Dare Me, page 21
Dante shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable with Marshall's tone. He sounded less like the head of an international spy agency and more like a concerned father.
"I understand."
"No, I don't think you do. You probably think this old black man has come here to make sure Macy's heart doesn't get broken through your deal, whatever it is. I don't give a damn about her heart." He leaned forward, his large, long-fingered hands braced on his knees. "For all I know, Macy doesn't have a heart. And if she didn't, I wouldn't give a damn because she'd probably be a better agent for it, not that she's lacking in any way. But this mission is critical, and I won't allow one of my agents to have her will broken as a consequence of working with the Arm."
Dante frowned. Under Dante's direction, the Arm had not used the type of tactics Marshall spoke of— at least, never with someone like Macy, a fellow agent. But he had created a scenario where she'd complied simply because he'd given her no choice. Only he'd known that he planned to give Macy access to the house, even if she refused.
"I assure you, sir," Dante said, having to clear his throat of a sudden lump before continuing. "I'd never authorize any type of mind control with Macy. She means a great deal to me. You must know about our past."
Marshall snorted. "Vaguely. She's never volunteered specifics. I know you were once lovers. I know that you did something that royally pissed her off."
To say the least.
"In her eyes, I betrayed her."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
Marshall leaned back into the chair, his hands casually draped on the armrests. "So you've used your position as head of the Arm to manipulate a mission and win her back?"
Dante winced. It sounded so much worse when spoken by someone else. "Yes. It's because of my loyalty to the Arm that I lost her. And I'm a man who gets what he wants. And I want her back."
Marshall's eyes narrowed. "As an agent?"
"I could care less about what organization Macy gives her allegiance to."
"She can't work for T-45 and be personally involved with you. I respect Macy and I trust her with my life, but that's a conflict of interest no organization can ignore. Understand one thing, Mr. Burke. If Macy returns to you emotionally, you'll be asking her to give up her career. She's poised to take a high leadership role with T-45, an honor she's deserved for a long time. Are you promising her something in return that is worth her giving up her life's dream for?"
Little by little, the air deflated out of Dante's chest. What exactly was he offering Macy, other than a slow roll in the hay as opposed to the fast ones they'd shared in the past? He'd attempted to show her how much he'd changed, how much he wanted to pamper her, pay attention to her, concentrate on her and her needs. But she'd need so much more before she could choose him over her cherished career. And he wasn't entirely sure he had anything that valuable to give.
"Your point is well-taken, Mr. Marshall. I will consider what you've said with great seriousness."
"See that you do," Marshall said before his face resolved into a mask of dire seriousness. "Now, on to the real reason I'm here."
Macy stretched, waiting until every disk in her spine had popped before she released a guttural, frustrated groan and threw down her gloves in defeat. She'd had such high hopes for the billiards room. Though the housekeeper had reported that Bogdanov hardly used the room while he'd lived in the house, the nature of the room invited images of numbers, patterns and shapes, all of which could be used to successfully hide a countercode. With the dark, hand-carved paneling and the walls sporting numerous photographs of homes from all around New Orleans—from the French Quarter to the Garden District—she'd had a thousand sound possibilities about where the scientist might have hidden the sought-after sequence.
Unfortunately, none of her theories had held together under careful scrutiny. Her best shot had been a combination built from the addresses and street names of the houses pictured on the walls, but no matter how many times the computer ran the data through, a successful match to the characteristics of known countercodes would not emerge. The clues had been so promising, she'd nearly questioned the accuracy of the software—until she reminded herself that Bogdanov had written the program himself long before his mind had started to wither away.
So she'd worked from sunrise to sundown exclusively in this room, skipping her nap and putting off her search of the library until tomorrow. Now hungry, tired and teetering on the edge of surrender, she flopped onto the overstuffed couch, threw her head back against the cushions and allowed herself to think about Dante for the first time today.
She slipped back to the moment, shortly before dawn, when she'd heard the lock click open on the bedroom door. Instantly awakened by the sound, she'd kept perfectly still beneath the covers. She'd carefully regulated her breathing so she appeared asleep, despite the fact that her nipples had peaked in response and the electric current flowing to her sex sizzled back to life at the mere possibility that he'd enter the room. Several silent, still moments later, she'd finally realized he wasn't coming in to finish what he'd started the night before, no matter how much her body ached for him—or his for her.
The disappointment had rolled with her out of bed in a rush, causing her to jam her arms back into the robe with more force than necessary. She had to hand the man some credit—he'd succeeded in getting under her skin. His inventive and attentive seduction had shown him to be a changed man—a man she could no longer ignore or banish exclusively to her past.
And as for that past, she realized without any sense of defeat that she was finally ready to hear his explanation for why he'd betrayed her.
She shouldn't have run all those years ago, lured by promises T-45 not only made, but kept. She'd had her choice of assignments, world travel, incredible financial reward and access to the world's most advanced technology—all without the red tape and old-boy network so prevalent in the States. She'd blamed Dante for all her frustration over her lack of advancement in the Arm, when, in truth, he couldn't have stonewalled her on his own. And why would he have? The powers that be would never have tapped her for a leadership role over him.
Dante had forced himself back into her life, making her think about their past through eyes unclouded by raw emotions, righteous indignation and anger. She loved her new life. In many ways, her leaving had been the right move—for both of them. Neither she nor Dante had been ready for a real relationship, not with both of them so wrapped up in their ambitions. The Dante she'd known before had never been patient or gentle, as he'd clearly become. The Dante she'd known before had never planned anything in his private life more than a few moments ahead though every special rendezvous they'd shared this week had been orchestrated to the letter. After hours, he used to embrace the spontaneous and the wild because during the day, his career epitomized careful planning and controlled response.
But he'd changed. And so had she.
Damn him. Damn them both.
She hadn't asked him to change. She'd never voiced a single clue that his unpredictable and unbridled ways had bothered her in the least since she'd been exactly the same, but she had to admit that this slow, patient, attentive Dante appealed to her on levels she'd once kept deeply buried. Would his newfound appreciation for relishing the pleasurable and sensuous last once he'd met his objective? Or was this alteration simply a means to an end?
Slapping her hands on her thighs as she sat up quickly, she decided the time had come to find out.
Until now, she hadn't realized that her anger and resentment of Dante had gone beyond the single incident in which he'd taken credit for the intelligence she'd painstakingly gathered on her last case for the Arm—taken credit and thus ruined her career. Maybe because everything about their relationship before had been fast and furious—the way they'd met and fallen into bed, the way they'd jumped into living together, the way she'd left when he'd advanced his career on the back of her hard work— she'd never had the chance to realize the depth of what had been missing from their love affair. Nothing about their relationship had exhibited patience or maturity or selflessness. But in the past two days, Dante had shown her all those things in spades.
She knew she was ready to hear his explanation for what he'd done—but was she prepared to believe him?
Uncomfortable with the barrage of emotions slamming at her from all directions, Macy threw herself into the task of gathering and storing her equipment and filing her reports, which would be transmitted to both Dante and Abercrombie Marshall via secure wireless technology. She had several rooms left to search, but she couldn't help allowing a moment of fatalism to pop into her brain. What if New Orleans was the target of the terrorists, as improbable as that was—or what if the enemy planned to annihilate Washington, D.C., which was much more likely? How would Macy react if scores of innocents died because one expert agent didn't have the right stuff? What if she learned that Dante also died in the attack she failed to prevent?
The thought weakened the muscles in her legs and made her chest ache. She blocked out the innocents. She wasn't ready to give up yet. But, God, she was in deep, deeper than she ever imagined, with Dante. Using sex as his weapon, he had conquered her ability to remain aloof, even though he'd made no secret of his methods or his goals. She'd convinced herself that she was over him—had been for a long time— and therefore, she was safe from his manipulations, but clearly, that wasn't the case.
She needed to end her emotional upheaval. She needed to slice through the tense thread he'd woven around her heart with his sweet seduction. She had only one means to accomplish this goal—she needed to turn the tables.
Determined, she dashed to her tiny bedroom in the back of the house, showered, changed and returned to the billiards room long before anyone had stirred in the house, which she considered odd since night had fallen. She grabbed some fruit from the kitchen and munched while she arranged the billiards room to her liking, wondering where exactly Dante was.
In the floor-to-ceiling mirror, she checked her bold, red lipstick and tore her hands through her hair so that her auburn waves flashed around her face in wild disarray. A touch of black eyeliner around her eyes and she'd re-created the woman Dante once hadn't been able to resist. In tight black slacks and a turquoise tank top that zipped up the front, she loosened the fastening so that her breasts nearly spilled from the material. The look was sleek and overtly sexual.
She'd hear his explanation, and if his words rang true, she'd make him an offer he couldn't refuse— and then she'd know, once and for all, if she was as equally obsessed with him as he was with her or if fast, furious, on-the-pool-table sex would finally scratch the itch that threatened to drive them both insane.
She was on the brink of tapping on the lens of the camera mounted above the fireplace to get Dante's attention when the double doors to the billiards room swung open. Dante stepped in, his brow instantly arched over curious eyes. She spun and stalked toward him with her sultriest strut, stopping fast when Abercrombie Marshall followed Dante into the room.
"Abe?"
Macy swallowed thickly, but her boss had the decency to ignore the seductive nature of her appearance. In fact, his eyes filled with such gravity, she immediately zipped up her blouse and stood ramrod straight. Something was wrong.
"Macy, we have a situation."
He gestured toward the couch, but Macy shook her head. She couldn't imagine her boss would reprimand her for her attempted liaison with Dante. He'd known—if not specifically, then by inference—the price she'd had to pay for access to the house. No, his expression denoted something more dire— something deadly.
"The terrorists have taken a silo?" she guessed.
Gravely, Abe nodded.
Her eyes flashed to Dante, who confirmed Abe's report with the stoic set of his jaw. "Where?"
"Silo 887, in the Kunlun Mountains in Russian
South Siberia. The area is incredibly remote and travel to the region is treacherous."
"The Russian army?" she asked.
"Unable to reach the target area at this time," he replied.
Dante stepped forward. "The Arm has sent in special ops, but initial reports from satellite photos indicate that the terrorists have sufficiently booby-trapped the pass leading to the silo. They have antiaircraft capabilities. Chances are slim that we'll reach the area before zero hour," Dante said.
The impact of her failure knocked her in the gut, but Macy succeeded in standing tall despite the shaking in her arms and legs. The terrorists had the silo, but without the actual launch code, they could do no harm.
Yet.
"What are our options?" she asked, her voice surprisingly crisp.
"We find Bogdanov's fail-safe before the terrorists work out the launch code," Dante answered.
Abe reached out and pressed his large hand on Macy's shoulder, which she suddenly imagined had grown very unsteady. "The operation between T-45 and the Arm just became official. We have to find the code or millions of people will die."
"All the books have been searched," Dante reported, tearing off his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair. Time had run out on any goal other than finding the countercode. Once again, he'd been forced to choose the good of the mission over his relationship with Macy. But this time, he'd find a way to control the outcome, if they could simply make sure that millions of people didn't die because they failed.
Macy stepped to the center of the library, her gaze high as she turned around in a tight series of circles, her eyes lowering at every pass. Like a machine programmed to accurately assess the inner workings of some electronic device, Macy focused her finder's instincts on the library with cool precision. After consulting with Marshall, they'd decided against bringing in more agents. The Arm had already completed
thorough and by-the-book searches. Only someone like Macy, an expert in pushing beyond the limits of protocol and procedure and one who had studied Bogdanov's life to the point that she likely knew him better than she knew herself, would be able to find the countercode in enough time to avert a disaster.
She had, however, agreed to accept Dante's help, just as he'd agreed to allow a squad of T-45 operatives who'd trained in the Himalayas to join the Arm special ops team in their quest to stop the terrorists at the source. The cooperative nature of this mission would have made history, if either agency ever allowed the pairing to go public, which they wouldn't. T-45 subsisted on its reputation as a rogue operation. As soon as the mission was complete, all proof that it had ever worked alongside the Arm would be effectively erased.
"Not having to go through the books will save time," Macy said, breaking into Dante's thoughts, forcing him to accept that he'd made his decision and the outcome now was beyond his control. His superiors had been alerted. The fallout would be heavy, but he could handle the heat. He had before.
"Besides, Bogdanov didn't read any of these books," she said. "They're all in English. They likely belonged to his wife."
"None in Russian?"
The library easily housed over a thousand books.
Surely a man with Bogdanov's national pride would have a few native novels on his shelves, even if just an original copy of War and Peace.
She turned, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Don't you read your own reports? Nothing but English. Bogdanov was proficient in French, German and Latin, but while he could speak well enough, reading English was beyond him."
Dante had read the reports, but such esoteric details tended not to stick. He'd been more concentrated on the bottom line assessment that the code was nowhere to be found.
"Couldn't he have hidden code in an English text, to throw off anyone who might be looking?"
She paced the room while she snapped on her special nylon gloves. "Perhaps, but I don't think so. Your agents checked the books for signs of handling, and most of them hadn't been touched in decades— as if they were simply put here for show."
"So we ignore the books."
"For now. The books are almost too obvious. Besides, I think Bogdanov would keep the code somewhere he could see it. Every day, possibly."
"How did you draw that conclusion?"
Macy's attention focused on a painting, an original by a Dutch master of an austere, upper-class couple. She answered without taking her eyes off the portrait. "When Gorbachev knocked down the Berlin Wall and Communism started to fail, Bogdanov feared that some mad countryman would launch an attack against the United States. He created the countercode so that he personally could stop the destruction. He wanted to save his beloved country from starting World War Three. That's why he hid the code here in the United States rather than in the Soviet Union. This property belonged to his American wife and has been in her family for years."
This much, he knew. "Her murder was no accident. If we hadn't removed the housekeeper, she would have been next."
Macy pursed her lips but didn't speak, smudging her red lipstick while she ran her fingers up and down the picture frame. Damn. Dante knew he shouldn't be noticing something so insignificant right now, but he couldn't help himself. When he'd walked into the billiards room earlier with Marshall on his heels, he'd had an instant to meet Macy's eyes. The way she'd dressed, the way she'd moved—he'd been two seconds away from facing down a woman who'd had enough of taking no for an answer. She'd intended to seduce him and no matter his intention to draw out his teasing one more night, she would have succeeded in changing his mind. Last night, when he locked her in the room, he'd expended the last of his control. With blood rushing to his cock and his brain starving for nutrition, he'd barely put her off for one more evening.
