The Colonel's Widow?

That was her low, sexy voice with the faint Russian accent that increased when she was upset.

Rook Castle wiped his palms down the legs of the dress pants that hung a bit too low on his haunches. His skin was still warm and damp from his shower, but the moisture on his palms came from pure nerves. He hadn’t seen his wife in two years. Hadn’t dared to hope he’d ever see her again.

She was so beautiful his eyes ached. More beautiful than he remembered. Although her delicate features were masked by fear, and her slender frame looked fragile, engulfed by the plaid wool blanket that wrapped around her shoulders.

Without makeup, her blue eyes surrounded by pale lashes were as wide and innocent as a girl’s. And right now, they were filled with confusion and disbelief that etched another groove into his already battle-scarred heart.

“Irina,” he breathed, and dared to move one step closer.

She held up a hand in warning. Her gaze tracked him like a doe watching a hunter. He hated seeing her like that—the way she’d been when he’d rescued her father, dissident Soviet scientist Leonid Tankien.

But he’d come to know her well in the past six years. Irina Castle was no doe in headlights. In about five seconds that wild-eyed fear was going to change to fury, and woe to anyone who stepped into the path of her storm.

Woe to him.

“Irina.” His throat was scratchy and sore, his voice hoarse from disuse. He’d talked more today than he had in two years. He cleared his throat. “I’m not—”

“What is going on?” She stiffened her back and tucked her chin. Her eyes narrowed and the spark he’d been waiting for flashed in them. She eased sideways. Again.

A weak thrill fluttered in his chest. If he could’ve remembered what muscles to use to smile, he would have.

She was doing exactly what he’d expected her to do. She was edging toward the closest weapon—a Glock .23, hidden in a shelf of dog-eared paperbacks opposite the fireplace.

He pushed back his open shirt and slid his weapon from the paddle holster in his waistband. He held it up. “Here,” he said, flipping the Sig Sauer’s handle out. “Take mine.”

He bent down and slid it across the red oak floor toward her, then straightened and leaned against the mantel, doing his damnedest to appear nonchalant.

She picked up the gun, never taking her eyes off him. The blanket slipped off her shoulders, and Rook saw her perfectly shaped breasts beneath a thin covering of silk. He gritted his teeth as his body reacted to the familiar, lush curves and hollows he saw, and those he knew only from memory. Her beautiful body, which he’d yearned for every night during the past two years.

Was that the red silk gown and robe she’d bought for their yachting cruise in the Mediterranean? He’d never gotten to see it on her.

He’d died on that trip. As the thought formed in his head, the heat in his groin dissipated.

Clutching the Sig, Irina pointed it at him and straightened. One shoulder of the robe slid down her arm. She didn’t notice.

Her delicate shoulder was made more vulnerable, more fragile looking by the little bump of bone that interrupted its curve. Her skin stretched across it, appearing translucent. He knew that bump, and the matching one on the other side. He knew how it felt, how it tasted. Like clean, white linen. Like her.

Rook winced inwardly and lifted his gaze to her face. Her gaze met his with faint horror, as if he were a stranger ogling her and she could read his thoughts.

Suddenly, a different kind of sparkle lit her eyes, and it twisted his heart painfully.

He knew better than anyone that Irina never cried. And he knew why. That he’d caused the tears that reflected the firelight gouged another chunk from his heart.

She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and, miraculously, the dampness in her eyes disappeared.

“So tell me. What is the big emergency?” she asked tonelessly.

“What?”

“Obviously, you never planned to—” she paused briefly “—to come back here. But something has happened. Something involving me. Something you couldn’t handle any other way.”

She wrapped her left hand around her right to support the weight of the gun. “You were never fond of theatrics, so I have to assume that it is urgent, or you wouldn’t have sneaked me out here in the dead of night. So get to it.”

Rook nodded. That’s my girl.

She was doing everything she could to stay in control. It was one of the things he loved about her. That need to keep everything steady in an unsteady world. It was embedded into the core of steel that had drawn him to her the first time he’d seen her. But that steel core made her slow to trust.

And if anyone ever betrayed her…

If he could hate himself any more than he already did, he would. But his self-loathing was maxed out. There was no way he could explain to her why he’d done what he had.

Hell, he’d been second-guessing his decision for two years.

“Is it because of what happened to Matt and Deke? I’m sure Deke has briefed you—” Her voice cracked.

“Deke didn’t know,” he said quickly. “Not for sure. Not until yesterday morning. Don’t blame him.”

“No. I do not blame him. I blame you.” The staccato words were coated with frost. “Spare me the explanations. Just get to the point.”

“Why don’t you sit down—”

“Get. To. The. Point!”

Rook pushed his hands through his hair and wiped his face. He still wasn’t used to his naked cheeks and chin. The beard—his mask—had been a part of him for the past two years. He lifted his gaze to Irina’s. Her eyes were as hard and opaque as turquoise.

“Novus Ordo is after you.”

“Da,” she said, then, “Yes. That I know.”

“When you stopped looking for me, and called Matt back to Wyoming, it alerted him. Deke was right about—”

“About Novus acting on the theory that I stopped because I had found you,” she fired back at him in a rapid staccato. “Not because I ran out of money or gave up. How silly of me. I waste so much time and money looking for you when I could have—” her voice broke and she laughed sharply, the sound like breaking glass. “You should tell me something I do not know.”

“Fine. But I’m going to sit down. You stand there if you want.” Rook dropped into a worn leather chair that smelled like oil and pipe smoke. It had been his dad’s.

He couldn’t believe how shaky he was. How unsure. He didn’t remember ever feeling this way before. Back when he’d made the decision to fake his death to stop Novus Ordo from targeting Irina, he’d felt like his life was spiraling out of control.

But this uncertainty was new—born of lies and deception, of stealth and secrecy and living in exile.

He’d been alone too long. In the past two years he’d barely spoken a word to another person. He’d spent all his time studying and searching for his enemy. The world’s most dangerous terrorist, Novus Ordo.

He feared he might never feel human again, now that he’d lived inside himself for so long. He’d hoped to find a way to keep up with her, to make sure she was all right.

But by the time he was healed, he knew if he saw her he wouldn’t be able to stay away from her.

And if he didn’t stay away from her, she could die.

When he looked up, she hadn’t moved, although the gun barrel had tilted downward. Her face was still expressionless, but her body was rigid—so tense he was afraid her bones might break.