“They’d rather take me alive,” he replied dryly. “It’s my job to make certain that never happens.”
“Why you?”
One corner of his mouth quirked upward in what passed for a smile, though it was totally humorless. “Because I’m the best at what I do.”
It wasn’t much of an answer, but then he was good at answering questions without giving any information. The details that he’d told her had been carefully considered, chosen to exact the response from her that he wanted. It wasn’t necessary; Rachel knew that she would do whatever she could to help him.
She drained the last of her coffee and stood up. “I have chores to do before it gets too hot; the dishes can wait until later. Do you want to come outside with me, or stay in here and rest?”
“I need to move around,” he said, getting up and following her outside. He slowly limped around the yard, taking in every detail, while Rachel fed Joe and the geese, then set to work gathering the ripe vegetables from the garden. When he tired, Kell sat down on the back steps and watched her work, his eyes narrowed against the sun.
Rachel Jones had a comfortable way about her that made him feel relaxed. Her life was peaceful, her small house cozy, and that hot Southern sun burned down on his skin…. Everything here was seductive, in one way or another. The meals she cooked and shared with him brought up stray thoughts of what it would be like to have breakfast with her every day, and those thoughts were more dangerous to him than any weapon.
He’d tried to have a normal private life once, but it hadn’t worked out. Marriage hadn’t brought the intimacy he’d expected; the sex had been good, and regular, but after the act was finished he’d still been solitary, set apart by nature and circumstance from the rest of the world. He’d been fond of his wife, as far as it went, but that was it. She hadn’t been able to scale the barriers to reach the inside man; maybe she’d never even realized he existed. Certainly she either hadn’t realized or hadn’t wanted to face the true nature of his job. Marilyn Sabin had looked on her husband as merely one of the thousands of men who held civil service desk jobs in Washington, D.C. He went to work in the mornings and he returned—usually—at night. She was busy with her own growing law practice and often had to work late hours, so she understood. She was a fastidious woman, so Kell’s cool, distant character had suited her perfectly, and she’d never made any effort to see beyond the surface to the complicated man beneath.
Kell turned his face up to the sun, feeling everything in him loosen up and slow down. Marilyn…it had been years since he’d even thought of her, an illustration of how shallowly she had touched him. The divorce hadn’t elicited any response from him other than a shrug; hell, she would have been crazy to have stayed with him after what happened.
The attempt on his life had been clumsy, not well planned or well executed at all. He and Marilyn had been out to dinner, one of the few times in their married life that they had been out together socially, and never to one of the ritzy “in” places that Marilyn loved so dearly. Kell had seen the sniper as soon as they left the restaurant and acted immediately, shoving Marilyn down and rolling for cover himself. His action had saved Marilyn’s life, because she had kept walking and ended up between Kell and the sniper, who had fired almost simultaneously with Kell’s shove, wounding Marilyn in the right arm.
That night had forever changed the way Marilyn viewed her husband, and she hadn’t liked the new view at all. She’d seen the cool way he had tracked and cornered his assailant, seen the short, vicious fight that left the other man unconscious on the ground, heard the biting authority in Kell’s voice as he gave orders to the men who arrived shortly and took over. One of those men took her to a hospital, where she was treated and kept overnight, while Kell spent the night piecing together how the sniper had learned where he would be that evening. The answer, obviously, had been Marilyn. She saw no reason to be secretive about her movements or the fact that she would be dining with her husband that night, or where; she’d truly had no idea how dangerous and highly classified her husband’s job was, nor had she been interested in learning.
By the time Kell collected her at the hospital the next day their marriage was over in every way except legally. The first words Marilyn had said to him, very calmly, were that she wanted a divorce. She didn’t know what it was he did, didn’t want to know, but she wasn’t going to risk her own life being married to him while he did it. It might have piqued her vanity a bit when Kell agreed so easily, but he’d been doing some thinking during the night, too, and had reached basically the same conclusion, though for different reasons.
Kell didn’t blame her for getting a divorce; it had been the wise thing to do. The close call had shaken him, because it had illustrated how easily he could be reached through the very person who was supposed to be closest to him. It had been a mistake for him even to attempt to have a normal private life, considering who he was and what he did. Other men could manage it, but other men weren’t Kell Sabin, whose particular talents put him on the leading edge of danger. If there was any one man in intelligence whom other agencies wanted to take out of commission, it was Kell Sabin. Because he was a target, anyone close to him was automatically a target, too.
It had taught him a lesson. He had never again let anyone get close enough to him that they could be used against him, or hurt in an effort to get to him. He had chosen his life, because he was both a realist and a patriot, and he was willing to pay whatever price he had to, but he was determined to never again involve an innocent, a civilian, one of the very people whose lives and freedom he was sworn to protect.
He’d never been tempted to marry again, or even to take a mistress. Sex was casual, never on a regular basis with the same woman, and he always carefully limited the number of times he saw anyone in particular. It had worked out well.
Until Rachel. She tempted him. Damn, how she tempted him! She was nothing like Marilyn; she was comfortable and casual, where Marilyn had been fastidious and chic. She knew—somehow, she knew—too much about his way of life in general, while Marilyn hadn’t realized even a fraction that much about him in the years they were married.
But it simply wouldn’t work. He couldn’t allow it to work. He watched Rachel as she worked in her small garden, content with her chores. Sex with her would be hot and long, writhing on that bed with her, and she wouldn’t worry if he mussed her hair or smeared her makeup. To protect her, he had to make certain that sex was all it ever was. When he walked out of her life it would be for good, and for her own good. He owed her too much to risk any harm coming to her.
She straightened from her bent position and stretched, reaching her arms high in the air; the movement thrust her breasts upward against the thin fabric of her shirt. Then she picked up her basket and picked her way across the rows of vegetables tow
ard him; Joe left his position at the end of the row and followed her to find shade under the back steps. There was a smile on Rachel’s face as she approached Kell, her gray eyes warm and clear, her slim body moving gracefully. He watched her approach, aware of her in every cell of his body. No, there was no way he’d endanger her by staying any longer than was necessary; the real danger was that he was so hungry for her that he might be tempted to see her again, something he couldn’t let happen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT FEW days were slow, hot and peaceful. Now that Kell was on the mend and didn’t require her constant attention Rachel resumed her normal work schedule; she finished planning her course and began working on her manuscript again, as well as tending the garden and doing all the other small chores that never seemed to end. She got the requested hollowpoint bullets for Kell, and the .357 was never far from his hand. If they were inside he sometimes placed it on the table in the bedroom, but usually he kept it stuck into his waistband at the small of his back, instantly accessible.
Honey came to take the stitches out of his wounds and professed to be amazed at how well he had healed. “Your metabolic rate must be something else,” she said admiringly. “Of course, I did a terrific job on you. The muscle in your leg was a mess, but I did some repair work, and I think you’re going to come out of this without even a limp.”
“You did a helluva job, doc,” he drawled, smiling at her.
“I know,” Honey returned cheerfully. “You were just plain lucky on your shoulder. You may lose some of your rotation ability, but not much, I don’t think. Take it easy on both the leg and shoulder for another week or so, but you can start working the stiffness out if you’re careful.”
He had already been working the stiffness out; Rachel had seen him exercising his shoulder and arm carefully, as though testing the limits of the stitches. He hadn’t put any weight on either his leg or shoulder, but he had been doing exercises to ease his movements, and as a result his limp was much better, no worse than if he’d had a sprained ankle.
Honey hadn’t even blinked when he removed the pistol from his waistband and placed it on the table while he took off his khaki pants and blue cotton shirt. Wearing only his briefs, he’d sat at the table and observed expressionlessly while she removed the stitches and Rachel leaned over to watch. Then he put his clothes back on and returned the heavy pistol to its accustomed place at the small of his back.
“Stay for lunch,” Rachel invited. “Tuna salad and fresh tomatoes, light and cool.”
Honey made it a practice never to refuse one of Rachel’s invitations. “Done. I’ve been craving a fresh tomato.”
“Southerners serve tomatoes with almost everything,” Kell observed.
“That’s because almost everything tastes better with a tomato,” Honey defended. She was from Georgia, and passionately fond of tomatoes.