The Spy Wore Red

He had boarded the Learjet ten minutes early. He had wanted to be seated, waiting for her when she arrived. He was glad he had; the memories of Vienna were making his pants damn uncomfortable.

She took the seat across from him. It required her to step over his legs sprawled in the aisle. He didn’t move, but he did inhale the scent of her as she stowed her carry-on beneath her seat. The Alpine heather hijacked another hot memory, and he cursed it and her.

She avoided looking at him, finding something out the window to focus on. That amused him and he shifted in his seat to scan the airport for what had caught her attention. He saw Lev Polax standing in a long coat and flambeau hat below a spotlight. He lingered for only a minute longer, then jerked his hat low over his eyes to battle the nasty weather and walked away.

Still staring out the window, she asked, “When and where do we land?”

“Vienna, in one hour, thirty-six minutes.”

His answer pulled her gaze from the window to look at him directly. He held his arrogant, relaxed posture, his legs angled and his ankles crossed, taking up the walkway.

He still wore what he’d had on earlier—his blue pants and sweater. In the seat across the aisle next to her red cape was his navy blue peacoat and a tan wool scarf. His elbow was propped on the arm of the seat, and his chin rested comfortably between his thumb and forefinger.

“Why Vienna?” Her voice sounded flat, and she directed her eyes back out the window.

“I thought it would be a nice way to start off the mission…on familiar ground.”

Her head jerked back around. “Is this the way it’s going to be with us the entire trip? At each other’s throat?”

Bjorn shrugged for lack of an answer. He didn’t know why he was pissed. Yes, he did. She had walked out on him that night, and he still felt cheated.

It was true that every man wants what he can’t have. That night what he had wanted was more time with Nadja Stefn. More touching and tasting. More holding her and hearing those unforgettable moans that she made.

“Let’s try to keep our minds on the mission,” she said. “We’ll be more effective that way. And for the record there will be no—”

“Heavy breathing? No moaning? No, ‘right there, yes…there. Don’t stop.’” Bjorn let the words roll off his tongue in his Danish lilt. The very words she’d breathlessly recited to him over and over again.

He’d played with those words in his mind a thousand times.

“Dreams are free,” he said.

Her nose lifted, bringing her chin up. She tucked a strand of pale-blond hair behind her ear. She was a true blonde. He knew that because he’d been privy to seeing her naked. He hadn’t been shy, no never. A shy man had regrets.

Polax mentioned a tattoo. He hadn’t seen it that night in Vienna, and that didn’t make sense to him—he’d touched every inch of her body…looked hard at everything. Remembered everything.

The memory of her body moving against his caught and held him, sending more blood pumping through his veins—through his phallus. They had been tangled in a knot of lust in that narrow shower, and he hadn’t ever been a part of anything that damn powerful in his life.

The plane’s engine began to sing, and then they were taxiing onto the runway. The snow was blowing like hell and the temperature was steadily dropping.

He had been listening to the weather reports while waiting for her to come on board. It looked like they would be flying into a level-ten storm. That’s the real reason he had altered their flight plan and decided to land in Vienna. The airports in and around Innsbruck were all closed.

Once they landed, he would check out the weather reports and see if any flights had opened up. If not, they’d rent a vehicle and drive to Otz.

“In Polax’s office you said that you knew where Holic Reznik would head. Enlighten me.”

She had heard him, but instead of answering him, she dodged the question and asked, “Are you sure we should be leaving in this weather?”

“I’ve flown in worse. We’ll make it.”

He said the words with confidence, though he didn’t like the weather outside, or the fact that they could be flying into worse. He wasn’t much on flying anyway, although he had done his fair share over the past seven years.

The plane’s engine grew louder, and the reminder to fasten seat belts flashed overhead. Bjorn straightened and buckled up as the jet rolled out and headed down the runway. They turned, the plane’s engines winding up, and suddenly they were racing down the runway.

Bjorn closed his eyes, hating that someone else was in control at that moment. That was what it was all about for him—giving over his control to someone he didn’t know or trust, someone who might be having a bad day or just didn’t give a shit if he lived or died at that moment.

The minute the plane was airborne, he opened his eyes and caught Nadja studying him. Their eyes locked briefly and he held her gaze openly.

“You’re staring,” she said. “Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s not polite?”

“I never had a mother.”

She raised her eyes. “Everyone has a mother.”

“It takes more than giving birth to earn that label” was all he said, and all he was going to say on the subject.

Once the plane leveled off, Bjorn unfastened his belt and stood. “I’m going to have a chat with our pilot. When I get back, we’ll talk.” He paused, gave her a warning look that his comrades had named the “gutted glare.” “If you lied to me about knowing where Holic’s hideout is, I’ll ship you back to Polax the minute we land in Vienna.”

Chapter 5

The headache came on halfway back to Washington. He hadn’t had one for an entire week. Merrick pressed his fingers into his temples, the pain so severe he felt dizzy. He had taken a handful of prescription pain relievers, but it hadn’t touched the shooting pain. It was a good thing he was sitting down.

He was on his third bottle of Glen Moray, but all that was doing was making him see double on top of everything else. But he continued to drink until the plane landed.

Because he was too drunk to drive, he took a cab to his apartment in Washington. He collapsed once he got inside, and ten hours later woke up on the floor to the aftereffects of too much whiskey and the tail end of the worst headache he’d had since he’d been diagnosed five months ago with a brain tumor.

The first thing on his agenda when he picked himself up off the floor was to phone his doctor. Paul was a personal friend, as well as a damn good surgeon.

“Sorry, Adolf, you’re not going to want to hear this, but your time is up.”

“Can’t you give me something for a few more weeks? I’m in the middle of a—”

“You’re always in the middle of something, Adolf. You’ve stalled long enough. You’re gambling with your life and I can’t be a party to that any longer.”

“But—”

“I’m admitting you today.”

“Not today.”

“Then tomorrow.”

“Give me two days.”

“Two days, then. Get your affairs in order, Adolf. Then I’ll expect to see you in my office at nine o’clock Thursday morning. If you don’t show, I’m washing my hands of you. Those headaches are a warning. And they’ll keep getting worse. You said this one was bad, but it’ll seem like a walk in the park compared to the next and the next.”

Feeling worse was hard to imagine. “All right, Paul. Day after tomorrow. Nine o’clock, your office.”

When he hung up, he sat down and made a list of what had to be done before he admitted himself into the hospital. Sly was somewhere in the Greek Isles with Eva, and couldn’t be reached.