jeopardy, he thought. My best friend…the woman I love. They may kill us all right now. Or take Tony and me hostage and kill Sam…