Safe Passage Page 5

  From what?

  He matched her pace.

  She veered sharply off onto a dirt track.

  He rammed on the brakes, skidding sideways onto the shoulder.

  He could see a plume of dust as she followed a rough switchback down to the sea.

  “Hold on to your teeth, Honey!” Scott gunned the gas, kicked up dirt, fishtailed back onto tar and swerved onto the rutted track.

  It was pocked with small craters, rock. He squinted into the dust. He’d have to slow down if he was going to make it down alive. Damn, he’d lost sight of her.

  By the time he reached the isolated cove at the base of the dirt track, the bike was propped on its stand alongside a gnarled arbutus tree.

  Scott opened his truck door and stepped out into a cloud of settling dust. Honey followed, staying close at his feet. She seemed to sense this was no time for play. “Where is she, girl?” he whispered to the dog at his side. Then he saw her in the dim evening light, across the white sand of the cove near a rock at the water’s edge.

  She was frantically tugging at her clothes, shedding layers as though she was yanking and discarding parts of her life. She tore at the garland in her hair, tossed it to the sea. Wild wind-knotted curls fell loose below her shoulders.

  Scott swallowed.

  Her back was to him. She had nothing on now, save for a scrap of lace cut high away from the graceful curve of her buttocks. And she wore a white bra, the strap thin across the olive skin of her back.

  “Sweet Mother Mary,” he whispered to no one in particular. Then he saw the lacy wedding garter around the top of her lean thigh.

  What happened, Doctor? What happened to your wedding?

  He watched, immobile, as she rubbed her hands through her hair, shook it free. Then she stepped into the water. Even from this distance, he could see the shiver that ran through her body. Then she took another step.

  And another.

  And she didn’t stop until she was waist deep. Scott watched as she dived, sleek, into the steel-gray water. He held his breath as the calm ocean swallowed her, leaving nothing but ripples where she’d last stood.

  Then he saw her head come up yards away. She struck out with a strong, smooth crawl. And she was going.

  Going.

  Straight out to sea…

  Scott came to his senses in that instant.

  The woman was suicidal.

  She had no intention of coming back.

  He started to run down to the water, buckled in pain. He turned back, hobbled to the truck, grabbed his cane. He might not be able to run with his crippled leg, but by God, he could swim. He knew once he hit the water he’d get to her in no time.

  But when he looked again, he saw her dark head over the gentle swells. And he saw that she had turned and was swimming back to shore.

  The relief was overwhelming. He stopped, held back, retreated to his earlier vantage point under cover of the orange-skinned arbutus, heart beating wildly.

  He gave her the space she seemed to need. But still he watched. He could leave. But he told himself it was for her own safety.

  He told himself this was his assignment.

  These were his orders.

  To watch the doctor.

  But never, not once in the course of his undercover work, had he ever felt so much like a voyeur. He was looking into some very naked, private and anguished moment in this exquisitely beautiful woman’s life. He felt both privileged and dirty. As foul and titillated as a damn Peeping Tom.

  He wiped the back of his hand hard across his mouth, realized his heart was still hammering in his chest. He sucked down a deep breath of salted sea air, strained for calm. She was emerging from the water, a spectral vision in the dusk. He could see now how her bra was cut low against the firm swell of her breasts. Water shimmered down her flat belly. The garter was gone. Left to the sea. Her hair was slick as a seal’s. She ran her hands up over her face and over her head. Her chin was held high and she was breathing the night air in deep. He could see her chest rise and fall from the exertion of her swim, her ride…whatever had made her flee.

  She sat on the rock, upon the remains of her wedding gown, facing the ocean, her back to him.

  She sat like that for a long time, until it got dark. There was pale light from a fat gibbous moon. It shimmered like silver sovereigns scattered in a path over the bay. Scott could see Skye’s silhouette against the water. Honey made a plaintive little noise at his side. It was getting cold. Still the doctor sat, damp, on her rock, wearing nothing but her underwear.

  Scott crouched next to Honey, spoke softly in her ear. “Wait for me in the truck, pooch. I think the lady out there needs some help.” Either that or she was going to get pneumonia.

  Scott let Honey back into the truck, grabbed his old brown leather jacket, made his way slowly over the sand of the cove. She didn’t seem to hear him approach. She was shivering, holding her hands tight over her knees.

  “Skye,” he whispered behind her. A jolt cracked through her body at the sound of her name. But she didn’t move otherwise.

  “It’s okay, Skye.” He carefully positioned his jacket over her shoulders, lifting her wet hair away from her back. A small noise escaped from somewhere deep in her throat at his touch. It was so primal, so basic a sound of need, it sliced clean through to his core.

  “Skye, I’m going to take you home. You need to get dry. Warm.”

  She turned then to face him.

  He sucked in his breath.

  Her face was pale as porcelain in the moonlight. Her eyes dark and big. Mascara traced sooty trails of tears and saltwaterdown her cheeks.

  She looked like a broken doll.

  “Oh, Skye…” He didn’t plan it, just did it. Gathered her into his arms. It was the right thing to do. The only thing. And he held her like that, under the moon, wondering what in hell he’d gotten himself into.

  “Skye, I’d carry you if I could, but I can’t, with this bloody leg. Lean on me and I’ll lean on my crutch and we’ll both get there. Together.”

  She did as he asked. In silence.

  Honey’s face was eager in the truck as she saw them approach. Scott helped Skye into the passenger seat. She climbed in, grasped on to Honey as if for warmth, for tactile comfort.

  “Is that your bike?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay. So we’ll leave it here. Is there someone I can call to come and fetch it?”

  She nodded.

  “Fine. I’ll call whoever it is when we get home.”

  Scott pulled into Skye’s driveway, heater still cranked.

  “No!”

  It was the first time she’d spoken since the beach.

  “Not here. Not my house…please.”

  He looked at her. She was still shivering under his leather jacket, arms still wrapped around Honey. “Where?”

  “Anywhere but here.” She looked away, out the dark window. “The wedding stuff. The caterer’s stuff…it’s all in there. In my house.”

  “I see. Is there anywhere else, anyone you want to stay with?”

  She shook her head.

  Scott backed slowly out of Skye’s driveway, turned down his. He couldn’t think of another plan. The woman was in shock. And if she didn’t get some clothes on, her core temperature up soon, she’d be dealing with hypothermia, as well. If she wasn’t already.

  Scott ran a hot bath, then fished around in his closet for something for her to wear. It all looked foreign to him. Rex had provided him with a “writer’s” wardrobe. Scott found a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt and a fleece sweatshirt. She would swim in them, but they’d keep her warm.

  While she bathed, he built a fire. He heated soup and poured a large brandy. This he pushed into her hands when she walked into his living room.

  “Here. Want some soup?”

  She looked deep into his eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. “Scott, thank you. I—I don’t know what to say…”

  “It’s oka
y. Come, sit here by the fire.” He pulled the sofa up close to the warmth of the flames. She sat. Her hair hung in damp, dark waves, her silver eyes were wide, startling against her impossibly thick dark lashes and pale skin.

  She took a deep sip of the brandy, swallowed, coughed, eyes watering. Honey settled at her feet, curled into a ball. Scott watched the blush of color creep back under those high cheekbones, into that lush mouth.

  He tore his focus from her lips, seated himself in the chair on the opposite end of the hearth. “What happened? Why’d you run?”

  She didn’t look at him, just stared into the flickering flames, shaking her head.

  “Skye?” he said softly.

  Her eyes looked slowly up into his. He swallowed sharply. What he saw there was vulnerable, raw. She’d dropped the veil. She was all naked emotion as she looked at him. It threw him completely.

  “He…he didn’t show.” Her voice was thick. “Jozsef left me at the altar.” Moisture pooled along the bottom rims of her eyes, making them glimmer like quicksilver in the fire-light. It spilled over onto her cheeks into shimmering trails.

  Something snagged in his chest. He took a shallow breath, came quickly over to her side, put his arms tentatively around her. “It’s okay, Skye. Take it easy. You don’t have to talk now.” He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let it gently stroke her dark hair. His breath caught in a ball. It was soft. So soft under his palm.

  “I—I should’ve seen the signs…” A soft sob jerked through her body. Tears spilled softly over her face.

  “Shh.” He pulled her close, enveloped her in his arms. Her scent surrounded him, a clean freshness mingled with the sophisticated scent of brandy and the faint saline of seawater. He held her a little tighter, stealing her fragrance with a flare of his nostrils.

  She relaxed slightly, rested her dark head against his chest. It was a movement so innocent, so trusting. He couldn’t seem to breathe normally. He allowed his cheek to brush softly against her head, to feel the sensation of her hair on his face.

  And something swelled painfully inside him, brought a sharp prick of emotion to his eyes. He hadn’t held a woman like this in a long time. Not since his wife.

  His jaw tensed.

  Sure he’d held women in that time—but not like this. Not like it mattered.

  He’d fought hard against this very feeling, this aching sense of vulnerability. He’d gotten himself out of civilization. He’d left home, family, friends—anyone who reminded him. He’d blocked it all out by fighting. Fighting against bio crime, terrorists, the world, himself, his guilt…against finding himself in a moment like this.

  His heart beat a wildly increasing pace against his ribs.

  And now he was here.

  He felt afraid—of himself, of feeling. But the instinct was overpowering. He gave in to it furtively. He closed his eyes, allowed the sensation of her body, warm against his, to sink into him, through him. He nestled his nose softly against the top of her head, drank in the silkiness of her thick dark hair, of the little breaths that shuddered intermittently through her body as she fell asleep in his arms. He held her, listening to the pop and crack of flames in the hearth, to the sounds of the night outside.

  He didn’t want to think of anything, only of how it felt to hold a woman in his arms. A woman who needed him.

  Honey gave a little whimper. Scott’s eyes flickered open. The dog watched him with her liquid brown pools.

  God, he’d fallen asleep with her. The flames were faint glowing embers, the cool night air creeping in as their quavering watch against the cold dwindled.

  Shocked, Scott edged out from under Skye’s weight, careful not to wake her.

  She murmured.

  “Shh. Sleep,” he whispered.

  She stirred. “The…the bike, Peter Cunningham’s bike—”

  “Shh. Not to worry. I’ll call him. Get some rest. I’ll get you a blanket.”

  She nodded, snuggled deeper into the sofa.

  Scott covered her with a blanket, stoked the fire, flicked the living room lights off, leaving only the shimmying copper flames and dancing shadows on the walls. He stared down at her. She looked like something unreal. So exotic, so striking…yet fragile, vulnerable.

  How, wondered Scott, could anyone in their right mind ditch a woman like Skye Van Rijn? How could a man leave a woman like this at the altar?

  Then with a rude jolt, he remembered his mission. He dragged his hand hard through his hair, reached for his cane, went to look for the phone book.

  He called Peter Cunningham from the kitchen.

  “Thank God she’s all right.”

  “Yeah. Your bike’s fine, too.” Scott told him where he could pick it up.

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Scott McIntyre, her neighbor…a…a friend.”

  “You weren’t at the church?”

  “I was late. Caught her bolting, so I followed her.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “The cops are out looking for her.”

  “She’s okay, Peter. She’s sleeping, but I can wake her if you want…or you’re welcome to come ’round. Send the cops, whatever.”

  Peter hesitated. “I’ll get Charly to come ’round. I think she’d prefer that.”

  “Fine. Any idea what happened to her fiancé?”

  Peter cleared his throat. “After the church, when I got home, I checked my voice mail. There was a message from Jozsef. He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Skipped town. Vamoose. Decamped—”

  “I got it. Why’d he go?”

  “Lord if I know. I thought I knew this guy…thought he loved her. I thought—”

  “He say where he was going?”

  “No. I went to his place to see if I could catch him, but he’d already cleaned out. I mean totally.” He hesitated. “We’re all terribly sorry for Skye. I just can’t believe this. We were worried sick. Thank God she’s all right.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll let the cops know you found her…and thank you.”

  “Sure.” Scott hung up, then checked to make sure Skye was still sleeping. He closed the heavy kitchen door, activated the scrambler and called Rex.

  The Bellona boss picked up on the first ring. “Hey, I was just about to call you. Bloody good hunch on Danko, old chap.”

  “Meaning?” Scott spoke quietly.

  “He’s linked with several offshore companies who’ve made a killing from this U.S. beef embargo. And get this, they’re companies Bellona has suspected of having financial ties to the Anubis group.”

  Scott’s fingers tightened around his sat phone. “You’re kidding.” Heat pulsed through his veins. Images seared through his mind. The Anubis cell in the Thar that he’d been hunting. His blown-out knee when he’d gotten too close. “These links,” he said. “Anything proven?”

  “Not yet. Working on it. But it appears we’re not the only ones interested in Danko. The U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission is nosing around. These particular companies Danko is aligned with also happen to have a vested interest in seeing the North American produce market go down the tubes.”

  He whistled softly. “You think Danko and these companies are tied somehow to the Rift Valley Fever and this whitefly thing?”

  “Hell knows, but I’m joining the dots and it’s shaping up to be a pretty darned interesting picture, especially when you throw Dr. Van Rijn into the mix. If the whitefly get much further south, Danko and his bunch stand to make another killing from investment into the stock of U.S. competitors.”

  “Danko must have gotten wind of the S.E.C. probe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s split. Left town.”

  Silence. “What about the wedding?”

  “He left our doctor high and dry at the altar.”

  “And where is she?”

  Scott glanced at the kitchen door. Behind it the broken bride lay sleeping in front
of the fire. He cleared his throat. “She’s still here.”

  “You getting close?”

  Too close.

  “Close enough. She took it pretty bad, the whole wedding thing.”

  Scott could hear the hesitation on the other end of the line. It wasn’t like him to get personal. Rex knew that. “Yes. Well, good…and keep me informed.”

  “No worries. I’ve got my eye on her.” I’ve just got to keep my hands to myself.

  Scott flipped the phone shut, shoved his feelings brusquely into a dark corner of his brain, ran through the cold facts. This possible Danko-Anubis tie threw everything into stark new light.

  How was Skye connected?

  He shoved open the kitchen door, limped slowly into the living room. Soft amber light glowed from the dying embers in the hearth. But the room was still a cocoon of warmth. Honey was having little doggy dreams at the foot of the sofa, her paws quivering in imaginary chase. Skye was curled like a child on the couch, dark hair soft across her face, blanket falling to the floor.

  Scott lifted it to cover her properly. As he did, he caught the scent of his own soap. Then he caught something else.

  A tattoo.

  He stilled.

  His baggy gray track pants had slipped low on her slim hips, exposing a tiny image on the smooth olive-toned skin near her hipbone. He bent closer.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  It was the stylized head of a jackal on the body of a man. Black and angular. Egyptian style. Bared teeth. Long, pointed snout. Ears like horns.

  Anubis!

  Scott’s heart thudded hard and quiet against his chest. This was too much to be coincidence.

  Dr. Skye Van Rijn bore the ancient Egyptian symbol hijacked by La Sombra the mysterious mastermind behind the vast and growing shadowy Anubis organization. A group that had begun colluding with international organized crime.

  But instead of a staff, the Anubis on her hip was depicted with a long, slim sword.

  Scott gritted his teeth, yanked up the blanket, dropped it over her, spun around and grabbed the heavy iron fire poker.

  He dropped to his haunches and jabbed the poker at the glowing logs. He thrust more fuel onto the rising flames, yanked the fire curtain shut, then slumped into the armchair beside the hearth.