Lovers In Hiding

He noticed immediately, his stormy green eyes narrowing with concern. “Eat some more soup.”

“Yes, Mother,” she teased, thinking the way he looked at her was anything but motherly. He maintained this rock-solid glint at all times, but even so, she discerned a hint of speculative interest there.

Interest in her?

At the thought, she almost dropped her spoon, just barely raised the soup to her mouth without making a total klutz of herself. Realizing that she wanted to trust him, she considered whether she’d believed him too easily. Lots of sickos wanted their women warm and healthy.

Yet every time she glanced into those direct eyes of his, she had trouble thinking of him as a pervert. It was like trying to imagine Clint Eastwood or Harrison Ford as a bad guy. She simply couldn’t discern any evil in his hard, rugged features. On the other hand, she wasn’t so naive that she didn’t know looks could be deceiving.

Frustrated that she couldn’t make up her mind, she shifted uneasily in her seat. Again those all-seeing green eyes noticed. “Something wrong?”

“I have to use the ladies’ room.” She stood. “Be back in a minute.”

She left the table without asking his permission, wondering if he’d allow her to walk away. It took all her willpower not to look back over her shoulder at him, especially when she felt his stare drilling between her shoulder blades.

When she reached the ladies’ room, she turned to enter and barely restrained a gasp. Clay was right behind her. How the huge man had moved so silently, she had no idea. But he’d followed, never letting her move more than two steps away from him.

Frightened and angry that he trusted her so little while he asked her to trust him with her life, she whirled around to confront him. Again he’d anticipated her reaction and was already pointing to the back door. “If those men found my bike, they could barge in and grab you,” he explained.

“You aren’t coming inside?”

He opened the ladies’-room door, glanced at the empty cubicles and the tiny window. Holding the door open for her, he leaned against the hallway wall, a satisfied look in his eyes. “I’ll just wait here to make sure you make it back safely.”

Without another word, she pushed through the doorway, her pulse still skittering. Was he really so concerned for her safety? Or did he fear she’d try to escape out the back door?

Thinking hard, she entered a stall, slipped out of her jacket and hung it on the hook. She took care of business, flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and reached for her jacket. The gun he’d given her fell out of the pocket to the floor with a clatter, skidding toward the sink.

She didn’t think the gun could discharge like that. He’d told her it wouldn’t fire with the safety on. Still, she found herself tensed and holding her breath. Finally when nothing untoward occurred, she leaned over and gently picked up the weapon.

Her thumb pressed something and she heard a faint click. The clip inside the handle slid out.

She started to shove the clip back into the gun. Her body turned icy.

The gun he’d given her to protect herself from him…had…no…bullets.

Chapter Three

Melinda gasped and swore at the sight of the clip that was as empty as her head was of memories. Clay had tricked her, making her believe she had a reliable weapon when in reality, if she’d pulled the trigger, nothing would have happened.

She should have been scared, but anger simmered through her veins, heating her face in embarrassment at buying his deception. How dared he play with her? Before she could decide her next move, Clay opened the rest-room door. “I heard a noise. You okay?”

“Damn you. No. I’m not okay.” She held out the gun in one hand, the empty clip in the other, wishing she could throw it at his head without fear of retaliation. “You lied to me again.”

“I didn’t.” He reclaimed his weapon and reholstered it somewhere behind his back as casually as if they were discussing whether she preferred coffee or hot chocolate.

“You may never have said the gun was loaded but you implied it.”

He shrugged, male amusement glittering in his eyes. “I couldn’t in good conscience give a loaded gun to a woman who doesn’t know how to use it, now, could I?”

His amusement and logic irritated, like fingernails scratching a blackboard. “You don’t have a conscience.”

“And you are making accusations without all the facts.” He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a Palm Pilot. “Here, I’m breaking the agency rules again, but I think you should read your file.”

Like she knew how to use it! She wasn’t great with technical things. How did she know that? She refused to take the calculator-size gadget from him. “You could have typed anything in there. Why should I believe words on a screen any more than words from your mouth?”

He hesitated, his eyes searching hers and catching some of her frustration. “Why shouldn’t you believe me?”

Again, he’d made a good point, but this time she could talk through the heat of her anger. “Can I phone a CIA office to verify your story?”

“That would jeopardize the security of the operation. As I told you, I’m working undercover.”

“Why?”

A waitress pushed through the door of the ladies’ room and frowned at Clay. “Is there a problem here?”

“I thought she fell,” Clay explained with a rogue-like smile. “I just wanted to make sure she’s all right.”

That he could have heard anything from the hallway that made him think she’d fallen pushed the boundary of common sense. It was much more likely Clay had heard her gasp of surprise at the missing bullets, but the waitress bought his story, delivered with a sincerely apologetic but a virile I’m-a-man-and-must-protect-a-woman smile. Melinda made a mental note to remember he could lie and smile with charming candor at the same time.

Clay escorted her back to their table. While they finished their meal, he explained why she couldn’t call the CIA. “The director thinks someone at the agency may be behind the operation against you.”

She didn’t understand. “Doesn’t the director know? After all, he’s the head of operations.”

“It’s a very large agency with thousands of employees.”

“What are you saying? Exactly?”

“Sometimes factions occur in large organizations. Splits that lead to secret operations.”

“You’re talking about people with their own agendas within the CIA?”

“Their own illegal agendas.”

Like murdering innocent citizens? “And what would they want with me?” She mopped up the last of her clam chowder with a hunk of thick bread and wondered if this story was any more true than the last lie he’d fed her.

“You may have information they need.”

Sure she did.

She chuckled. She couldn’t help it. Soon a full-bellied laugh worked up her throat and out of her mouth. The thought of someone trying to kill her for information when she couldn’t even remember what she had for breakfast was insane.

Clay shook his head at her. “This is serious.”

“I know.” So why couldn’t she stop laughing? She must be hysterical, the logical part of her mind whispered. But the emotional part needed release from the tension. She’d almost drowned. Now she had killers after her. And no memory. To top off her ridiculous predicament, the only person standing between her and the killers was a dangerous-looking hunk in black leather who rode a motorcycle like a professional and had an unsettling way of making her believe in him when all the facts said otherwise. No wonder she was losing it, laughing so hard her eyes brimmed with more tears.

Watching as if he expected her to shake apart into a thousand pieces, Clay patted her on the back. “You aren’t going to start crying again, are you?”

She shook her head and clamped down hard on her laughter by holding her breath. A minute or so later, her laughter abated, but she couldn’t control her edgy nerves or the prickly ball of heat in her gut as Clay watched her with concern.