Hard to Hold Page 2

  “Is that what you were doing tonight when you fell in front of the truck, Anna? Having fun?”

  Her eyelids fluttered, and she choked on the urge to retaliate. She’d wasted more than half her life trying to blunt his scathing sarcasm, determined to scratch below its surface to get to the man beneath. It was a battle she had lost, time and again.

  A rescuing beacon of yellow cut the darkness. Shooting out her arm, she waved frantically. The approaching cab flashed its lights, swerved, and drew to a halt beside her.

  “Have a nice life, Nick.” She scrambled in and yanked the door firmly shut against him.

  Maybe it was the hurt, maybe just the unfairness, but the vehicle had traveled less than thirty yards when the temptation to jolt his too-ready assumption got the better of her. Unclipping her seat belt, she thrust the top half of her body out the open window and yelled like a shrew, “And I didn’t fall, you sanctimonious bastard. I was pushed!”

  Chapter Two

  Nick thrust back in his battered office chair, the one he stubbornly refused to exchange for the sleek ergonomic ones now insisted upon by the powers-that-be, and pressed heavily against his eyeballs with the heels of his hands. Traffic cameras monitored every inch of central London’s congested streets, and he’d watched the same grainy footage of Close Circuit Television (CCTV) clips over and over for the past hour. He was no further forward in deciding whether Anna had indeed been pushed or had just taken an unlucky tumble.

  Not that he cared. Anna wasn’t his problem. Not anymore. And, damn straight, never again. He’d once kidded himself she was his salvation. Big mistake. She hadn’t cured the darkness smoldering in his soul; she’d ended up fueling it.

  Working black ops demanded absolute discretion, not just from operatives but from their families. An acceptance to fly so low beneath the radar of public life, it wasn’t unheard of for belly skin to scrape the very bowels of hell itself.

  He’d been up for it. Anna hadn’t.

  If anything, she’d been determined to burn more brightly, deliberately aligning herself with every nut group protesting against unchained authority that would have her. Her way of warning his superiors that no one clipped her wings.

  And though he and Anna had argued about her antics—him berating, her stubbornly unrepentant—a part of him had been proud of her. Until life had kicked his ass with a lesson on just how dangerously self-destructive they were as a couple. Love was supposed to purify. In their case, it had poisoned.

  “God, you look rough; you been here all night again?”

  “You ever hear of knocking, Will?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, Grouch. What are you working on?”

  With the speed of a striking cobra, Nick snaked out his hand and closed down his screen. Whatever mess Anna had gotten herself into this time was even less the Service’s business than it was his. Besides, Will Berwick, his second-in-command, was an incurable optimist. He’d get the wrong idea if he caught Nick studying Anna’s image, enlarged, freeze-framed, and incredible—all the better to highlight her elfin features. Pinched with a wariness he’d never have expected. Not from Anna.

  “How is she?” He asked before he could stop himself.

  “Who?”

  The fine hairs at the nape of his neck pricked. “Anna. She said she’d called you.”

  Damn, he knew he should have followed her home last night, but he hadn’t trusted himself to hold it together at the sight of some man, even Will, being welcomed across her threshold. Not when he was barred from that threshold, and not when bashing his best friend senseless would confirm the rot inside him.

  “She never—” Will began.

  Nick reached for his personal cell phone. “What’s her bloody number?”

  He stabbed in the digits Will recited, lifted the device to his ear, waited, disconnected, and started cursing.

  The bluer his tongue turned, the wider Will’s grin grew. “She never answers when at work. What’s up?”

  Fighting the urge to wipe the smug baited-hooked-and-landed expression from Will’s face with his fist, Marshall rose and thrust his arms into his jacket. “First off, she shouldn’t be at work. She’s supposed to be resting. And then there’s the company she’s been keeping. I don’t like it. Damn woman never did possess the judgment of a gnat when it came to men.”

  “Weren’t you one of those men?”

  Nick charged out the door and down the hall. “I rest my case.”

  Will caught up with him in the corridor, his hand still massaging the shoulder Nick had rammed with his own on the way out of the office. “Hang on. What the hell’s going on?”

  “I’m going to give her the spanking she deserves.”

  Will grabbed Nick’s arm, pulling him to a halt. “You gave up that right. She’s a free woman now.”

  “Trust me, even when Anna isn’t looking for trouble, she has a habit of tripping over it, and she needs help. Do me a favor. Go back to my office, watch the CCTV footage you’ll find on my screen, then ring me with your opinion. Was Anna deliberately pushed headfirst into the traffic while waiting to cross the road, or did she fall?”

  Marshall left Will standing mouth agape, while his own strides ate up the corridor. He couldn’t remember when he’d last tasted such intense anger. Or rather he could. It was when he’d thrown Anna out. And then again last night. When he’d hauled back the cubicle curtain, and she’d looked absolutely stricken at the sight of him.

  That had hurt. More than it should have. So he’d laid into her. Because that’s the kind of bastard he was. Why soothe when, where Anna was concerned, savage had always been more effective?

  He’d savaged her the first time he laid eyes on her at the foster home they’d shared, her six years of age to his twelve. Those unearthly, pale lavender eyes of hers had been wider than the sky at dusk at the sight of the scars crisscrossing his narrow back. She’d actually stepped forward and traced one of the white marks with the palest digit he’d ever seen.

  At first, he’d thought her some kind of apparition, then she’d sworn with the fluency of a stevedore, so incongruous with her ethereality that he’d laughed.

  Then he’d verbally laid into her, a defense he’d resurrected every time she’d tried to get close.

  He hadn’t wanted a friend. She’d never given up—and eventually, she’d become the one person he’d let get close. For the best part of twenty years, she’d stuck like a limpet. He’d even concocted an excuse to marry her—that he’d needed a wife to get a promotion—to keep her in his life without allowing himself to be too vulnerable. He’d never quite trusted the speed with which she’d said yes, but she stayed and for a while, he’d been happy—too happy—to hang on to her tight.

  But old habits were hard to break. And one day he’d pushed her away too hard, and she hadn’t come back.

  They’d both been stubborn. He’d divorced her a year later. She hadn’t contested.

  Irreconcilable differences. That said it all.

  For the past five years, his existence had been orderly. Free of bombshells and aftershocks. Now she was back.

  And in danger—maybe.

  It was hard to tell with Anna. Being in trouble was a part of her DNA. And, he’d never been any damned good at distinguishing mild risk from severe, not when it came to her. He’d always charged to her rescue regardless.

  Was he about to make a complete tit of himself doing so again? Probably. Unless he took precautions. He’d handle the investigation himself. Off the books. He’d also make damn sure not to fall into her web of deceit again.

  …

  Ignoring the pressed metal sign declaring Anna’s office as Employees Only Nick slammed his palm hard against the thick plate window and gestured to the pink-haired receptionist to open the door with his other.

  He was about to repeat the order when three men joined her in the foyer, all the size of haystacks.

  He wasn’t intimidated. If anything, a dark danger was unfurling inside him
. If they didn’t open up fast, he’d kick the bloody door in.

  “We’re closed to members of the public,” called one of the men, stepping up to the glass.

  “Where’s Anna?” Nick demanded when the door remained firmly shut.

  “Who’s asking?”

  He really didn’t have time for this. Without a word, he reached into his jacket, pulled free his British Intelligence ID, and slapped it hard against the glass. He took considerable satisfaction at the suddenly nervous glance the man cast over his shoulder at his allies.

  The two other men stepped forward as the door released with a metallic click. Pinky had vanished—Nick would lay odds she’d gone to warn Anna, which meant she must be here.

  Some of the tension eased from his spine, only to return with a vengeance when the woman herself joined the men to reinforce the line they’d drawn against him.

  “What are you doing here, Nick, aside from intimidating my friends?” Anna asked.

  “We’re not intimidated,” growled one.

  She laid a restraining hand around a ham-sized bicep. “Go back to moderating the game, all of you. I can take care of this.”

  Nick could see they wanted to protest, but none dared. Anna had that fired-up look in her eye he recognized from long ago. She was up for a bit of combat. Which suited him just fine. After her parting shot from the night before, and the sleepless night it had cost him, he had an urge to draw a little blood himself.

  “You said you’d called Will, that you wouldn’t be on your own,” he accused the minute they were alone.

  She folded her arms across her chest. Her fitted white T-shirt rode high to reveal a narrow strip of lightly tanned skin, flat, smooth and enticing, above the faded denim of her hip-slung jeans.

  He swallowed and tried not to stare. But that damned little gem in her belly ring kept winking at him.

  On the day they’d gotten engaged, he’d blown his savings getting her that rare purple sapphire the exact color of her eyes. He’d had to leave the choice of setting up to her when his military leave had been canceled and some war-torn corner of Northern Africa had taken priority.

  Defying convention, she’d chosen a platinum belly ring.

  At their celebratory engagement cocktail party, to confirm Major Nick Marshall was doing the unthinkable and actually getting married, she’d lifted her scarlet top and flashed his raucous team and the Commander of the Service a hot view of her new decoration. Only the fact she’d been wearing a bra, for once, had stopped him from retracting his proposal on the spot.

  “Lighten up Nick. It was half past three in the morning. I didn’t want to disturb Will. Besides, he’d only have fussed. Hinterland Heroes is a 24-7 operation, so I knew I wouldn’t be on my own.”

  Hinterland Heroes. The online game her anarchic imagination had designed and developed. One of the most popular and addictive games on the planet. Dragging his eyes upward, he glared at her. “You were told to rest.”

  She surprised him with a laugh. “How do you know? You weren’t there.”

  “I’m omniscient.” God, how could he have forgotten her laugh? Always close to the surface, irreverent mostly, the sound was like warmed nectar and able to chase away the worst woes of the world, even if just for a moment. “I hear you might be having a bit of trouble, Anna.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “We need to talk.”

  “No, Nick, we really don’t. Sorry, but we had our chance years ago, and we both blew it. Apart from which, there was never any ‘we’ about it. You’d talk; I’d laugh. You’d get furious. I’d cry. You’d yell and slam doors, both literally and metaphorically. End of discussion. So as much as you might want a rerun of the inevitable, I don’t.”

  There was no trace of humor in her now.

  The sleek foyer, all clean lines and flooded with sunlight suddenly felt cold. Empty. It added a harsh edge to his tone. “You’re deflecting as usual, but it won’t work. I’m not budging until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Anna’s eyes narrowed into a feline slant. Never a good sign. “Okay, if you insist, but we’re not doing this here. My staff tends to be suspicious of law enforcement and anyone associated with it. ”

  She was out the door and crossing the wide, cobbled courtyard before he could draw breath. He caught up with her in the shadow of a second warehouse, the twin to the one that housed her office and, to slow her down, grabbed her elbow. “Just what kind of people do you employ?”

  “Liberated freethinkers who steer clear of stifling authority. And let go of my arm, Nick, it hurts.” He glanced down, noticed the angry bruise she’d had in the hospital, and shifted his hand to her wrist instead, tightening his fingers when she tried to tug free.

  “Fine. Be like that. But getting up the ladder’s going to be a challenge.”

  He frowned. To ignore the flippant statements she randomly threw into conversations was akin to a blind run through a minefield. “Ladder?”

  “Yes, I live up there on the second floor above all the computer servers. The staircase—which, unfortunately, was wooden and external—met with an unfortunate accident. Now, do you think I could possibly have my arm back? Because I’m going to need it.”

  He dropped his hold on her and tilted back his head. A metal ladder—purchasable in any regular hardware store—completed the triangle formed by a high, red brick facade and the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard beneath his boots. That had to be a good twenty-foot climb and, given the happy-amateur look of the narrow toe rests, in breach of any number of health and safety regulations.

  Following her closely up the metal ladder that flexed beneath their combined weight, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

  One upward glance at her peachy derriere, snug in faded denim, had been enough.

  To distract himself, though he knew he’d regret it, he asked, “What kind of accident?”

  She stopped abruptly. He head-butted her ass. And cursed fluently.

  Apparently unperturbed, she continued her climb. “It caught fire,” she said casually.

  “Don’t tell me, a case of spontaneous combustion?” From past experience, he knew to start with the ludicrous where this woman was concerned and work downward from there.

  “Not quite,” she retorted, more than matching his acid.

  At the top of the ladder, she clambered awkwardly into a deep, soot-damaged recess—more a small hallway—and pushed upright. Two fluffed attempts to key the correct code into the electronic lock, and still her front door remained stubbornly shut.

  He noticed the slight tremor of her hand. She was trying hard to hide it, but damn it, Anna, a woman who cowered before no man and no thing, was actually scared. That unexpected revelation damned near knocked him on his ass.

  “Here, let me have a go.” The door opened smoothly on his first attempt. He cocked an eyebrow and stepped back so she could lead the way.

  She shot him an irritated look as she passed. “Now I’m going to have to change the code again… And the fire department thinks it was arson.”

  If his blood had chilled at the realization Anna could be frightened, that little snippet of information turned it to ice. With slow precision, Nick fitted the heavy, studded door back into its stainless-steel frame and turned. “What the hell do you mean, arson?”

  “If you want a coffee, you’ll have to follow me.” She disappeared through a wide doorway into what was presumably her kitchen.

  This was Anna at her most evasive. Pretending nothing was wrong, that if she just carried on as normal, everything would work out fine. She’d make him fence, parrying his every advance with a lunge and a few strikes of her own. Anything to deflect attention away from the core issue of someone intending her harm.

  Not wanting his simmering temper to rise to the boil, he took a moment to scan her home. A home that, had things been different, had he been different, they would have shared.

  Her love of color certainly hadn’t dimmed. Wild abstracts clashed brightly e
nough to require the use of sunglasses. Her sofas, one bloodred, the other hot orange, shouldn’t have worked but did. And the rest of the place was just as untidy. Magazines threatened to topple from the antique leather chest she’d adopted as a coffee table; sheets of newspaper spat their guts on the floor. A forest of bonsai—those she hadn’t managed to kill with her interpretive clipping—lined the wooden floorboards beneath the sweeping wall of windows, uncurtained and an open invitation to any pervert who might wish to spy.

  Gritting his teeth, he crossed the wide, open space in the direction of her voice—she was humming out of tune, which didn’t seem to bother her—and stopped in the double doorway of the shiniest space-age kitchen he’d ever seen.

  He frowned. Anna didn’t cook. Though a genius with computers, she barely knew how to program a microwave. What the hell did she need a high-grade facility like this for?

  “And the mighty Nick Marshall hit the deck in a dead faint.”

  She was laughing at him. Another smoke-and-mirrors tactic he remembered all too well. “I asked you a question, Anna. What do you mean by arson?”

  She closed the gap between them, a steaming mug in her hand, and set it on the granite counter in front of him before retreating. “I assume you still take it black, no sugar.”

  The aroma was strong enough to twitch his nostrils. “Aaannaaa.”

  “Okay. Okay. Though I’d have thought you of all people would understand the legal definition of arson. It’s when a fire is started with the intention of—”

  “I know what it means, damn it. What I want to know is what the fire department found to make them think the fire was deliberately set.”

  He could sense she didn’t want to tell him. That her speed-of-light mind was fast-forwarding through any number of possible lies to distract him. The smoky lavender depths of her eyes were a dead giveaway. “Goddamnit, Anna.”