Читать книгу Heart Of The Tiger - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 4

Layne Hamilton felt the man’s presence even before she saw him. Up at the lecture podium, she leafed slowly through her text on Cantonese Chinese, casting a prudent glance in his direction. Her unruly black hair tumbled across her shoulders as she leaned over, pretending to hunt for something in her notes.

He was older than everyone else, although he didn’t appear to be over thirty. Perhaps it was his piercing blue gaze or his resemblance to a lean, hungry wolf that made him stand out from the other students. His tanned, square face was unreadable as he lounged with deceptive ease at the rear of the room. His broad brow topped wide-set eyes, a straight nose and a firm chin. Only his mouth suggested leniency, the corners turning upward instead of down. Layne’s fingers trembled perceptibly as she thumbed through her lecture. It fit. It all fit. He was one of them: a CIA agent.

Layne felt her heart tighten in her breast. Compressing her lips, she tried to put a lid on the cauldron of escaping memories. When she raised her head, she narrowed her eyes as she looked at him again. He was a Company man just as Brad had been. They never referred to themselves as agents, operatives or the CIA. No, within that elite group they called themselves the Company.

She stared at the intruder in her class. He didn’t fool her. Coiled power emanated from the dark-haired stranger, and Layne found her throat closing with tears, her vision suddenly blurring. Oh, damn! She couldn’t cry! Not here. This was her first class of the fall quarter. Anger suddenly swept through her, drying the impending tears. Damn him! Damn them all! She had told Chuck Lowell she never wanted to see or speak to anyone from the Company again. And now one of his men was watching her from the back of the room, a curious flame burning in the recesses of his steel-blue eyes. What did he want from her? She was simply a widow of a Company employee who had died in the line of duty—nothing more.

* * *

“Well?” Chuck Lowell demanded, leaning in his rich, burgundy leather chair. “What do you think, Matt? Is she up to this assignment?” He steepled his fingers, watching Talbot closely.

Matt placed his hands on his hips, a giveaway of his Air Force training. “No,” he replied, adding to himself, but she’s unforgettable. His mind returned to his observation of Layne Hamilton earlier that day. He had tipped his head back against the wall, listening to her low, cultured voice. Nice, he’d thought as he studied her. But there was nothing to suggest she could possibly handle the assignment. She was attractive, yes. But was she a survivor?

Her voice had been soothing, pacifying his raw nerves. Like warm, liquid honey. The black hair framing her tanned complexion accented her luminous eyes and full mouth. Matt had found himself staring at her, surprised at his strong response. He had to admit that Layne Hamilton was indeed a woman of substance: a dangerous mixture of femininity, vulnerability and elegance nicely rolled into one very appealing package.

He’d had to mentally switch gears in order to recall his real purpose for being there. According to the data he’d been given, Layne had been widowed nine months ago. He could still see the ravages of that period. She was thin, as seen in the too-hollow curve beneath her lovely high cheekbones. And her clothes were loose on her five-foot-eight-inch frame. The khaki-colored Kathryn Hepburn-style trousers bagged slightly at her slender hips.

Looks were often deceiving; he knew that from many years of experience. But if this was one of the top Chinese language experts in the country, Layne Hamilton could have fooled everyone. She had been associated with George Washington University since her marriage to Brad Carson, and in spite of two prestigious scholarly books to her credit, she didn’t look at all like a professor.

Matt could see her as a model for one of those women’s fashion magazines…or maybe as the gracious wife of a career diplomat. Her throat was deliciously curved, and his eyes had followed the thoroughbred lines of her graceful body. She might have been a ballerina. But not a full professor at a university.

His mouth thinned. He couldn’t see her as a combatant by any stretch of his imagination. And action was vital on this mission—including lightning reflexes that could mean life or death. He’d known when he received the shattering news at Nellis Air Force Base, where he was stationed, that it was going to be bad. And now it had turned from bad to worse. The vulnerable woman up at the lectern couldn’t fight her way out of a paper bag, much less handle a mission involving—enough! Matt refused to think about the crisis or about his brother. He’d just do as he’d been ordered: check out Layne Hamilton to see if she could do what was needed.

“Are you sure?” Chuck now demanded, breaking into his reverie.

Matt looked his superior squarely in the eye. “Positive. She’s a rabbit. And we’re going into a wolf situation.”

Lowell frowned, then returned his gaze. “Rabbit or not, she’s got contacts we don’t have. Look, go back and study her once more before you make your final decision. I’m afraid Layne Hamilton is the only person who can help us at this point.”

* * *

“Well, how was the first day?” Millie Hamilton sang out as Layne stepped from the foyer into her mother’s living room.

Layne tried to smile but it didn’t work. She dropped her books on the coffee table and set her briefcase down beside the sofa.

“It was horrible,” she admitted, sitting down dejectedly.

Millie stood poised at the kitchen door. At fifty-nine she looked ten years younger, her short crop of black hair barely sprinkled with gray. But now her brow creased with concern. “What happened?” she asked gently.

Layne nudged off her low-heeled sandals and propped her feet up on the table. She gave her mother a helpless look. “There was someone from the Company there, Mom.”

“Oh, honey, are you sure?”

A tidal wave of suppressed emotion surfaced in Layne at last, and her voice broke. “I’m positive. He was wearing a jacket. You don’t wear a jacket on a ninety-degree day unless you’re wearing a gun at the back of your belt. And his look…” She shivered, shutting her eyes tightly. Hot tears scalded her lids, and she took a deep breath to try to steady herself. “He just looks like one of them, Mom—restless, piercing eyes, lean strength—giving the impression that if he moved, he’d explode like a bomb.”

Millie came over to sit next to Layne and stroked her hair. “I believe you, honey. But why? After Brad died…”

Layne rose, unable to sit still an instant longer. She paced the length of a living room filled with Oriental memorabilia—memories of her family’s past, of her growing-up years as an Air Force brat, of a famous father stationed in the Orient. Layne stared at the photo on the mantel of her father with his arm around her mother and herself. Bob Hamilton: Air Force test pilot extraordinaire, made of the Right Stuff. He had tamed the most sophisticated supersonic jets in the world until one had finally claimed his life five years earlier. Both of the men in her life had been snuffed out by metal. The exotic skin of an aircraft buckling under testing stresses had claimed her father’s life; and Brad had been ripped away from her by an enemy bullet, unexpectedly freeing her from the prison of their marriage. She took a deep, ragged breath, fighting a threatening wave of tears and guilt.

Layne sensed more than saw her mother rise and move to her side to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps it was a mistake,” she soothed. “Perhaps this man just looked like an agent. It’s probably nothing, Layne. Why would they send someone from the Company to sit in on your class? You know Chuck Lowell would come over if they wanted something.”

Layne raised her face, her amber eyes misty. “That’s right. Their rule is ‘Never use the telephone, it might be bugged. Always try for face-to-face contact.’” Her head felt heavy. “God, Mom, I can still hear Brad saying that,” she whispered.

“I know, sweetheart, I know…”

Taking a steadying breath, Layne muttered, “I just hope you’re right, Mom. I’m still not over Brad or the CIA. Why doesn’t it fade with time?”

Millie squeezed her shoulder. “It will, honey. First, you have to let go of all that bottled-up anger you had toward Brad. No one could have known how cruel and insensitive he would turn out to be. You need to let go of the guilt, Layne. It’s eating you alive.”

“I hate the CIA,” she whispered rawly.

Millie gave her a small shake. “The way Brad turned out is not the CIA’s fault, Layne.”

Layne looked up in disbelief. “Since when are you siding with them? Brad was ruthless because of the CIA!”

“No.”

After all this time her mother was defending the Company? Layne stared at her. “I suppose you’re an authority on them?” She hated the surly tone of her voice but felt powerless to stop.

“Listen to me carefully, Layne,” Millie replied in a low voice. “I’ve kept out of your handling of Brad’s death. I felt that you would eventually understand that the CIA had nothing to do with Brad’s behavior toward you. They don’t mold men and women into coldhearted robots! They’re anxious to see that their employees’ families understand the rigors and pressures of their work. They don’t condone or even encourage Brad’s type of behavior.”

Defiance rose in Layne. “Oh, really? And how do you know?”

Millie released her arm. “Common sense tells me that. Brad was like a bad apple, Layne, rotten at the core. And no one knew it until it was too late. Place the blame where it rightfully belongs, work through your anger and hurt,” she counseled. “And then let it go, and get on with the business of living.”

* * *

Layne’s heart sank when she entered her classroom Wednesday morning. He was there again. And he was in the same seat, with the same imperturbable look on his face. She felt beads of sweat begin to form, and claustrophobia enveloped her. Her hands trembled visibly as she jerked open the attendance roster on the lectern. For the past two nights she had experienced reawakened memories of the nightmare of her marriage. Now anger broke through her haze of fear. She hated the man in the back—hated him for what he’d slit open in her just-healing heart. And she’d been surprised at her mother’s defense of the CIA. Everyone from the Company was cold. It was natural and expected for them to show nothing outwardly, not even love toward family members.

As she completed roll call her fears were realized: the man in the back wasn’t on the roster. Lifting her chin, she aimed a cool look at him.

“You’re not on the roster here, Mr.—”

Glacial blue eyes assessed her own, but she maintained her ground, refusing to be intimidated by a Company man. Layne wanted to force his hand. Slowly, the man’s mouth curved up in amusement. “I’m auditing the course, Professor Hamilton,” he drawled.

She felt heat rise within her. Like hell you are—she bit back the words. No one was allowed to audit introductory Chinese without registering; it was a university rule. The tension strung palpably between them. Layne gripped the edges of the lectern, her knuckles whitening. “Your name.” It was an order, not a question.

“Jim Ryder.”

Liar. She knew he wouldn’t tell his real name even under threat of death. She glared at him, on the verge of saying just that. But there was some indefinable warning in his features that told her to back off for now. It wasn’t anything specific. Just the tension around his eyes. She wrote the name down, giving him a dark look.

“Your audit papers, then, Mr. Ryder?”

“I’ll bring them next time I come to class.”

Layne controlled her desire to explode at him. They were simply playing a game, and they were both aware of it. She shut the roster book with finality. “Don’t bother coming back on Friday if you don’t have them with you, Mr. Ryder.”

Matt barely tipped his head in recognition of her order and let the amusement show in his eyes. So, she did have claws. Backed into a corner, she came out hissing and spitting. Maybe Layne Hamilton wasn’t going to be a rabbit after all.

Layne controlled her rage as she watched Jim Ryder soundlessly rise to his feet and leave five minutes before the end of class. Had he known she was going to openly confront him afterward? He must have. She watched him disappear like a ghost who had come out of her past to haunt her once again.

Back in her Georgetown apartment at the end of the day, Layne tried to keep busy. She had lesson plans that needed to be filled out, but she found herself unable to concentrate. As she sat at the oak desk in one corner of her living room, her head resting wearily on the palm of her hand, the doorbell rang. She roused herself, frowning. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was nearly ten o’clock. Who could it be? Her mother had been over earlier to share dinner. Getting to her feet, she smoothed out the folds of her soft peach skirt. She crossed to the door and opened it.

“May I come in?”

Layne stood frozen, a succession of emotions racing through her. Chuck Lowell, dressed in his usual impeccably tailored dark pinstripe suit with matching silk tie, offered her an apologetic smile. He looks just the same, she observed numbly. Layne would never forget the day Lowell had come to tell her about Brad’s death, Brad’s giving his life for their country…. She should have felt remorse. Perhaps grief. Instead, she’d dealt with an avalanche of guilt.

“Layne?”

She winced. “Come in,” she offered woodenly.

Lowell inclined his graying head toward someone standing slightly behind him. “I’ve brought someone with me, Layne.”

She gasped as the man who called himself Jim Ryder materialized at Lowell’s left shoulder. “You!”

“May we come in?” Chuck demanded tersely.

Layne’s throat tightened, and she glared at Lowell’s companion. “Do I have a choice?”

Chuck Lowell gave her an odd look but said nothing. They entered the apartment silently, Lowell walking easily, taking a chair in the tastefully arranged living room. Pale blue walls accented the delicate Oriental furniture. Lowell studied Layne gravely as she moved stiffly into the room after him.

“Sit down, Layne. We’ve got some very important items to discuss with you.”

She swung her gaze angrily to meet his. “There’s nothing you have to discuss with me, Chuck. I told you I never wanted to see anyone from the Company again.” She shifted her look to Ryder. “And you—”

“The name is Matt Talbot.”

She was momentarily taken aback by the warmth in his low, mellow voice. What breed of Company man was this? Suddenly exhaustion overcame her, and she swayed. He was there instantly, his hand on her arm. She jerked out of his grasp, her flesh tingling where his fingers had rested with a firm but gentle touch.

“I’m all right,” she said sharply.

His blue eyes appraised her coolly. “You’re pale. Sit down, and I’ll fix you something to drink.”

Layne stared up at him, at the hard, unyielding planes of his face. Yet his tone was caring, and she capitulated, no longer wanting to fight. Sitting down, she buried her face in her hands, fighting the tears welling up beneath her eyelids.

Lowell’s voice broke in. “I’m sorry, Layne. I know this comes as a shock. But we haven’t much time and we need your help.”

Her head snapped up. “My help?”

Talbot walked over, handing her a glass. She eyed the contents warily, then looked up at him.

“It’s your own Scotch, on the rocks. You looked like you could use a stiff one.”

“I was just wondering if it was poisoned,” she said coldly.

A slight grin pulled at Talbot’s sensual mouth. “We’re on your side.”

She frowned. “I’m not so sure about that,” she countered tersely, but she took a fortifying gulp of the drink, gripping the glass with both hands.

Talbot moved with easy grace to sit facing her on the opposite couch. Almost reluctantly, Layne shifted her attention back to Lowell. “Why are you here?”

“We’ve just had an international incident, Layne.”

She took another gulp. “So? I’m just an ordinary American citizen. Do you usually go around asking lowly civilians for help on the international intrigue front?” God, she sounded childish. But she couldn’t help it. The beaded coolness of the glass felt good against her fingertips, and Layne concentrated on that instead of on Chuck’s narrow face.

“Look, I know you’re still grieving for Brad. And we have no business coming to you, Layne. But the incident I refer to needs someone of your qualifications.”

She gave him a round-eyed look. “Specifically what in my background qualifies me for this cloak-and-dagger game?”

“You know Chinese. You were born in Japan and raised in the Far East while your father served at the Air Force bases over there.”

“So? I know you have intelligence people expert in Chinese. Let’s see, if I remember the ‘spouse training’ that the Company so generously supplied me with, you have both division offices and stations or bases for your clandestine affairs. Surely your penetration agents or specialists can get you out of whatever quandary you’re in without my help?”

Chuck held up both hands. “You’re also highly knowledgeable about the South China Sea area.”

“So are your operatives.”

Matt leaned back, assessing Layne’s role in the tense exchange. Her honey-brown eyes had darkened in anger. He mentally reviewed what he remembered of her personnel file and life history. In brief, she was a woman whose sensitivity was balanced by keen intelligence. Chuck Lowell would have to be a magician to get her to agree to his plan, Matt realized. In fact, right now he’d put money on the Hamilton woman to win. His eyes narrowed slightly. Why was she so angry with the Company? And with Lowell? He watched his boss struggle to maintain an air of neutrality beneath her scathing attack. No, she certainly wasn’t the rabbit he’d thought her to be. A slight smile tipped one corner of his mouth.

“Believe me, Layne,” Chuck was saying with fervor, “if we had any choice at all in this matter, we’d go with an operative. It’s not our policy to recruit people off the street to help us get out of a jam.”

Layne shot him a dubious look. “Then what was this man doing in my class? That was an ugly calling card, Chuck. The worst.”

Lowell remained low-key despite the strain in her voice. “I sent Matt over because he wanted to see if you were up to the rigors of this forthcoming mission.”

Layne took another hefty gulp of the drink, then directed her gaze at Talbot. Her lips parted as she saw the tenderness burning in his blue eyes as he met her glare. Why? she wondered, finding her resistance melting. Her eyes filled with hot, scalding tears, blurring Talbot’s face.

Matt eased himself from the chair, sending Lowell a sharp look. “We’ve upset Mrs. Hamilton enough, Chuck. I don’t feel she can do it. Why not leave her with what little peace she has left?”

Layne’s heart wrenched, and she lifted her chin, staring directly into those azure eyes that seemed to understand her. Careful, she told herself. He’s an agent, a robot taught to act and react, both on and off the job, showing no humanity or compassion. Swallowing tears, she choked out, “He’s right, Chuck. Why don’t you just leave? I’ve told you, I want nothing to do with you or your people ever again.”

Lowell shot Talbot a glance, then rose. “All right,” he said stiffly. “We didn’t mean to upset you, Layne. I know it’s been rough on you…”

She bowed her head. “Just leave, Chuck.”

“I’ll drop over and see if you’re feeling differently tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother,” she murmured, not looking up as the door quietly opened and closed. Layne stared numbly at her drink: most of it was gone. Oh, well, she thought. Might as well kill the pain with the rest of it. She lifted the glass to her lips.

“Take it slow,” came Talbot’s husky voice. “That was a double.”

Layne gasped, nearly dropping the glass. He stood by the door, watching her in the explosively charged silence. With a swift stride, he reached her, and his long, slender fingers closed around the drink in her hand. As their fingers met, Layne released the glass instantly, as if burned.

“I told you to leave!”

Talbot gave her a distant smile and set the glass down on the black lacquered coffee table. “You asked Chuck to leave, not me. Besides, I didn’t feel you should be left alone just yet.”

Layne stared up at him in disbelief, startled by the tenderness in his voice and eyes, as unmistakable as it was unexpected. Layne could have dealt with anger or even coldness, but not this kindness. Company men weren’t supposed to show their emotions—ever. She felt warm tears begin to trickle down her cheeks.

Matt crouched down, his hands moving to caress Layne’s raven hair. It felt like thick silk beneath his fingers. As he framed her pale face, he was struck by the pain in her luminous golden eyes. He had thought he was carrying enough of his own anguish around, but now…His brows drew into a slight frown.

She was pale beneath her tan; her skin pulled tautly across her cheekbones. And her lips…he groaned inwardly. Her full mouth could curve into a sunlit smile or tighten as it did now, with agony. Tears slid down to her soft lips, and she licked them away.

Matt opened his arms to her, drawing her forward until she rested against him. “Go ahead,” he whispered thickly against her hair. “Cry. Get it out of your system.”

The shock of seeing Chuck Lowell again had dredged up the shattered past Layne had tried desperately to forget. The instant Matt’s hands had framed her face, she’d begun to cry. His touch was so male and yet so gentle, and his firm, strong body supporting her brought forth deep, wrenching sobs—sobs she’d suppressed for months. But the arms now cradling her against him had released her from her self-made prison of pain.

Matt closed his eyes, resting his head against her ebony hair. He inhaled deeply. She smelled good—like lilac—her body warm and yielding against his hard frame. He murmured endearments to ease her heart, feeling her tremble within his arms. Layne Hamilton was a woman of great sensitivity, he thought as he stroked her hair, burying his face in the fragrant mass and longing…longing…

Layne became aware of the deep, steady beat of Matt’s heart in his taut chest. She gripped his shirtfront, her nails digging into it as her tears dampened the material to a darker shade of burgundy. His male scent was a heady aphrodisiac, awakening her dormant senses. He was, she realized, an intensely sensual man. She buried her head deeper in the hollow between his shoulder and chin as each stroke of his hand upon her hair released a little more of the old hurt from the five years of Brad’s deception.

Another feeling was woven into the remnants of her grief: Matt Talbot cared. She could almost feel an imperceptible trembling of his long, expressive fingers as they grazed the crown of her head. He was still a stranger—one whose appearance had reminded her of five years she’d fought to forget. Yet he had remained behind, somehow realizing that she needed to be held.

“It’s all right, kitten,” he whispered huskily, “you’re going to be all right now…”

A hunger for more than emotional support spread heatedly through her. The touch of his hands, his intoxicating scent and the hard planes of his body against hers unleashed a raw, aching need for closeness, for intimate contact. Unintentionally Layne nuzzled against his jaw, and she heard him draw in a deep, ragged breath. Then, trapping her face between his callused hands, he carefully lifted her mouth upward.

Matt groaned as he guided Layne’s face to meet his descending mouth. God, he shouldn’t be doing this! He knew better. But she was so warm and feminine, drawing him out as effortlessly as spring rain drew forth the first shoots from the cold, freezing earth. Her black lashes, thick with tears, were a sharp contrast to her golden skin. Her lips glistened, parting for his as he leaned down…down to claim them.

Layne uttered a small moan of protest as she felt his mouth settle firmly upon hers. But she knew it was hopeless. All common sense fled, and she folded against him as he molded his mouth hotly to her own, building a fire of longing that sent an aching need through her hungry body. Slowly she began to respond to his gentle exploration of her lips with his tongue. His breath was warm and moist against hers, his fingers imprisoning her face, tipping it to meld his mouth completely to her yielding lips.

“Let me taste you,” he commanded hoarsely.

With a sigh, Layne acquiesced, her arms lifting, sliding about his broad, capable shoulders and drawing him to her. As her breasts brushed the wall of his chest a slight gasp broke from within her. Matt’s tongue coaxed her further, cajoling her into heated participation as he stroked every moist crevice of her mouth.

Gradually Matt made himself draw back. He traced her swollen lips gently with his tongue to soothe any bruises he might have caused. Did she realize how much of an impact she’d had upon him? Her golden eyes were hazy with invitation, and Matt inhaled deeply, trying to get a grip on himself. He eased Layne back onto the chair, and in that heart-stealing moment, she seemed as innocent as a child. She reached her slender fingers up unbelievingly to touch her well-kissed lips.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Matt said, his rough voice laden with desire. She looked so helpless. He could take her to bed; he knew she would come willingly. His body was screaming deep within for her warmth, her humanity, and he was hungry for her touch. But one look into those golden eyes, now filled with confusion, and he knew: He had to do the right thing for both of them.

“We have an old saying in the Air Force for women like you,” he said huskily. A slight smile broke the planes of his lean face. “You’re heady stuff, lady. The kind that dreams are woven from.”