Chapter 42

“I regret the tight squeeze,” Gautier said from his place in the front of the sub. The pilot’s seat appeared to be little more than a legless beach chair. And the only lights inside the vessel came from the control panel, which Gautier watched with eagle-eye scrutiny. “Better to lie down, oui? More room this way.”

Chelsea’s limbs shook uncontrollably. She wasn’t sure if it was from fear or cold.

The jump into the icy Channel had nearly knocked her unconscious. It didn’t seem possible that water could be that hard. Had it not been for Dagan, the collision with the surface, combined with the shock of the cold and the weight of her pack, might have been enough to do her in. She had been in the process of attempting a few feeble kicks when he had gotten an arm around her and dragged her to the surface. A second later, before she even had time to catch her breath, he had boosted her aboard the sub.

Now they both sat hunched in Gautier’s vessel. The space was barely three feet high and not much wider. But it was at least nine feet long, tip to tail. So that was good. And the floor seemed to have a bit of padding thanks to a series of… What were those? Rubber yoga mats?

It was difficult to see in the dusky interior and…

Shit. She realized she had lost her glasses in the jump. Luckily, she kept an extra pair in her bag. Unzipping the front pocket, she fished out her spare glasses case, surprised to find it mostly dry, and slid on the frames.

Blinking the space into focus, she realized it was yoga mats lining the floor. They had been stitched together and fitted against the dark hull. Even though there was little light to see by, it was still enough to show the whole vessel looked like it’d been built by someone using the wrong end of a hammer. She instantly regretted donning her glasses.

“Good Lord have mercy,” she muttered beneath her breath.

“Let’s take Gautier’s advice and get comfy.” Dagan shrugged out of his backpack. “It’s going to be a long ride.” Twisting around, he got his feet pointed toward the back of the sub and stretched out, using his soggy pack as a pillow. “Come on, babe.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Come down here with me. We’ll share body heat and warm up. You’re shaking like a leaf.”

Right. But the question remained…from fear or from cold?

If it was fear, it had nothing to do with the residual effects of the jump. Or the terror of being underwater in a submersible that looked like it’d been pieced together with Elmer’s Glue and Popsicle sticks. Oh no. If she was shaking from fear, it was because the time had finally come to reveal the Big Bad Secret.

On the walk to the pier, she had promised herself she would use the trek across the Channel to finally come clean. And even when she and Dagan had been running for their lives, her mind had kept coming back to the inevitably of that. Like a dog to its own vomit, as her dad would have said.

Here goes, she thought, wiggling out of her backpack and setting it beside Dagan’s. Maneuvering herself around in the small space was awkward, but she managed it. She pressed her head against her pack and was surprised when the first words out of her mouth weren’t the truth. Instead they were, “Do you think he’s dead?”

“Who?” Dagan pulled her close. She allowed it because she was absolutely freezing and he was so very warm. Soon enough, he might turn his back on her, but for now she’d memorize every detail of what it was to be held in his arms.

The smell of the soap on his skin tantalized when she ducked her head under his chin, her shivering lips pressed close to the hot, beating pulse in his neck. “Surry. Is he dead?”

“If not now, then soon. I think I got him in the gut.” She felt him grimace. “Those wounds are generally fatal. And I wish I could say I’m sorry, but he took a shot at you, Chels, tried to kill you, so I’m not. I’m glad he’s dead. Does that…” He swallowed. His Adam’s apple moved against her lips. “Does that shock you? That I can…that I can kill a man without remorse?”

“No, I…I’m…” She stuttered to a stop. I’m just stalling was what she should have said. Lord help her, she didn’t want to lose him. Not yet. She had ninety minutes, right? And the Big Bad Secret wouldn’t take more than ten to tell.

I have time, she assured herself. Time to love him a little more and let him love me. “I guess I was just worried he might…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Follow us across somehow. I mean, he did find us in Folkestone.”

“You don’t have to worry about him. I guarantee you that. Now come closer.” He pulled her tighter against him, scissoring their wet, jean-clan legs together and slipping a hand inside her sopping coat. His flattened palm against the small of her back was warm and possessive. “This sub is hard and cold, but you’re soft and warm. And since we have an hour and a half to kill, I’d like to do it snuggling with you. We never got the chance to snuggle. You know…after. And that’s my favorite part. Well, one of my favorite parts.” He chuckled. The sound was low and seductive and did familiar things to her belly.

A thumb under her chin had her lifting her head. Even in the semidarkness, even listening to the eerie pop and creak of the vessel as it dove to depth, she was mesmerized by his stormy gray eyes.

Lovely eyes, really. So soft and steady and…quiet.

Yes, there was an inner stillness to Dagan that was not to be confused with the stillness that sometimes came over him when they were arguing or when the world around them was threatening to end. That was the calm before the storm. But this? This came from a well of inner certainty. He was a man who had made his place in the world and was comfortable there.

Not that he didn’t have regrets. She knew he did. She saw the shadows of them lurking in his eyes sometimes. But he had come to terms with them. Learned to live with them. And she could only hope that in the near future, she could do the same with her regrets.

She hadn’t realized she’d been silent until Dagan said, “You’re quiet, but you have an unquiet mind. I can smell the wheels burning up here.” He tapped her temple. “What’s up, babe?”

“I was just thinking about…my mother.” It wasn’t a total lie. Her mother was never far from her thoughts.

“Your mother?” He cocked his head. There it was. That Clint Eastwood gunfight stare. “You think she’ll be embarrassed or ashamed because of the news stories? Chels, you know that’ll clear itself up. It may take a while since Morrison isn’t Spider and everything. But he knows Spider. I mean, he knew Spider, which likely means he was tangled up with him in something illegal. Ozzie will figure out whatever it was from Morrison’s files. Then the CIA will claim the credit for exposing the old sonofabitch, with you as their agent, naturally, and your reputation will be free and clear. Of course, then your cover will be blown. I’m sorry as hell about that; I really am. But at least—”

“Wow.” She shook her head. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

His chin jerked back. “Of course.” The hand against her back rubbed up and down, up and down, somehow soothing and scintillating at the same time. “It’s your life. And since I plan to be a part of that, I—”

She closed her ears to what he said next. She knew the words, those wonderful words, would flay her. And she already felt like she’d lost a layer of skin.

“My mother isn’t embarrassed or ashamed,” she said after he’d grown silent. “If she’d ever been the kind to care about what people thought or said, she never would have married my father.”

“You know, you never told me what happened.”

She tucked her head back beneath his chin. Some of her hair got stuck in his beard, which was no big surprise since she knew her ’do had to be a frizzy, kinky mess. But oddly enough, Dagan seemed to like it. He palmed her head and rubbed a lock between his fingers.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, you were able to secure the position with Morrison partly based on your background, on your need for money and his belief that that need made you desperate and vulnerable and likely to put up with his pawing. But you never said exactly what was going on. Will you…will you tell me now? Tell me why you need money? Because maybe I could—”

Before he could offer to help her, which would crush to dust her already broken heart, she interrupted him. “Money. That word…it just…sticks in my craw. I mean, it sounds so harmless, doesn’t it? Rhymes with honey and bunny. But when you don’t have any, it’s an insidious thing that impacts everything you do.”

From the smallest decision, like whether you buy brand-name cereal or the generic stuff from the bottom shelf, she thought with disgust. To the biggest decision, like whether you give up paying a double mortgage and let the bank take the home you grew up in or you keep your job, keep a Big Bad Secret, and keep on paying the bills.

“For years now, my mom and I have…uh… We’ve been slowly trying to dig ourselves out of the debt left by my father’s passing,” Chelsea told him. Even with her chin tucked under his chin, she could feel his frown.

She never spoke about this part of her life, and it showed in the puttering way the words left her mouth. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her situation. More like she had always reckoned it was nobody’s damned business that she and her mother were too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash, as her father would have said.

“My mom never wanted to be anything but a wife and a mother. So that left my dad as the breadwinner of the family. Not that there was a ton of bread. Public school teachers make jack shit, but he made enough to buy a piece of land after he and Momma married. He went to the local banks to try to secure a construction loan, but no one would lend him the money. Apparently, the loan officers had all sorts of reasons why they couldn’t take the risk, but the truth was they simply didn’t want to lend money to a…a mixed marriage couple, I think was the term they used. Remember, this was the South in the eighties.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Mom and Dad saved up during the school years, living on rice and beans so that they could purchase the supplies and equipment they needed. For five summers before I was born, brick by brick and nail by nail, they built their dream house. My home. We all lived there together for seventeen glorious years.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and took a breath. “And then Dad died.”

Dagan’s hold tightened, his arms so warm and strong. She closed her eyes at the comfort his embrace provided, comfort she had no business feeling.

When she continued, her voice was hoarser than usual. “Dad had a life insurance policy, but that didn’t cover much more than funeral expenses. Mom needed a job. But she didn’t have any schooling or training past high school so she was forced to take out a loan on the house to pay for dental hygienist school. Then I went to college, and she had to take out a second mortgage to help cover the cost my scholarship and student loans didn’t. Suddenly, the banks were all too happy to lend her money. Go figure.”

Taking a deep breath, she told him the rest. “Fast-forward a few years to the bursting of the real estate bubble and…” She shrugged inside the circle of his arms. “Every extra penny I’ve made goes to my student loans and the bank that holds the mortgages on the house. And even at that, sometimes Mom and I are late on our payments.”

It was hard to fathom that in all the years since she’d graduated summa cum laude with a double master’s in statistics and international studies that she had barely made a dent in her and her mother’s combined six-figure debt. Working for the Central Intelligence Agency was exciting, but the pay sure wasn’t.

“I’m so sorry, babe. If it’s any consolation, I know what it’s like to be desperate for money.”

“I know you do.”

For a few minutes neither of them spoke, then Dagan said, “You know, I’m really looking forward to meeting your mother, even if I do take exception to her taste in music.”

Chelsea ignored the first part of his statement—after she revealed the Big Bad secret, she suffered no illusions that he’d want to meet her mom—and focused instead on the second part. She pushed up on her elbow. “What do you mean her taste in music? How would you know what her taste in music is?”

“Her ringtone. She likes Dolly Parton, right?”

Chelsea narrowed her eyes.

“Uh-oh. I know that look. You’re about to let me have it, aren’t you?”

“And what the heck is wrong with Dolly Parton?” she demanded.

“Yep.” He sighed. “Let me have it.”

“She is one of the greatest songwriters of the last century. She’s had dozens of hits. And did you know she turned down Elvis Presley when he wanted to record I Will Always Love You? Elvis Presley, for heaven’s sake! And—”

He dragged her down and melted her brain with a soft, seductive kiss.

When she was thoroughly breathless, he released her and said against her lips, “I take it back. Dolly’s awesome.”

“Damn straight.” She felt more than saw his smile. “But for the record, it was my dad who was the big Dolly Parton fan. Mom and I…we each have a different Dolly ringtone because it… Well, every time we call each other, it reminds us of him. That’s also why we wear so much purple.”

“Was that his favorite color?”

Her brow puckered. “You know, I don’t know what his favorite color was. I just know that he thought Mom looked beautiful in purple. Every Christmas, he would buy her something new. A lavender scarf one year. An eggplant-colored summer dress the next. After he died, I started wearing purple too. Sort of a…”

“Memorial,” he finished for her.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“He must have been an amazing man for two amazing women to love him and miss him so fiercely.”

“He was the best. He had the biggest laugh you’ve ever heard.”

“Wish I could have met him.”

A lump formed in Chelsea’s throat. “He would have loved you and hated you at the same time.”

“Hated me? Why’s that?”

“Loved you because you’re a wonderful man. Hated you because you’re diddling his daughter.”

“Diddling?”

A smile twitched her lips. “I picked that one up from Emily.”

“That woman has such a way with words.”

“Doesn’t she, though?” Chelsea snorted. “So what about your folks? I mean, what were they like when you were growing up?” Stall much, Chels? Yes. Yes, she did. But if this was the only time she would ever have to talk to him like a lover, to get to know him, then she was taking it. “You’ve never told me much—read: anything—about your childhood.”

Dagan’s voice had turned sleepy, the warm hand rubbing her back becoming slow and lazy. The strain of the day, both mental and physical, was catching up with him. It was catching up with her too now that she was warm—more than warm, steamy. Their body heat had combined with their soggy clothes to leave beads of condensation glittering dully around the hull. Her eyes threatened to drop closed, and her body loosened until her muscles felt liquid.

“I guess you could say we were your all-American family. Dad was an accountant for a wire mesh manufacturing plant. Mom was a librarian at the Union Branch of the Cleveland Public Library. We lived in a three-bedroom house on a cul-de-sac. Little League. Boy Scouts. Summer barbecues with the neighbors. Pretty standard stuff, really.” He stopped abruptly, and she could tell he was gathering his thoughts.

“And then your mom got sick?” she prompted.

“Yeah. I was away at college, but Avan was still at home. He watched her go through it, watched Dad having to watch her go through it. After she died, Dad was really never quite the same. And then before Dad could truly heal from his heartbreak, he had the aneurysm.” She heard Dagan’s throat work over a swallow. “Maybe it was a blessing. I don’t know. I’m not sure there’s an afterlife, but if there is, I like to think my parents are together sharing it.”

Her heart broke for him. “I can’t imagine losing both of my folks in such a short time. It was awful enough losing one.”

“It was tough. No doubt about it. But I was so busy trying to conquer the world, you know? College, grad school, applying to the CIA. I missed my parents, but I didn’t really miss the sense of security they provided. The sense of home. Or at least I didn’t miss it like Avan did.”

“He was still young enough to need them.”

“I guess that’s it. He’s never said as much, but I’m pretty sure that’s why he turned to drugs. He was self-medicating, trying to fill the empty spaces inside him where family and home used to be.”

There was a hole in Chelsea’s heart. It was in the shape of Dagan Zoelner. “I’m so sorry.” They were the only words she knew to give, but they didn’t seem like enough.

Her hand lay on his chest. He brought it to his mouth, kissing the tips of her fingers. His lips were warm and soft, but his beard was wonderfully scratchy. “I guess that’s why I get it,” he said, flattening her hand back over his heart.

“Get what?”

“Get why you’ve been fighting so long and so hard to save the house your parents built. To save your home. I didn’t realize how much home meant until I didn’t have one anymore, until Avan didn’t have one anymore.”

The tears that were suddenly behind Chelsea’s eyes felt sharp enough to cut glass. Would he “get it” once he knew the truth? Would he understand then?

He let out a mighty yawn, stretching so that his big body tightened. Once he relaxed, she felt the hand rubbing against her back slow and then stop altogether. His breaths grew deep and even. A minute later, he was asleep.

It had always amazed her how agents and operators could do that, just drop off at a moment’s notice. She suspected it was a learned habit. If, in the midst of a mission or a battle, you were forced to stay awake for hours or days even, it behooved you to learn to go out cold the minute things calmed down.

She usually envied that ability. But not now. The last thing she wanted was to succumb to exhaustion. Instead she would spend what little time she had left listening to his heart beat, feeling his big chest rise and fall, and cherishing every second she was in his arms.