Rules of Re-engagement Page 11

  He grasped her hips with both hands, pumped hard, fast and climaxed with a deep guttural groan of pleasure.

  She vaguely registered yelling upstairs, the alarm clanging, more banging on elevator doors.

  She looked at him and smiled, then began to laugh lightly, then with release, abandon. She hadn’t felt this good, had this much fun in…sixteen years.

  He was watching her, intensely. Then the corner of his lip twitched up into a lopsided grin, light dancing wickedly in his eyes. And it was the sexiest, most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen.

  She leaned back against the mirror, steamy, her pants still loose around her hips, her silk shirt open, exposing a breast, her hair a wild mess. And she felt free, she felt whole, a woman—desirable and unfettered.

  He arched a brow. “Do you know how truly beautiful you are?” he asked as he zipped up his pants. He reached for her blouse buttons, started doing them up for her as the banging and yelling upstairs increased. Olivia zipped her pants up behind her as he worked on her buttons. “I think our time is up,” he whispered in her ear, and he gave her a quick kiss before he punched the release button.

  The elevator began to rise. Olivia tried to smooth down her hair, and by the time the bell clanged for her floor, she’d pulled herself together. Sort of.

  He slid his shades back over his eyes, took her hand in his. “Showtime,” he whispered.

  The doors opened to expose the very worried faces of Mr. and Mrs. Makarewicz, her neighbors from across the hall.

  “Oh, goodness, Olivia, are you all right dear?”

  She tried to keep her face serious, tried not to laugh at Jack’s austere, haughty expression, the way he lengthened his spine and squared his shoulders.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Was it stuck?” They were both looking at Jack with great curiosity.

  “Not at all. Quite slick, actually,” he said with a British accent as he led Olivia out by the hand and down the hall.

  She could feel Mr. and Mrs. Makarewicz watching as they walked down the hall. “You’re evil,” she whispered.

  He squeezed her hand tight. “I know. And you’re damned hot,” he said. “I’ll ride an elevator with you anytime.”

  14:01 Romeo. Venturion Tower.

  Wednesday, October 8.

  “He’s a what!” Killinger couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “An arms dealer, both black market and aboveboard. Runs a tight, secretive outfit, has extravagant taste—especially for fast cars and women. He’s a Belgian national, born in Italy—Italian mother, Russian father. He was schooled around the world. Attended the Sorbonne. Very wealthy family, Russian mob connections. There’s a period in his life where he seems to have dropped off the radar for a while. Not much on him for that time. He arrived in the States yesterday.”

  Killinger swore. What in hell had his daughter picked up? “He’s traveling alone?”

  “Can’t be certain. He generally moves with close protection personnel, so they’re probably around. We haven’t seen them yet. People who cross swords with this guy tend to disappear or meet with unfortunate accidents.”

  Killinger cursed again. He’d bet his life Olivia didn’t know what her new lover did for a living. It went against everything his daughter stood for.

  “Henri Devilliers has made several trips to Den Hague in the past three years that coincide with Olivia’s. That’s all we’ve manage to dig up on him so far.”

  “You still have a tail on them?”

  “Yes. He’s at her apartment. Gave us a bit of a ride through traffic. He’s rented a Lamborghini, and he’s using it.”

  Killinger thought of how his wife died. Fast cars and the men who used them were dangerous—he knew from personal experience. He hung up, and cursed violently. This was not the kind of man he wanted anywhere near his daughter. He checked his watch, picked up his phone again.

  “Put the plan in action. I want her out of the country within the next twenty-four hours. Hold her until the deadline has passed.”

  “And Devilliers?”

  “Kill him.”

  Chapter 9

  14:59 Romeo. Olivia Killinger’s apartment.

  Manhattan. Wednesday, October 8.

  Olivia left Jack talking quietly on his phone in the living room. She went into her bedroom, showered, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and began packing an overnight bag. She was folding a shirt when she felt his presence.

  She glanced up.

  He was leaning against the doorjamb, taking her in lazily. That dark, sensual energy began to pulse between them again, and Olivia became acutely aware they were in her bedroom, that her bed was between them, that her underwear was spread out, waiting to be packed. Her eyes connected with his, and she knew they would make love again. Soon.

  She knew in her heart she would sleep with him as often as she could—whenever, wherever she could. There was a sense of urgency, of the deadline looming. And she didn’t know when she’d ever be with him again after that day.

  She had no idea how much he really cared or how much he was manipulating her emotions and her body to get to his target. He was a mercenary, she reminded herself. And having sex was probably more pleasant than shooting someone—but it was still a means to an end.

  She cleared her throat. “How long will we be gone?”

  The look in his eyes grew darker, more intense, the energy between them edgier.

  “Jack?”

  “What did you do with his ring, Olivia?”

  Surprise rippled through her. “I…it’s in my bag. I…I have to give it back to him.”

  He nodded slowly. “Pack light, there’s not much space in the Lamborghini. We can always pick up extra stuff if we need it.”

  She folded a pair of jeans. “What about you?”

  “My guys will have some things in the car by the time we leave.”

  She zipped up her bag, stood up straight. “How many guys have you got out there, Jack?”

  “Two outside. A few more in Manhattan. I’m mobilizing as many men as we can.” He paused. “It would be good to have you on our team, Olivia. We could use your legal expertise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stepped into her bedroom, and it shrank around him. She thought of sex again, becoming conscious of the heat in her belly, the tenderness between her legs where he’d thrust into her. She could see in his eyes that he was thinking about it, too.

  “You could help us push for an international commission to regulate the industry.” He came close, touched her face. “You could work with us, Olivia. On São Diogo.”

  She blinked. She hadn’t seen this coming. “I…I have a job, Jack.”

  He nodded, turned on his heels suddenly and left the room, sucking the energy after him like a vacuum. Confusion churned through her. “Jack!”

  He stopped just outside the door.

  “This…this army of yours, it’s your way of hitting back at the world, isn’t it? It’s your way of striking back at my dad.” She hadn’t planned to say that. She didn’t know what she’d intended to say. She just had a desperate need to engage him. She wanted to know him, understand the man he had become, and where she really stood in his life.

  He turned slowly to face her. “No, Olivia. It’s my way of doing what I believe in.” He paused. “It’s what we used to believe in, remember? Providing tools, resources, for the smaller guy to fight injustice.” He stepped back into her room. “Same game, different name, Olivia. You do still believe, don’t you?”

  She sank on to the bed and buried her face in her hands, tired, drained, emotionally confused.

  He came up to her, touched her hair. “You know in your heart your father is guilty, Olivia, even if your brain won’t let you believe it.” He picked up her bag. “And you know in your heart that I am telling you the truth. I can see it in your eyes. Come,” he said softly, “before it gets too late.”

  Olivia got up, sucked in a deep breath and took one last
look around her apartment. She had a foreboding—a sense that she wasn’t going to see it again. Or maybe she just wasn’t going to be able to look at anything about her old life in the same way again. She’d crossed some kind of threshold, and there was no going back.

  Was this the beginning of the end for them all?

  15:02 Romeo. Central Broadcasting News Network.

  Washington. Wednesday, October 8.

  “Something’s off. Look—” The CBNN producer pointed to another clip. “Ruger is standing right beside Elliot in every shot. And there—freeze that frame, magnify it. See Ruger’s face? He’s looking really worried about something, and he’s not leaving the president’s side.”

  The producer popped another piece of nicotine gum into his mouth, chewed as he studied the frozen image of Dr. Sebastian Ruger. “If that man is worried,” he said, “the nation should be worried.”

  He turned to his White House correspondent. “What do you think is going on?”

  “Well, Elliot is lacking his usual energy. He seems…absent, unfocused—definitely out of character, he’s sick.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Do we say that?”

  The producer pursed his lips. “No. We need more. For all we know he just has the flu. Speak to your White House contacts. But put some pressure on, tell them we know something’s going on with the commander in chief’s health, see what plays out.”

  “Why don’t we just run with our speculation, hint at the fact he seems tired.”

  “Why?”

  “Public deserves to know.”

  The producer shook his head. “No, our viewers deserve the truth, not rumor. Get on it, get me something I can use. We’re on air again in—” he checked his watch “—less than four hours.”

  He cracked open a soda as the reporter headed back to his desk, then turned his attention back to the clip. He’d been covering presidents and elections for the past thirty years and he’d developed a gut sense for these things.

  Something big was going down.

  15:15 Romeo. New York.

  Wednesday. October 8.

  Jack drove fast into the early evening, clouds skudding high above them in an otherwise clear sky, the fall breeze refreshing, the top of the convertible still down. Olivia had tied a scarf around her hair and wore tinted shades to protect her eyes. Jack’s men had put blankets and a basket of food and wine in the back. They’d even provided a collection of CDs—Italian opera, which Jack had blaring from the Lamborghini speakers as he drove. “What kind of merc are you anyway?” she said.

  “Luxury model.”

  She smiled. “The Jack I used to know—this wasn’t his style.”

  He glanced sideways at her, the hint of a smile tugging crookedly at his lips. “Ah, but my dear, this is the music and the life Henri would choose.” He said it in a strong French accent. “And we are absolutely obligated to stay in character.”

  She studied his stark and handsome profile, his scar a reminder of his violent and ruthless streak. “You know, I have a sneaking suspicion that you enjoy playing the character of Henri Devilliers.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, and the sound made her feel light.

  It was twilight by the time they neared the shore. The traffic had thinned and she could smell salt on the wind. Jack floored the gas pedal as they hit the coast road, and the wind tore her scarf loose from her hair. She caught it, lifted her chin, closed her eyes and let the briny breeze rush through her hair. Far from the city, she began to feel relaxed—free.

  Jack turned up the music, and she let it wash over her. The smooth purr of the engine grew louder and louder as he increased speed, experimenting with the responsive handling of the sports car.

  He turned a corner so fast it should have killed them, but the vehicle held. Olivia caught her breath, and a thrill rippled through her. She felt as if she were an outlaw, on the lam with Jack, her long-lost lover returned from the shadows. And whoever was trying to follow them now would be choking on their dust.

  Jack stole a glance at Olivia. She was smiling to herself, her eyes closed, her hair swirling and bouncing about her face in the eddies of wind. She looked blissfully happy. Something soared wildly in his chest, and a new energy bit fiercely at him.

  Not only did he want Killinger, now he wanted his daughter, as well. Completely. Forever.

  She began to laugh beside him.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes and even behind the tinted shades they glittered with light. “Nothing,” she said with a smirk on her lips.

  He nodded. “Ah, you’re laughing at Henri, aren’t you?”

  “No,” she said lifting her glasses and wiping her eyes. “I’m laughing at the whole damn world.”

  He frowned.

  “Don’t you see, Jack?” She leaned forward. “It’s funny! Picture us—racing along in this crazily expensive car, my father’s guys madly racing to catch up with us, your guys chasing after them, and where are we all going, really? To the beach? For a picnic? A trip back in time?” She sat back again, and closed her eyes. “It’s funny.”

  “You know what’s really funny?” he said.

  She opened one eye. “What?”

  “That you’ve lost your marbles.”

  “Oh, and there I thought you were going to say ‘my virginity.’”

  He chuckled darkly, hit the gas. “That, Olivia, I took a long time ago.”

  She placed her hand on his thigh. “Hmm” she murmured, as she splayed her fingers, inched them closer to his groin. He responded instantly, went rock hard under her touch, and he saw her smile to herself as she felt it.

  “Be careful,” he warned as he lobbed the Lamborghini into a tightening curve without fear, the tires holding their grip superbly. “You might get more than you bargained for.”

  “That a promise?”

  He grinned, then turned onto a sandy road and wondered just how badly burned he was going to get before the job was done. He’d stepped over the line. But to hell with it. He loved her. Always had. And he was going to take what he could get, because he was pretty damn sure she wasn’t going to want to see him again, once this was over. Ever.

  And for the first time, fear whispered through Jack. Because now he had something to lose. And everything to gain.

  The stakes had changed.

  He felt her watching him again. “You know,” she said seriously, “I think I prefer Henri to Jack. And he’s certainly a lot more charming than Jacques.”

  A smile brushed his lips. But he said nothing. He knew what her father had to be thinking about “Henri” right about now.

  “At least Henri allows you to smile,” she said. “It looks good on you, you know.”

  “Not grim?”

  “No, sexy. Crooked…but sexy. You should try it more often.”

  He focused on the road ahead, glad for his shades, for the way they were hiding his eyes and the way he was beginning to feel.

  16:40 Romeo. Hamptons.

  Wednesday, October 8.

  The beach was empty at this time of year, especially in this weather. Cold wind stirred by another storm brewing off the coast, whipped froth off the waves and drove the tide high up the shore.

  They walked in silence, thinking about everything that had happened here so many years ago, feeling the weight of lost time, of no time to lose, feeling the bite of salt and cold on their skin, the wet sand between their toes.

  Olivia shivered and drew her down jacket close. Jack slipped his hand into hers. It seemed the natural thing to do. But neither wanted to speak, to give voice to their thoughts and break the spell, the strange sense that they were walking into the past, to a night sixteen years ago, to something neither of them had been able to properly confront. Something both still had to deal with. Together.

  Jack led her away from the water and up through the dunes. He helped her up the bleached wooden stairs and onto the wide deck that fringed the entire
house, the siding washed almost gray-white from salt wind and baking summer sun. It was getting dark. He brought out a blanket and the basket of food and wine. They sat in Adirondack chairs besides a portable outdoor heater. He placed the blanket around her shoulders, lit the gas and poured her a glass of deep-red wine.

  Olivia sipped her wine as the sun set and night crept over them. She stared out over the dune grasses at the dark void of ocean. The moon was visible between gaps in the rolling black cloud, and when it peeped through, ribbons of light stabbed through the glistening dark bellies of waves as they rose and curled over themselves before crumpling into foam and rolling to shore. The wine diffused warmth through her chest, and she felt more at ease, more safe with this man beside her than she’d felt in a decade and a half.

  Being with him felt natural—as ordinary and as vital to her well-being as the simple act of breathing. How strange it was to slip so easily back into a relationship when so many unexplained years lay in between. She looked at him.

  “Tell me about the Legion, Jack. What was it like?”

  He took a sip of his wine, pursed his lips slightly. “It was a man’s world. Deserts. Jungles. Guns.”

  She grinned. “Spoken like a true man. Where did you go on your tours?”

  “Sahara, Congo, Cambodia, China, Malaysia…some places I can’t mention.”

  “Or don’t want to?”

  “It’s in the past.”

  “It must be tough to give up allegiance to your country, your family, every link to the past to join an army of foreigners like that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why would a man do that?”

  “You know why I did it. Each man had his reason.”

  “I’ve heard that the bond between these men is so strong that they’ll keep going with wounds in them the size of a fist to save a comrade, that they will stand in front of a firing squad without blindfolds—”

  “You die for each other, not the country.”

  “That’s the philosophy that you took to the FDS, isn’t it?”