Dare Me, page 22
His time had run out. She'd wanted him. And if not for this ominous change in the course of their operation, she would have had him, likely right on the billiards table.
"Have you noticed that everything in the house is antique, or at least fifty years old? Except for a few toiletries, the clothes in the closet, the food in the pantry and the appliances in the kitchen. Even the wiring is outdated, though still up to code."
Dante's men had already pointed that out.
"And?"
She shook her head. "The age of the items in the house is likely inconsequential at this point," Macy said. She moved to a curio case filled with knick-knacks all related to tobacco and smoking. A collection of antique pipes. A snuffbox. A cigar cutter inlaid with genuine mother-of-pearl.
"Bogdanov played chess and his hobbies included puzzles, mainly those in three dimensions," she answered. "I suspect he hid the code by creating a pattern of objects." She marched to the desk and lifted an ink blotter first, then the pen set, then a tarnished silver vase. "And he kept it out in the open."
"Hid in plain sight?" he guessed.
"Yes, but not for the reason you think. I believe that his visual connection to the countercode would have given him comfort. He was a worrier. He often wrote his formulas, even the ones he'd memorized, on large sheets of paper and hung them in his laboratory. That's why I started my search with the kitchen. He loved to cook and spent many hours there."
Dante crossed his arms, fighting the sensation that his presence was completely unnecessary. Before they'd begun, she'd assured him that talking through the dilemma might bring some clue to light that would help, but he wondered.
"So you're searching the rooms in the order of how much time he spent there?"
"With the exception of the billiards room, yes. I went there next on a hunch. You can't imagine how ticked I am that my hunch didn't pan out."
Dante couldn't contain an ironic chuckle. After realizing what she'd had in mind for the evening, he was fairly ticked off himself.
"Okay, then. Let's get to work. Tell me what to do."
She spun and surprised him with a withering look. "If only you'd said that to me before Marshall arrived, Dante, we'd both be smiling like idiots right about now."
Macy stormed out of the library, stalked into the parlor and, because she knew she'd already thoroughly searched the space top to bottom, kicked a small ottoman across the room. She screamed in impotent frustration, dragging her hands through her hair, and toyed with the idea of pulling the strands free so that her head might stop pounding. They'd searched through the night and come up with nothing. Zero. Zip. The code had to be here. It had to be.
Dante approached behind her and she noticed the caution with which he moved. Only years of training had kept them on task during the search. Only once had the traitorous thought occurred to her that if the country was about to descend into chaos, didn't she want one last glorious memory to pull her through? Perhaps a vivid, fresh, intense memory of her and Dante making love?
When he cupped his hand gently on her shoulder, she nearly flew out of her skin. Instead, she whipped around and launched herself against him, capturing his mouth with hers and locking her arms around his neck so that he had no means of escape.
He didn't deny her the kiss she so desperately needed. His tongue battled with hers. They inhaled each other until neither one could take a breath and gasping became the music of the night's dance.
He swung them out of the parlor, and with half a thought, Macy realized he was attempting to direct them up the stairs. To the master suite? She didn't care where they made love, so long as the event happened in the next few minutes. Her flesh flamed, and with one quick tug, she divested herself of her zippered blouse and then tore at Dante's shirt until the buttons pinged along the hardwood floor on their way to the stairwell. Seconds later, her bra flew into the air, hooking on the banister.
Macy locked her legs around Dante's waist, pressing her sex against his hard erection until a liquid agony filled her. She pulled herself high, gasping when his mouth surrounded her nipple and he suckled her to near delirium. They'd both wanted this for too long to deny their intrinsic lust any longer.
Shockingly, Dante stumbled beneath their combined weight on about the third step. With a laughing scream, they ended up on the stairwell, their momentum barely skipping a beat. His pants disappeared first, then hers, along with shoes and boxers and panties. Dante turned, bracing his back against the stairs as Macy climbed over his lap and guided his sex into hers.
The slick sensation spawned renewed fire between them. Macy braced her arms on his knees behind her, arching her back so he could bathe her breasts in hot, desperate kisses. When she thought she'd go insane from his plucking her nipples with his teeth, she returned the favor, yanking his hair into her hands and tugging him close so that no space existed between his body and hers until she found that spot near the base of his neck that always drove him mad. Right when she knew he teetered on the brink, she lifted her body to milk the pleasure from him—and give him so much in return.
The pace intensified. He grabbed her hips and urged her to take whatever bliss she needed—so she did. His sex thickened inside her, and his hands and lips took greedy license, touching and tasting until she was caught up in a storm of sensations. The second she'd neared the edge of her climax, Dante pushed her over fast with the guttural glory that was his release.
Moments passed. Sanity returned. When her chest stopped heaving, Macy realized that more than anything in the world, she wanted to stay right where she was, curled over Dante's lap, connected to him physically, breathing hard while he stroked her hair. He whispered something into her ear that she couldn't understand, which was fine with her, because she didn't want to hear. Words had the power to destroy this tentative truce.
Words, and the fact that they were on the staircase, which while exciting at the moment, was not exactly comfortable. She rolled off of him, but unashamed and with no regret, she snuggled beside him and stared up at the ceiling.
Only there wasn't a ceiling, exactly—it was covered by a long, artfully cut mirror.
She blinked. How odd.
"Macy, I want to tell you about the Chilean operation."
Dante caught her attention and she dragged her gaze away from the mirror hanging above them. For a second, she wondered just how hot Dante had gotten being able to watch her on top of him, but his eyes reflected a seriousness she knew to respect. She needed to hear his explanation—wanted to hear how he justified such a breach of trust. If not for the change in their mission and their sudden surrender to undeniable desire, she would already know the complete truth about his betrayal.
"Why did you pass off my intelligence work as your own?" she asked, cutting to the chase.
"Because Russell didn't trust you."
His admission slapped her in the face. "Russell? He recruited me!"
Dante frowned. "He was also fairly hot for you, but you fell into bed with me."
"Russell?" Macy didn't want to believe what Dante claimed, but in retrospect, she supposed that the attention her former superior had given her might have sprung from ulterior motives. She'd been around men all her life and had learned to ignore most sexual attention and flirting as just natural and without meaning. A guy had to practically hit her over the head to show her that his interest was sincere. Or whip her into a whirlwind of lust and desire as Dante had.
"Russell had the ear of the Joint Chiefs," Macy said, unable to voice the possibility that her name could have been sullied all the way to the Oval Office. "He poisoned their minds against me?"
Dante turned and stretched his legs, balancing on one elbow so he could toy with her hair with his fingers. "Yes, but he tipped his hand when he blamed you for the information that leaked in the Boston operation. Every agent in the field knew that Carlson had blown the deal."
"But Carlson was dead."
"Exactly. And Carlson also trained with all the men who ran the Arm, including the Joint Chiefs, while you were a young, pretty upstart who'd soon surpass them all. Russell couldn't prove his accusations, but he resented you enough to have you red-listed."
Meaning she was an agent to be watched—an agent who might not be trustworthy.
Dante threaded his fingers through hers, working out the sudden attack of tension with a soft massage. "I pulled some strings and kept you on the Chilean project, but when you found the intelligence we needed to break the case, I had to make a choice."
Macy narrowed her eyes. God, how she'd tried not to think about that time, his betrayal, her incredible emotional loss. The case had been sloppy from the start, and now she knew why. The lead operative, Russell Rhodes, had apparently had his mind on other things. She'd been trying to stop an influx of cocaine from being smuggled in by Chilean freighters. He'd been trying to ruin her reputation and get her booted from the Arm.
"The information was risky, I remember," she said, the recollection painful even as a chill skittered across her skin. "I couldn't find a second source to verify the ties between the Chilean shipping company and the Brazilian industrialist we'd had under observation for six months."
"The rich Brazilian industrialist with ties to the president's reelection campaign," Dante reminded her. He rubbed his hand up her arm and, noting the gooseflesh, grabbed his shirt from the bottom of the stairs and wrapped the material around her. "I suspected Russell might have planted the intel to discredit you entirely, so I called his bluff. If the information proved false, I would have been blamed for the bad data. When it proved true and the mission was successful, I finally had the clout to push Russell out of the way. Once I was in charge, I could repair the damage he'd done to you."
She tugged the shirt closed, suddenly vulnerable and yet possessing a clarity that spoke volumes. She'd thought the anger she'd felt toward Dante still simmered beneath her surface, but not a spark of rage vexed her now. She was frustrated, yes. Regretful, absolutely. But angry? Not anymore.
"Why didn't you just tell me the truth?" she asked. "Why did you let me believe for all these years that you'd betrayed me?"
Dante bit his lip in a pained way she'd never seen before. When he glanced up, his eyes reflected the remorse he'd clearly harbored since he'd made his difficult choice. "I never had the chance. You bolted and I had to leave immediately to handle a hostage crisis in Laos. By the time I was back in the States, you were long gone, hidden in T-45's web of secrecy. I wanted to be your knight in shining armor, Macy. For once, I wanted to take care of you. You never allowed that of any man. I wanted to be the one."
She grinned at the irony. "Until this week, no, I never have let a man pamper me, protect me. In my family, with four brothers, I learned to fend for myself."
He slipped his arm beneath her and tucked himself close, both their bodies stretched out down the carpeted stairs, the hair on his legs brushing softly against her own bare skin. In a window just at the top of the stairs, the sunlight had begun to slide fingers of light through the slats in the blinds. They'd been up all night. Together.
"I should have let you in on my plan rather than waiting until I could ride in on my white horse and sweep you off your feet," he confessed. "I had the ring that day, Macy. I was going to explain everything and then ask you to marry me."
"But I was already gone." She reached out and touched his cheek, the bristle of his beard rough and wonderful against her skin. "I should have trusted that you wouldn't have hurt me without having a damned good reason, but T-45 had already been wooing me
and I'd been passed over twice for promotions—now I know, thanks to Russell. I shouldn't have let my anger get the best of me."
He smiled. "You have always been a passionate and impatient woman, Macy. We both made mistakes."
He leaned forward and kissed her gently, rolling closer so that she eased onto her back and wrapped her arms around his neck. While her lips engaged in the sweetest, most sensual kiss of the morning, her eyes seemed obsessed with the dawn reflected in the mirror that hung on the slanted ceiling above the stairs. A long pink ribbon of light filtered over the reflective glass, creating an opaque cloud of color. She was staring, entranced, when shapes seemed to form in the glass, lines and curves. Then, they disappeared.
Lines and curves.
She blinked, trying to bring the images back into her sight. Nothing. Lines and curves. Numbers.
"Good God, Dante," she said, pushing away from him. "The code. I think I've found it."
In less than an hour, Dante had every mirror in the house assembled in a line on the floor of the parlor, cradled on a cushioned tarp. Dressed in his crumpled slacks and buttonless shirt, he ignored the stares of his forensic chemical analysis team and continued to pace behind them as they worked their magic. Macy marched into the room moments later, dressed in a sweat suit and looking incredibly sated and satisfied. In the rush since Macy saw the numbers in the mirror, they hadn't had a chance to finish their conversation, but her tiny, private smile spoke volumes.
But his hunger would have to wait. They had a few million lives to save.
"Anything?" he asked.
She handed the computer printout to him. "The housekeeper claims none of the mirrors were original
and that nearly every one, so far as she can remember, was shipped here special from Russia." "They're not Russian."
Sean Devlin strode into the room as if he owned the place, and immediately grabbed a pair of protective gloves from a nearby box.
"Devlin, what are you doing here?" Dante asked.
"Heard there was a breakthrough."
Dante and Macy eyed each other with equal amounts of suspicion. He hadn't called Sean in, and judging by the annoyance clear on Macy's face, she hadn't either.
"We know they're not Russian," Macy snapped. She and Sean had never truly gotten along. For some reason, Macy possessed the antidote to the former agent's killer charm. "They were all produced here in the United States, then shipped to Bogdanov's home in the Russian Swiss Alps. Then, a few months later, they returned to the States. The entire process seemed to take about two years and the timeline coincides with Bogdanov's work on the countercode system in the silos."
Devlin leaned down and looked at the mirror closest to him. "Have you tried smashing them open?"
Macy had Devlin backed against a wall in two seconds flat. "Why are you here? For all we know, you're working for the terrorists."
Dante didn't move, realizing Macy had a point, albeit an unlikely one. His old friend was a lot of things, but mercenary wasn't one of them. "Macy, leave him alone. Sean's probably here because this is where the action is."
Sean's expression was entirely innocent, which clearly meant he was up to something. Besides, Sean had been the best muscle in the business. He could likely snap Macy's neck before anyone saw him move.
"Or not," Dante said, his blood running cold.
Sean rolled his eyes. "I'm only here to deliver a message. A private message, to Dante. I didn't have any idea about the mirrors until I snuck inside and overheard."
"Snuck in?" Macy said, throwing an accusatory glance at Dante.
Sean clucked his tongue. "Cut the guy some slack, Rush. I designed nearly every system the Arm uses. Keeping me out is the least of your worries."
"Here!"
One of the techs working on a small mirror taken from the kitchen raised his hand in triumph. "I've got the formula."
Macy released Sean and the entire group gathered around the tech while he painted a clear, foul-smelling compound across the glass. He then lifted the glass and adjusted a sunlamp positioned above him. A combination of two numbers and a letter became clear.
"We've got it," Macy said. She directed her attention to the other techs. "Get me the numbers and letters in ten minutes." She glanced once at Sean and then speared Dante with a look that said, Get rid of this guy. "I'll get the decryption software down here and we'll have the code in fifteen."
His operatives hesitated, but with a nod, they obeyed Macy's directive. The room suddenly swarmed with activity, and when Macy disappeared to retrieve her equipment, Sean and Dante were left alone with nothing to do.
They retreated to the kitchen. Sean poked around in the cabinets, satisfied to remain still only after he found leftover crab and sun-dried tomato ravioli in the refrigerator.
"Why are you really here?" Dante asked, crossing his arms over his chest, which was visible since his shirt had no buttons to fasten, thanks to Macy.
Sean popped a large, cold pasta square in his mouth. "I thought I saw Macy on the monitor the other day. Did some checking around, realized what was really going on. You wanted her back."
Dante rolled his eyes. "Is that any great surprise?"
"After you nearly died, no. Have you told her?"
A lump formed in Dante's throat. Talking about his near-death experiences didn't come easy to him. In fact, except for Sean, he'd discussed the incident with no one outside the official debriefing and the mandatory consultation with the department psychiatrist. "There's been no time. Besides, the Arm went to great lengths to cover up the event. But when this mission is complete, I'll fill her in on everything."
Sean nodded with a resigned acceptance that made Dante furrow his brow. For a man who seemed to care about little except partying, traveling and testing his mettle with extreme sports and high-risk hobbies, his friend had shown a lot of interest in his private life lately.
"If the mission was deemed classified, you can't tell her and keep your job," Sean said.
Dante nodded. He'd broken enough rules already—well, more like created his own. But he hadn't revealed any classified information to an agent from a rival organization, which would be the kiss of death. And rightly so. He'd known the situation might come down to hard choices, but the fact remained that while Macy hadn't yet said the words, he knew she forgave him. They'd made love in their old, hot, wild style, but somehow the passion had run deep into both of them, deeper than either of them ever imagined. She'd listened to his explanation. She'd trusted what he'd said as the truth— which it had been. That alone told him her heart was open to him again. He wasn't going to let something as insignificant as his job stand in the way of their future.
