Chapter 8 #4
He didn’t know why that word just . . . just landed in the terrible soft parts that had been aching all day. But . . . sheesh. She knew his favorite dessert.
And if that didn’t undress him in front of the team, he didn’t know what did.
Silence.
He swallowed back a horrible sense of . . . embarrassment, maybe.
Someone cleared their throat.
“I thought—” The words suddenly stuck in his throat. He looked away, hung a hand behind his neck.
“You thought what?” she said quietly, but her eyes had lit with a sort of fire.
Yeah, well, him too. He met her gaze, his own hard. “I thought they’d taken you.”
Silence pulsed between them. Behind him, he could hear Ham directing North and West to give them space.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe said, softer than he deserved. “I didn’t think—”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “Just . . . don’t.”
He needed air. Space. Somewhere to get his head together before he said something that couldn’t be taken back. He pushed past her, out into the night. Closed the front door with more force than necessary. Okay, it was a slam.
The humidity of the Bangkok night hit him like a slap, slicking up an instant sweat. His heart thundered. Walking out to the driveway, he leaned against the car, letting his pulse slow back to something approaching normal. Stared up at the dark sky.
Myanmar. For ten whole seconds, he was right back in that jungle compound, watching everything fall apart because . . . because he’d been more concerned about the voice on the radio than the massacre happening inside the building.
He’d frozen, and people—children—had died.
The front door opened. “Skeet?”
He turned to find Chloe silhouetted in the doorway. She closed the door. Stood under the lit portico. “I’m sorry I left without a note.”
He stared at her, his heart pounding. Then, “I’m sorry.” The words came out rough. “I overreacted.”
“You think?” But her tone was gentle. Understanding, even. She moved closer, stopping just within arm’s reach. “Want to tell me what that was really about?”
Everything. Myanmar. Narin. The way his chest had felt like it was caving in when he’d realized she was gone. The fact that somewhere between their first argument and their spa conversation, she’d become more important to him than mission success.
The fact that he was falling in love with her and had no idea what to do about it.
“I’m a war correspondent, Skeet. I’ve been taking care of myself in dangerous places for years.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He stared at her, swallowed, the question a rock falling through him. Because no, he didn’t trust her to take care of herself. Not because she wasn’t capable, but because all he could think was I don’t want to lose you.
She nodded and then, crazily, her eyes watered and she wiped her cheek. “Shoot.”
He glanced at her. Not the response—
“I can’t seem to . . .” She sighed. “I said I didn’t see a way out of this . . . not without us both getting hurt. And I still don’t—”
“Then let’s not get hurt.”
She stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that instead of it meaning that we ignore this . . . this thing between us, maybe we face it. We don’t run from it. Maybe we lean in and figure out how to trust each other.”
“Be real partners?”
“Not a chance. I can’t be your partner, Chloe.” He took her hand.
“Why not—I mean—”
“Because I don’t kiss my partners.” And then he pulled her to himself.
And kissed her.
It was a combustion of twenty-four hours of holding back everything he’d wanted to say—words that wouldn’t come but poured out in his touch. He put his hand behind her neck and dove in, hungry.
And maybe he’d surprised her, but she was suddenly all in. Arms around his neck, parting her lips, kissing him back. The woman who ran into danger first, and yes, dragged him happily right along with her.
If this was running, it was in the right direction.
She kissed him back with everything that was Chloe—stubbornness, bravery, curiosity, determination . . .
It only lit the same inside him. He made a sound, deep in his chest, and for a moment she leaned back, met his eyes.
“What?”
“You sound like a panther.” Then her fingers twisted in his shirt, and she kissed him again, the sweetness of mango on her tongue. The scent of her hair surrounded him as one hand tangled in the soft strands, the other sliding to the small of her back.
Gentler this time, he kissed her with an intimacy that suggested this wasn’t the end. That there would be more. That they didn’t have to soak in every last touch. His mouth soft on hers, lingering.
He hated when they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard.
Her forehead rested against his.
“That was . . .” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
The Bangkok night pressed around them—humid air, distant traffic, the sweet smell of night-blooming flowers from the neighbors’ garden—but all of it faded next to the woman in his arms.
She sighed.
“What was that?”
“I don’t . . . Wow, I love kissing you. And I don’t want this to end, but . . .”
“But?” He stilled.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
He grinned. “Sweetheart. The only easy day was yesterday.”
She frowned, then, “Oh no. You’re using SEAL speak on me.”
“Oorah,” he said softly.
They stood there in the gathering darkness, the weight of everything they weren’t saying pressing down like the humid air.
“Should we go inside?” She looked up at him. “They’re probably watching.”
“No, they’re not,” he said, his gaze roaming her face. “The guys know when to give a man space.”
“The food’s getting cold.”
“Probably.” He smiled.
Neither of them moved.
“Your team probably thinks you’re losing it.”
“They’re not wrong.”
Something shifted in her expression. Softened.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“You were worried.”
“Terrified.”
She gave him a soft smile. “Skeet?”
“Yeah?”
“Um, when I was at the market, this old woman selling mangoes asked if I was buying fruit for my husband. And for a second . . . I almost said yes.”
If she wanted to do him in, those were the words.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She met his eyes.
“I’m going to have to kiss you again.”
She took his hand, threading their fingers together. “Come on. Before Ham sends out a search party and finds us making out like teenagers.”
“Too late for that.”
But he followed her toward the house anyway.
Toward whatever came next.
Together.
BUDAPEST, HUNGARY, 2015
Snow fell in thick, silent flakes outside the warmly lit window. Each one caught the amber glow from inside before disappearing into darkness. Alan stood in the shadow of a bare oak tree, breath frosting in the December air, watching a scene that carved him hollow every year.
Fifth Christmas Eve.
Fifth year alone.
Inside the cozy apartment, Timea’s family had gathered around their small living room, just as they had when she was alive.
Her mother, Margit, sat in the same threadbare armchair, reading aloud from a worn copy of A Christmas Carol.
The same tradition Timea’s father had started decades ago, before the cancer took him.
Alan imagined her voice—Hungarian-accented English wrapping around Dickens’s words.
Timea’s sister, Kata, curled on one end of the sofa, dark hair spilling over her shoulder, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. She had Timea’s eyes—those warm blue depths that used to light up when she laughed.
Her brother, Zoltan, sat beside his wife. Their two-year-old daughter, Eszter, slept against his chest, tiny fingers clutching a stuffed rabbit.
Two years old.
Alan’s chest clenched. His child would have been five by now. Would have been sitting in that living room, maybe on Timea’s lap, listening to Nagymama read about Tiny Tim and second chances while snow painted the world white.
The child would have had Timea’s laugh. Her stubborn chin.
Maybe his blue eyes.
The empty space on the sofa where Timea should be sitting turned him brittle. Every year, Alan expected someone to fill it—a new boyfriend for Kata, maybe, or one of Zoltan’s friends. But they always left it empty. Saving room for her.
Not that they didn’t know she was gone, but . . . but perhaps, like him, they simply couldn’t accept a world without her in it.
Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him.
Alan’s muscles tensed, hand instinctively moving toward the Glock under his coat.
“Beautiful family.”
The voice was cultured, American with an eastern accent, the kind of accent that came from expensive schools and old money.
Alan turned slowly. The man standing ten feet away looked to be in his sixties—silver hair perfectly styled despite the falling snow, wearing an expensive wool overcoat.
But it was his eyes that caught Alan’s attention.
Pale blue. Ancient. Carrying the kind of pain that only came from losing everything that mattered.
Former CIA Director Tom Crowley. “You come here every year.”
A statement, not a question. “You’ve been watching me watch them.”
“For about an hour now.” The man took a step closer, movements careful and nonthreatening. “Every Christmas Eve for five years. Same tree, same time. You’re either remarkably sentimental or remarkably stupid.”
“Probably both.”
A ghost of a smile touched Crowley’s lips. “Oh, James, you were never stupid. Although you’re calling yourself Alan these days.” He didn’t offer a handshake.
“If you knew I was alive, why didn’t you come after me?”
Crowley’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think I was behind the attempt to kill you?”
“You’re with the company.” He lifted a shoulder.
Crowley sighed. “I’m not here to arrest you. Or kill you. Though I suspect there are several agencies that would be interested to know Alan Martin is spending Christmas in Budapest using a forged German passport.”
Alan kept his expression neutral.
“Wilhelm Mueller from Munich.” Crowley’s voice was quiet, conversational. “Nicely done paperwork, by the way. Damien does excellent work.”
Alan hid the jolt. Crowley and . . . Damien? Former CIA and Russian spy?