CHAPTER SEVEN

Shea woke with a start, the warm spot on her lap cold. Barren. Mittens had deserted her, and her professor wasn’t in his chair. The fire had gone out and the darkened room closed oppressively around her. Eerily silent. Chilling.

I need to get back to Rosie’s. Eric will be there by now.

She pushed to her feet, cocking her head to hear any indication where her mentor might have gone. The afghan she’d covered him with now lay folded over the back of his chair, and his shoes were missing. He’d probably gone to bed.

“Professor?” she asked the darkened hallway opposite the kitchen, and, just in case the feline remembered, she called out quietly, “Mittens?”

Nothing. Not even a purr answered.

The floor creaked under her feet as she pressed forward. A man in her professor’s dazed condition might have fallen on his way to bed. She needed to be sure he was tucked in safe and sound before she left.

“Are you in here?” she whispered at the first doorknob. When it wouldn’t budge, she tried the last, but it wouldn’t open either. Locked doors inside? Wasn’t that odd? Could he have gone out? On a drizzly night like this?

Retracing her footsteps to the large window between his chair and the fireplace, she peered through the drawn curtains. A dense fog cloaked the ground. Everything was dark, adding to the eerie ambience of the place. Even the gas lamp at the corner of his well-kept yard, bright and cheery when she’d arrived, was off.

The place felt deserted. Hollow. Shea swallowed hard, her senses now on high alert. He wouldn’t have run off and left me, w-w-would he?

“Professor?” she asked, her tone thin and needy as she stepped away from the window to the front door. Please answer me.

Her fingers had barely touched the knob, when the kitchen doorway behind her filled with a hulking black shadow, punctuated at waist level by the silvery glint of a shining scimitar.

Run!

Like a thief caught red-handed, Shea burst through the professor’s front door, her boots pulverizing the soggy moss beneath them, and her heart jackhammering. Every muscle blazed with sheer adrenaline as she sprinted toward Rosie’s.

Run faster!

Heavy footsteps pounded behind her. The over-sized boots of her bumbling disguise hampered her speedy getaway when she needed it most. She stumbled to one knee, but quickly righted herself before she touched ground. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed more than one monster behind her. Another loomed out of the mist behind them. Who are these people?

Run! Run! Run!

With her lungs on fire, she put her all into escaping. The three men on her heels must have already killed the professor. Beheaded him. Maybe Mittens, too.

I’m next. God, why did I let myself fall asleep! Faster!

The path glistened ahead, wet with rain. Tendrils of inky fog swirled close to the ground, but there was nowhere to hide and nothing to hide behind. She had to keep going and hope a late-night driver or walker intruded upon this desperate scene. Her side cramped, and the coppery taste of blood climbed up her throat, but still she willed her clumsy feet to fly.

Deep male grunts followed. So did the steady slap, slap of heavy boots behind her. They’d gotten closer. A whimper climbed up her throat. Nobody knew her in this country. Poor Professor Grover, if he were still alive, might not even remember her. What an awful way to die, unloved and alone and…

Why is this happening to me!

With one last frantic look over her shoulder, she could see that her pursuers were very nearly on her. In minutes, they’d have her. Maybe seconds! Shea dug for her last ounce of energy and—

Oomph!

She’d hit a wall. A very solid, warm wall that grunted upon impact. A man. Steel bands clenched her biceps as he pulled her behind him, and ordered her to, “Stay here.”

Her heart leapt to her throat. That voice. It couldn’t be. Eric?

“You guys looking for someone?” he barked, his voice hard and a pistol suddenly in his hand, the business end pointed at her pursuers.

Three lethal looking men skidded to a stop, maybe twenty feet away. All of them were hulking brutes, larger and heavier than Eric. One stepped forward, jerking his chin at her. “Walk away, Yank, and mind your business,” a definite French accent answered. “He’s our problem. Not yours.”

Who in France who wants me dead? She raked her brain for anybody she knew from that country. None came to mind. Oh, wait. Hugh Carlson. Do these guys work for him?

Didn’t that notion just make her stomach jump up her throat.

Her rattled brain connected what dots she thought she knew. Phoenix and Gordie were killed after Carlson’s visit. Could he be behind this? But that black-robed monster hadn’t once mentioned the DED. All he’d wanted was—me.

Could these French guys work for Bagani? That made no sense, either. She’d taken on her Finn disguise after she’d eluded Bagani. How could he know where she’d gone when she’d dressed as an overweight man the past year?

Eric leveled his pistol at the man who’d spoken. “Make me, wise guy.” He widened his stance, his shoulders squared, and his chin stuck out. Releasing her wrist, he kept his arm across her body as if drawing a line where his territory began and the French guys ended.

Eric never had a problem facing down a bully, but three against one? She clenched her fist into a tight hard knot, prepared to help as much as she could.

Her three assailants approached, but the robes she thought she’d seen had transformed into military-style uniforms. Berets on their heads. Night sticks in their hands, not shiny and certainly not scimitars. She gulped. Okay, so maybe I was scared, and I saw things that weren’t real.

The guy who’d spoken took a step forward then stopped, smacking his open palm with the stick. “How about you and me settle this like gentlemen, monsieur?” Sarcasm laced his tone. “You walk away, and I won’t beat your rich American ass to a wretched, bloody pulp.”

“How about you die trying?” Eric shot back, his weapon pointed at the man’s upper body. The guy outweighed him, but what Eric lacked in size, he made up for in sheer willpower and guts. “You’re mighty brave for a guy with a little stick.”

“And you’re dreaming if you think you can take on the three of us and live through it.”

“He’s got help.”

Shea jumped as another man walked out of the mist, a gun in his hand that was also aimed at the Frenchman. She pressed closer to Eric, panic choking the life out of her. The thought of a gunfight was more than she could stand, but two guns against three bully sticks seemed immensely better odds.

The Frenchman dropped back with his two buddies, all hulks now that she had a chance to look at them. They didn’t resemble the demon from Hell at all. Square heads. Buzz cuts. The worst type of ex-military—mercenaries.

She pressed a hand to Eric’s back just beneath his left shoulder blade, needing some of his strength. The instant her palm felt the warmth of his rock-solid muscles, her heart remembered, and tears threatened. Whether he knew it or not, he’d finally come for her.

The leader of the thugs pointed his stick at Eric. “I’ll remember you. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Count on it,” Eric snarled back.

“And you’d better bring more than sticks next time,” his buddy declared.

The three attackers backed away until the mist swallowed them.

“Assholes,” Eric muttered, his weapon still drawn and ready. “Sure glad you showed up.”

The other man holstered his pistol. “Can’t explain it. I had a crazy feeling I needed to follow you. What’d you do? Start a war all by yourself?”

Eric blew out a long deliberate breath. “It’s been that kind of a day.” He finally turned on her as he tucked his pistol under his left arm. A two-pistol holster if she remembered correctly. His weapons were always loaded, always prepared to stand up to evil. Like him.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Finn Powers, would you?” he asked, his brows narrowed to an angry V. “I sure hope so because I’ve been up all night waiting for you.”

She dropped her head and pulled her jacket collar up to hide her neck and face, sure he’d recognize her the minute he looked into her eyes. Those facial appliances had better stand the crucial test of his scrutiny. She coughed, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. Brushing the back of her right hand across both eyes to dispel her tears, she froze. Oh, crap. My glasses.

Muttering in as deep a voice as she could muster, she offered him nothing but the top of her head. “Yeah,” she muttered. “I’m Finn.”

Gah! No gruff voice came out of her mouth. She’d squeaked like a frightened woman. He’d never believe she was a bumbling male at this rate. Wiping her tear-dampened hand on her baggy pants, she stuck it out for a handshake. “Glad you got my message,” she mumbled, striving for baritone. At least alto.

She’d never had a problem deceiving Phoenix and Gordie. Why was it so hard fooling Eric? “Been a…” She cuffed a fist to her mouth and coughed. “…a helluva long day.”

He gave her hand a quick shake, his focus on the direction her would-be assailants had gone. “Who were those guys? Do you know them?”

“Sure don’t,” she admitted hoarsely, stealing a quick glance in his direction. Short black hair. Soft. Sexy. The kind of hair women liked to run their fingers through. Her nostrils flared, drinking in the scent of his shaving lotion.

Standing close to him worked magic on her body. Heat pooled between her legs. Her stomach churned along with everything else inside of her trembling body. Even her fake jowls quivered against her neck. Frazzled, she took a step back and tripped on her over-sized feet.

He caught her elbow and pulled her upright. “Don’t go falling—”

Whatever else he meant to say got caught in his throat. The man had the kindest, darkest brown eyes in the world. Bedroom eyes that could melt a woman’s panties as quickly as they’d light up her world.

He licked his lips, soft lips she remembered nipping and tasting. Kissing like there was no tomorrow. She’d never needed alcohol with him. She could get drunk on Eric for days.

A distinct shadow graced the hard angle of his jaw, giving him a definite bad boy look. That was so unlike him. Whether in the Navy or the Corp, he’d always strived for the clean-shaven look.

His chest expanded, drawing her gaze to his open collar. His neck. The hollow under his chin where she used to snuggle in peace and love.

He blinked then, staring down at their joined hands, her small fingers caught in his much larger grip. She knew well the comfort of that hand, but he’d also just latched onto Finn’s greatest weakness. A face was simple to disguise with make-up and appliances, but hands and fingers were a sure giveaway.

Pulling back, she stuffed her fingers inside her long shirtsleeves. “I gotta go.”

Eric’s brows furrowed and that was the last straw. She headed back to Rosie’s before he had time to recognize her. She’d be safe there in her private room. Maybe in the morning, she’d come up with a way to tell him who she was.

Even Sasha didn’t know she was Eric’s ex-wife, the crazy woman who’d left him at the worst moment in his life.

Shea stepped up her pace only to find Eric at her right, her other savior at her left. She focused on him, the guy she didn’t know. “W-who are you?”

“Junior Agent Jordan Hannigan. Why didn’t you wait for us in England, Finn? I’ve got to tell you, we’ve been running after you all day. You’re a royal pain in the ass.”

She lifted her sleeved arm to her mouth and faked a cough. “Had to leave. No choice.”

“Come on. We need a better answer than that,” Eric said. “You’re on the run. Why come here?”

“Had to get to Professor Grover,” she offered hoarsely, still not meeting his eyes. “Might be too late.”

“What are you saying?” he asked. “Is he dead, too?”

Damn. I hope not. Shea stopped and glanced over her shoulder at Grover’s cottage. A frisson of fear lanced her foolish attempt at confidence. “Not sure. I, umm, I saw those guys inside his place, and I just... ran.” Like I always do.

Both men stopped with her. “Take Powers back to Rosie’s. Make sure he’s safe,” Eric ordered, a hint of sarcasm lacing his words. “I’ll be along shortly.”

“No,” flew out of her mouth before she had time to think. “God, no. I mean…” She strove for baritone. “…they’ll kill you.”

Eric peered at her in that inquisitive way he had, his head cocked, his gaze incredibly sharp. As a scalpel. “Why would you care?” He stabbed his finger eastward. “You had no problem watching your buddy die in that lab.”

He couldn’t have hurt her worse if he’d struck her face with his fist. “I—”

“And what about Mikkelson?” An angry gaze fell to her boots. “You were there too, weren’t you? What’d you do, step in his blood on your way out the door?”

She shook her head even as her heart screamed. It’s me, Eric. It’s finally me! “N-n-no! I hid in the lab because—”

“You know what?” Eric bit out, his hand raking over his scalp, tossing his hair. “I don’t care. Jesus Christ, this has been a godawful day and…” He huffed, his signal that he’d reached the end of his patience. “We’re going back to the States first thing in the morning.”

Shea couldn’t leave well enough alone. “I don’t want anyone else hurt because of me. Call the police. Let them take care of it.”

“Yeah, that’s why I freakin’ traveled all the way to Ireland, to call the police to do my job.” Eric shifted a cynical gaze over her head to his friend. “Like I said, I’ll be back. Don’t let anyone get close to our friend here. Not even Rosie. And you…” He stabbed his index finger in Shea’s face. “Stay put. I have no problem leaving your sorry ass behind if you take off on me again.”

All she could do was nod at that scathing order.

“Hurry back,” Jordan answered.

“But you shouldn’t go by yourself,” Shea shot at the back of Eric’s stubborn head as he walked away. This was so like him to take matters into his own hands, to go hunting for trouble. Those three guys had to be waiting for him. He could be walking into an ambush. Because of me.

Eric didn’t respond or look back, just kept walking until the fog swallowed him up, too.

Jordan cupped her elbow, tugging her to walk with him toward Rosie’s. “You picked a good one.”

I know…

“The ‘Edge of O’Banner’ serves some fine food. Let’s go see if there’s any of that apple dessert left.”

Oh. Rosie’s place. “Yes, ah, O’Banner’s is the best.” Or so, Professor Grover had said.

He made more small talk, but her heart was on the moor behind her and the man who always thought he was tough enough to take on the world by himself. She cast a glance over her shoulder just as an orange glow pierced the mist. The professor’s lovely cottage was burning.

“Fire! We have to go back! He’ll be killed!” She would have run, but Jordan intercepted her.

He spun her back around, his grip tight on her elbow. “Enough! Who the hell are you?”

She pointed at the glowing sky behind her, knowing full well she’d spoken out of panic, and that she’d used Shea’s voice instead of Finn’s. She used it again. Now wasn’t the time for deceit. Not with two lives in danger. “Don’t just stand there. We have to save him!”

Jordan yanked the wig off her head and tossed it to the ground. “You’re no guy. Answer me. Who are you?”

She grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him as real fear poured out. “Why don’t you listen to me? Eric needs your help. Go to him! Help him!”

Jordan glanced over her shoulder, his dark eyes shining with reflected orange glow. “You care more about Eric Reynolds than your professor? You want to explain that?”

“No, I... Yes, but...” She gulped her subterfuge away. He’d caught her, and she didn’t care. “It doesn’t matter. They both need our help. Please! We need to go.”

Jordan snagged both of her wrists and pulled her into his face, his sharp gaze raking over her features. He took in everything, from her gummed-on eyebrows to her high cheekbone appliances to her flabby double chin. “I’m not worried about that man, ma’am, and you shouldn’t be either. Eric’s a straight operator, and he’s good as hell. He’ll get your professor out of that fire if he can. That’s why you’re scared, isn’t it? You already know him. You mind telling me how?”

She faced the glow, her heart in her throat for what Eric might be walking into. The entire western sky had turned so orange and bright that the blaze could’ve passed for the morning sunrise. All out panic climbed up her throat. “I can’t just stay here and wait. Please. He’s my… my ex-husband,” she admitted, a catch in her throat. And God help me, I still love him.

“Holy shit,” Jordan hissed. “You’re Shea? Then I’m getting you back to Rosie’s before anything else happens. Come on. Stop looking over your shoulder. I know Eric and so do you. He’ll be okay.”

It felt good to finally tell someone who she was. Shea swallowed. The charade was over and Jordan was right. One Eric was worth a hundred other men. A siren sprang through the distance. Still… she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the yellow-orange smoke filling the western sky.

“Trust him, Shea,” Jordan urged. “He knows how to take care of himself.”

“I know but…” She knew too well the cost of running away.

Jordan tugged her to go with him, and reluctantly, Shea retrieved her wig and allowed him to steer her eastward. Eric didn’t take unnecessary risks and chances. Always methodical and focused, he’d never come home wounded from any deployment. He was the lifesaver. The one everyone else relied on to rescue them, and if possible, he’d rescue the professor tonight. Maybe Mittens, too.

“I can’t believe this. You’re the guy we’ve been looking for. You’re Finn, only you’re not. Shea, you’ve got to tell him who you are,” Jordan stated the obvious.

Her words stuck in her throat. “I... can’t.”

“Bet me. He’s no dummy. Once he sees you in the light of day, he’ll see right through that clown suit. Tell him. Go on. Rip the scab off and get it over with.”

She shook her head as the hollow life she’d lived caught up with her. “You don’t understand.” It’s not that easy.

“Then make me. I’ve got time.”

Time wasn’t the problem. Forgiveness was.

“Let me tell him in my own time,” she said with a conviction she didn’t feel. And when I do, he’ll never want to see me again.

“Make it quick. That man’s no dummy.”

I know. And therein lay the real problem. Eric was the kind of man who ran into burning houses while others ran out. Only the burning ‘House of Finn’ had the potential to destroy him.

Sir Walter Scott’s words whispered through the foggy mist: Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive...