Under Fire. Carol Ericson

pointed to a sign with an airplane on it. “I can take you straight to the airport and buy you a ticket back home to your family. You can contact the CIA and tell them what happened. The agency will help you.”

      “But the agency is not going to tell me what’s going on. I want to know. I deserve to know after you accused me of being complicit in Simon’s breakdown.”

      “You were.”

      She smacked her hands on the dashboard. “Stop saying that. This is what I mean. You can’t throw around accusations like that without backing them up.”

      He aimed the car for the next exit and left the highway. “It’s going to be morning soon. Let’s get off the road, get some rest. I’ll tell you everything, and then you’re getting on that plane.”

      She sat quietly as Max followed the signs to the airport. He turned onto a boulevard lined with airport hotels and rolled into the parking lot of a midrange highrise, anonymous and nondescript.

      He dragged a bag from the trunk of the car and left the keys with the valet parking attendant.

      She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was until they walked through the empty lobby of the hotel.

      A front desk clerk jumped up from behind the counter. “Do you need a room?”

      “Yeah.” Max reached for the back pocket of his camouflage pants. Without the bulletproof vest, the black jacket and the ski mask, he looked almost normal. Could the hotel clerk feel the waves of tension vibrating off Max’s body? Did he notice the tight set of Max’s jaw? The way his dark eyes seemed to take in everything around him with a single glance? Normal was not a word she’d use to describe Max Duvall.

      “Credit card?”

      “We don’t use one. Filed for bankruptcy not too long ago.” Max offered up a tight smile along with a stack of bills. “We’ll pay cash for one night.”

      The clerk’s brow furrowed. “The problem is if you use anything from the minibar or watch a movie in the room, we have no way to charge you.”

      Max thumbed through the money and shoved it across the counter. “Add an extra hundred for incidentals.”

      The clerk’s frown never left his face, but he seemed compelled to acquiesce to Max. She didn’t blame him. Max was the type of man others obeyed.

      Five minutes later, Max pushed open the door of their hotel room, holding it open for her.

      She eyed the two double beds in the room and placed her purse on the floor next to one of them. If the clerk downstairs had found the request for two beds odd, he’d put on his best poker face. Maybe he’d figured their bankruptcy had put a strain on the marriage.

      She perched on the edge of the bed, knees and feet primly together, watching Max pace the room like a jungle cat.

      He stopped at the window and shifted to the side, leaning one shoulder against the glass.

      “Do you want something from the minibar? Water, soft drink, something harder?”

      She narrowed her eyes. She hadn’t expected him to play host. Despite rescuing her from mortal danger, he hadn’t seemed too concerned with her well-being. He’d gone through the motions and had acknowledged her shock and fear, but he’d done next to nothing to comfort her. Because he still didn’t trust her.

      “I’ll have some water.” She pushed up from the bed and hovered over the fridge on the console. “Do you want something?”

      “Soda, something with caffeine.”

      The man didn’t need caffeine. He needed a stiff drink, something to take off the hard edges.

      She swung open the door of the pint-size fridge and plucked a bottle of water from the shelf. She pinched the neck of a wine bottle and held it up. “You sure you don’t want some wine?”

      “Just the soda, but I don’t mind if you want to imbibe. You could probably use something to relax you.”

      “That’s funny.” She placed the wine on the credenza and grabbed a can of cola from the inside door of the fridge. “I was just thinking you needed something to relax you.”

      “Relax?”

      He blinked his eyes and looked momentarily lost, as if the idea of relaxation had never occurred to him.

      “Never mind.” She crossed the room and held out the can to him.

      When he took it, his fingers brushed hers and she almost dropped the drink. That was the first time he’d touched her without grabbing, gripping and yanking. Although she’d touched him before, plenty of times.

      Like all of the agents, his body was in prime condition—his muscles hard, his belly flat, barely concealed power humming beneath the smooth skin. As a medical professional, she’d always maintained her distance but she couldn’t deny she’d looked forward to Max Duvall’s appointment times.

      But that was then.

      She planted her feet on the carpet, widening her stance in front of him. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about now? Why did Simon go on a murderous rampage, why is someone out to get me, and why did you blame it all on me?”

      He snapped the tab on his can and took a long pull from it, eyeing her above the rim. “Let’s sit down. You must be exhausted.”

      “I am, but not too exhausted to hear the truth.” She walked backward away from him and swiveled toward the bed, dropping onto the mattress. She had to hold herself upright because out of Max’s tension-filled sphere, she did feel exhausted. She felt like collapsing on the bed and pulling the covers over her head.

      He dragged a chair out from the desk by the window and sat down, stretching his long legs in front of him. It was the closest he’d come to a relaxed pose since he’d stormed into the lab in full riot gear.

      “What do you know about the work at the lab?”

      “Didn’t we go through this already? We support a covert ops agency, Prospero, by monitoring and treating its agents. Part of the lab is responsible for developing vitamin formulas that enhance strength, alertness and even intelligence.”

      “But you’re not part of that lab.”

      “N-no. I’m the people doctor, not the research doctor.”

      He slumped in his chair and took another gulp of his drink. “How do you know you support Prospero? Isn’t that supposed to be classified information? After all, the general public knows nothing of Prospero...or other covert ops agencies under the umbrella of the CIA.”

      “We’re not supposed to know, but like I said, people talk.” She waved her hand in the air. “I’ve heard things around the lab.”

      “You heard wrong.”

      She choked on the sip of water she’d just swallowed. “I beg your pardon?”

      “The rumor mill had the wrong info or it purposely spread the wrong info. You don’t support Prospero. You support another covert ops team—Tempest.”

      “Oh.” Clearing her throat, she shrugged. “One agency or the other. It doesn’t make any difference to me. They must be related groups, since both of their names come from the Shakespeare play.”

      He nodded slowly and traced the edge of the can with his fingertip. “They are related, in a way.”

      “So what difference does it make whether we supported Prospero or Tempest?”

      “I said the agencies were related, not the same. One is a force for good, and the other...” His hand wrapped around the can and his knuckles grew white as he squeezed it.

      The knots in her stomach twisted with the aluminum. “Tempest is a force for evil? Is that what you mean?”

      “Yes.”