Rafe Sinclair's Revenge

Nothing in the dining room seemed out of order. No more than it had in here.

She laid her car keys down beside the sack of groceries and took a step toward the front of the house. As she did, it occurred to her that the smart thing to do would be to go outside, to get into her car and to drive back into town to the sheriff’s office.

And tell him what? Something isn’t right at my house. I don’t like the way it feels.

She could imagine what a charge the deputies would get out of retelling that story. The sheriff would probably send someone back with her, and when they discovered there was nothing here…

She made her feet take another step and then another, crossing the kitchen with determination if not alacrity. There was no reason for this apprehension, she reiterated doggedly. It was ridiculous. No one knew she was here. And no one here knew who she was.

She had changed her name. Changed her appearance. Changed her life. She wasn’t about to go through any of that again because something about this place was suddenly giving her the willies.

She stopped at the dining room door, reaching out to flick the switch for the overhead light. As it scattered the darkness to the periphery of the room, nothing out of the ordinary was revealed.

She took a deep, calming breath. The comforting smell of lemon oil surrounded her. And underlying that—

Her eyes found her collection of antique decanters on the sideboard. One of them was open. Its crystal stopper lay on the polished surface of the buffet. And a tumbler was missing from the silver tray beside it.

At least now she had a rational explanation for what she had been feeling since she’d entered the house. Someone had been here. Or was here.

And judging by his choice of that particular decanter, she knew who. Maybe she had changed everything else about her life, but she still kept the best whiskey she owned in the Waterford. Routine.

“What the hell are you doing here, Rafe?” she asked, not bothering to raise her voice. Wherever he was, he would have been watching her since she’d entered the kitchen.

“You’ve cut your hair.”

He always noticed things like that. Maybe too much. Still, the fact that he had noticed, that it mattered enough to him to mention it, caused an unwanted thickness in her throat.

She had spent a very long time without anyone around to notice those things. Not her hair or her clothes or the condition of her soul.

From force of habit, her hand lifted, fingers spread, to rake the chin-length hair back from her face. When she realized what she was doing, she forced her hand down, away from the strands that had once been long enough to tangle around his bare, sweating shoulders as they made love. Long enough to occasionally catch in his early-morning whiskers, the feel of them so sweetly abrasive against her skin.

At the memory, a jolt of sexual heat seared mercilessly along nerve pathways that had seemed atrophied. They weren’t. Painfully, unexpectedly, she knew that now.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again, ignoring those unsettling emotions.

He always managed to suck her in that way. Noticing. Caring. Being aware.

So damn aware. Aware of every aspect of her existence, as no one in her entire life before she’d met him had ever been.

Steeling herself to face him, she walked across the dining room and through the wide double doorway that separated it from the living room. She always kept the French doors open between the two, so that they were really one.

Which meant, she supposed, that after more than five years, she was once more in the same room with Rafe Sinclair. Something she had thought would never happen again.

“And you’ve lost weight,” he added softly.

His voice had come from the shadows near the fireplace. He was standing in the darkest corner of the room, and with the drapes pulled against the force of the afternoon heat, it was very dark indeed.

His left arm was lying along on the top of one of the built-in bookcases that flanked the small fireplace. Sometime in the past a tenant had painted them a glossy white. That paleness provided a stark contrast to the dark gray shirt he wore. It was long-sleeved, buttoned at the cuff, despite the heat.

As her eyes gradually adjusted to the room’s dimness, she was able to discern other details. In his left hand, the one resting atop the bookcase, he held the tumbler that had been missing from the sideboard. It was still half-full.

His right arm hung loosely at his side, the fingers of the hand curled slightly inward. He seemed perfectly relaxed, exuding the same aura of confidence that had always been such a part of him.

She hadn’t found the courage yet to look at his face. She would have to, of course, but she needed a few seconds to prepare.

He had had that time. He had obviously been watching her since she’d come in through the back door. The place where he was standing gave him the perfect vantage point to do so.

His position had been carefully thought out. That was a lesson he had taught her—to use every advantage your adversary allows. He had given himself both time and opportunity to study her, while she had been completely unaware of him. Unaware and unprepared.

Except she hadn’t been. He had at least played fair in that respect.

That’s why he’d poured the whiskey. Why he’d left the decanter unstopped. To let her know he was here. She just hadn’t figured it out as quickly as she should have.

Out of practice, she acknowledged.

“I asked you a question,” she said instead of responding to his comments about her appearance.

That was certainly none of his business, but that wasn’t why she didn’t respond. There was something too personal about discussing those things with him. Too near an intimacy neither of them wanted.

“Griff came to see me.”

Of all the things he might have said to her, that was the last she would have expected. Rafe had made it as clear to Cabot as he had to her that the part of his life that had included them was over and done. She had gotten the message. Maybe Griff had a thicker skin.

“About what?” she asked, beginning to get her equilibrium back.

Her first reaction to his presence had been strictly visceral. Given their history, that was probably inevitable. It didn’t mean she couldn’t bring her intellect to bear on the reason he was here.

All she needed was a bit of detachment. Surely after nearly six years that would be possible.

“Someone at the agency passed along a security alert. They think Jorgensen may still be alive.”

She tried to decide from his tone what he felt about that. As always, it was impossible to read anything from what he’d said. Not unless he wanted her to.

“Griff thought you should be made aware of the possibility,” he continued.

Griff thought you should be made aware…

“So why didn’t he call me?”

“I assume because he doesn’t know how.”

“You did.”

There was no answer. In the dimness she watched as he brought the glass to his lips and took a long swallow of her whiskey. She wondered, feeling slightly vindictive, if he needed it.

“So how did you know how to find me?”

The more important question was, of course, why would you still know how to find me?

“I know how your mind works.”

She thought about that for maybe ten seconds. “That’s not an answer.”

“I trained you.”

“Don’t you think I might have learned anything after you left?”

There was a small movement at the corner of his mouth. “Probably not.”

She resisted the urge to tell him to go to hell. At least she had learned when he was deliberately goading her.

“Okay, so now I’m aware that the company thinks Jorgensen could be alive,” she said. “Anything else?”

“I like your house.”

“A little place in the suburbs. Isn’t that what we all dreamed of?”

“Is it? What you dreamed of, I mean.”

You’re what I dreamed of. As much as she hated admitting that, she could no more have stopped the thought from forming than she could have stopped herself from entering this room once she had known he was here.

“I guess that would have depended on which day you asked me,” she said.

“How about today?”

Inexplicably the tightness in her throat was back. She couldn’t think of a single sufficiently cutting thing to say to him.

“I have to put my groceries away,” she said instead, the suggestion that he should leave so she could get on with it obvious.

He let the silence lengthen a moment before he broke it.

“They’re wrong, but don’t take any chances. This may be someone copycatting Jorgensen’s agenda. Which might mean they are also targeting his enemies.”

“Then why should he be interested in me? I didn’t have anything to do with Jorgensen.”

“I did. That would have been enough for him. Whoever this is—”

“Couldn’t have found me,” she broke in. “Not if Griff couldn’t. And if you’re so concerned, why take a chance on leading him to me?”

“I wasn’t followed.” He was obviously amused by the idea.

That wasn’t based on arrogance, but experience, and as such, she accepted it. Actually she hadn’t been worried about Rafe leading him—whoever he might be—to her. She was more curious about why he had come, especially in person. Despite the excuse he had just offered, there must be something more to this visit.

Wishful thinking? She denied that idea, too, as soon as it was born. She had a perfect right to be curious about why Rafe Sinclair would all of a sudden show up on her doorstep after an absence of nearly six years.

“So what are you doing now?” she asked. “Working for Griff?”

“You know about the Phoenix?”

“Rumors,” she said, choosing the word with care. She didn’t want her feelings about that to be evident.

“They invited you to join.”

They hadn’t, but since he didn’t seem to know they hadn’t, she couldn’t see any point in telling him.

“Did you?” she countered.

He laughed. The sound, low and pleasant and so damned familiar, evoked more memories.

“I think I’m too old to play hero. Somewhere along the way it all seemed to lose its charm.”

Somewhere along the way. And she knew exactly where that had been.

“I’ll let you get back to your groceries,” he said.

In spite of the fact that she had made that suggestion only seconds ago, perversely she had discovered she wasn’t ready for him to leave. Not yet ready to let him walk out of her life for perhaps another six years. Perhaps forever.

That would be the smart thing to do, of course. Just let him walk away. Where Rafe Sinclair was concerned, however, she had never managed to do the smart thing. Why start now?

“Have you eaten?”

Even in the dimness she was aware that his eyes widened. He recovered quickly, but no one could completely control that kind of involuntary physiological response. That he had reacted to the invitation at all was promising.

Promising of what? she wondered, disgusted with her near-Pavlovian response to his every action.

“Today?”

“Dinner,” she said patiently.

“Is that what’s in the sack?”

“It could be.”

“And you’re suggesting that we sit down and have dinner together?”

“It isn’t all that complicated. I’m going to fix something to eat for dinner. Do you want to join me?” she asked, still feigning patience.

That same movement she noticed before touched the corner of his mouth. “Actually, it might be better if I waited until after dark to leave. Since you’re concerned about security.”

“I’m not concerned about security. I just wondered why you aren’t.”

“I told you. I wasn’t followed.”

“Then there’s no reason to wait until after dark to leave, is there?”

This time he laughed. And again that small frisson of sexual reaction stirred deep within her lower body.

“You’re a damned ungracious hostess, Elizabeth. Whatever happened to Southern hospitality?”

“I don’t know. I’m not Southern.”

“I swear there’s a trace of an accent.”

“Hardly,” she said dismissively. “Are you staying or not?”

She could tell he was fighting another smile, which made her regret her impulsive invitation. Maybe he would refuse.

“Of course I am. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”

Chapter Two

“You never told me what you’re doing now,” she said, lifting her wineglass to rest the globe against her cheek.

It was something he had seen her do a hundred times. One of a dozen gestures that had been achingly familiar during the few short hours they had spent together.

He couldn’t explain why he’d accepted her invitation to dinner. No more than he imagined she could have explained why she’d issued it.

Curiosity, perhaps. A longing to recapture something that had been lost. And he refused, even to himself, to articulate what that was.

At least her tension, which had made the first few minutes difficult for both of them, had gradually dissipated. The wine they’d consumed while he’d watched her cook and during the course of the meal might have had more to do with that than any relaxation of the strain their long separation had caused.

After all, he rarely drank, and Elizabeth had never had a head for alcohol. It was one of the small, endearing cracks in the facade of absolute control she’d assumed while she was with the CIA.

It must have been hard being one of the few women on the team. Not that she’d ever had any reason to apologize to any of them for her femininity.

“This and that,” he said aloud. “Consulting mostly.”

“Privately?”

“Of course.”

He had no desire to be at the government’s beck and call. In his opinion, what the agency had done to Griff’s people had bordered on the criminal, which was why the idea that Steiner had been the one who had passed on the information about Jorgensen nagged at him. He didn’t buy altruistic motivations from anyone at the CIA. Not any longer.

“How about you?” he asked, lifting his own glass to finish the remaining swallow of wine it contained.

“You know what I’m doing. Why pretend that you don’t?”

He looked at her over the rim before he lowered the glass, allowing his lips to slant into a smile.

“Convention,” he suggested. “It’s not considered polite to spy on people.”

“Unless you are a spy, of course.”

“Of course,” he agreed calmly.

“So why spy on me?”

“I told you. Griff wanted you to know that the company thinks Jorgensen’s alive.”

“But you weren’t totally sure I needed to know that.”

“Because I’m totally sure he’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

No one else on the team would have asked him that question. Not even Griff. For a split second he considered refusing to answer it, but in some oblique way she was the one person who had a right to know.

“Yes,” he said calmly, setting his glass back on the table.

She nodded as if that confession were only what she had expected. “Did it help?”

Had it? At least the bastard wasn’t blowing people to shreds anymore.

Except, according to Steiner, he was. Or someone using his methodology was.

“There’s always someone willing to take their place.”

With the change in pronouns, he had broadened the discussion to include not only the German-born terrorist he’d killed, but all those who preyed on innocents to advance their various and sundry political causes.

“Or yours.”

“That has occurred to me.”

It took her a second, but then she had always been very bright. “You think Griff is using you? Because you were their expert on Jorgensen?”

“I think Steiner is using him.”

“Griff isn’t anyone’s fool. Not even the CIA’s.”

She put her glass back on the table without finishing her wine. Then she stood, the movement abrupt. She laid her napkin down and picked up her plate and flatware. As she reached across the table to remove his, she met his eyes.

“You aren’t going after whoever this is, are you?”

“It isn’t my job,” he said.

She completed the motion she’d begun, stacking his plate atop hers before she looked up at him again.

“There was a time when it wouldn’t have been ‘a job.’”

There had been, he thought, but it had been almost too long ago to remember what that felt like.

“There was a time when we wouldn’t be sitting here acting like a couple of strangers forced to have an uncomfortable dinner together,” he said. “Things change.”

She held his eyes a few seconds before she nodded. Then she turned, carrying the dishes into the kitchen.

When she disappeared through the doorway, he leaned back in his chair, taking a breath to relieve the sudden tightness in his chest. It wasn’t the only constriction he was aware of. Although his jeans were well worn, their fabric thin with age, they were suddenly uncomfortably restrictive.

The strength of his erection was unexpected. And unwanted. There could be few things as embarrassing as the undeniable physical evidence of how much you still wanted the woman you had walked out on.

There was a time when we wouldn’t be sitting here acting like a couple of strangers forced to have an uncomfortable dinner together.

That had been a hell of an understatement. From the day they’d met, they had both been aware of the sexual pull between them. They had later admitted knowing even then that it would eventually lead to intimacy. What neither of them had suspected was how strong that attraction would prove to be. Or how powerfully addictive it would become.

Which was why he hadn’t trusted himself to see her in all these years. If things had been different…

They hadn’t been. They weren’t now.

“I could make coffee.”

He glanced up to find her standing in the doorway. They had eaten by candlelight, something that was ritual. She had turned on the light in the kitchen when she’d carried the dishes there, and she was now silhouetted against its glow.

She had lost weight, he noticed again, although there had always been something about her figure, at least when clothed, that hinted at the slim, almost boyish fitness of a well-conditioned athlete. The short sun-streaked hair now emphasized that quality without making her seem any less feminine.

With their history, there was probably nothing that could do that. Not for him.

“I have to go,” he said, pushing up from the table before he remembered the too revealing tightness of his jeans.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be obvious if he stayed in the candlelit dimness of the dining room. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason he should resist the urge to close the distance between them.

During dinner he had occasionally caught the faintest hint of her perfume, its fragrance released by the warmth of the sultry Mississippi night’s humidity against her skin. It had been evocative of nights when that same scent had filled his nostrils while his lips trailed kisses over the silken smoothness of her body. There was no need to add the temptation of physical nearness to the potent force of those memories.

“Thank you for bringing me Griff’s warning,” she said formally.

She raised her hand, pushing back the hair that had fallen over her forehead. The gesture was quick, hinting at nervousness. It seemed that the earlier strain was back, although her voice had been perfectly level.

Then she held the same hand out to him. He might have been amused at her offer to shake hands with him if he hadn’t still been dealing with all those other emotions. Ones that didn’t lend themselves to amusement.

It would be far better to stay on this side of the room. To ignore the proffered hand.

Better perhaps, but not possible.

He pushed his chair back and took the four or five steps that would bring him to stand directly in front of her. There was enough difference in their heights that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

As she did, he took the hand she held out to him. After dealing with the assault of his own emotions, it should have been gratifying to find that her fingers were both cold and trembling.

It wasn’t. It made him want to fold them into the warmth of his or to press them against his suddenly increased heartbeat. Or, even more tempting, to use them to draw her to him. To put his arms around her and hold her close, comforting whatever made her tremble, if only for a moment.

As it always had with them, however, one thing would surely lead to another, even after six years. They had come too far to destroy whatever peace of mind either of them had achieved in that time. That wasn’t why he had come.

“Be careful,” he said without releasing her hand.

“I have been. I just didn’t know why. Not until you showed up.”

Tonight her eyes were more green than hazel, he decided, examining her face in the revealing light spilling from the kitchen. And the years had wrought remarkably few changes there. Maybe the lines at the corners of her eyes had been graven a little more deeply and the delicate curve of her cheekbone had become slightly more pronounced.

Her nose was still crooked, having been broken in some high school soccer game. There was a small patch of sunburned skin across its narrow bridge, emphasizing the freckles she never bothered to conceal with makeup.

“Thank you for inviting me to dinner,” he said.

“Thank you for staying.” This time her voice was touched with humor.

Hearing it, he smiled at her. Then, the commonplaces taken care of, neither of them seemed to know what to do next.

It had almost been easier the first time he’d walked away, he thought before he recognized that for the lie it was. There had been nothing harder than that in his life. And nothing more necessary.

He released her hand and quickly pushed past her through the doorway. It was narrow enough that his body brushed hers, his shoulder turning hers slightly.

He didn’t look back as he crossed the kitchen. As a precaution, he flicked off the light, using the switch beside the back door to plunge the room into darkness. Then he stepped out into the honeysuckle-scented night, closing behind him a door he should never have reopened.

ELIZABETH HAD STOOD in the kitchen a long time before she finally walked back into the dining room. The candles had burned long enough that they were beginning to sputter, wax pooling at the base of the holder.

In the darkness after she’d extinguished them, she put her palms flat on the surface of the table, leaning forward tiredly, her head bowed. She didn’t understand why she was so exhausted. After all, nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

Rafe had been given a message for her from Griff, and he had delivered it. Other than his comment about a couple of strangers forced to have an uncomfortable dinner together there had been almost nothing of a personal nature in their conversation.

Not unless you considered her question about whether he had killed Jorgensen personal. He hadn’t seemed to. He had reacted to that exactly as he had to everything she’d said the last time she’d talked to him. Contained. Controlled. Cold.

That coldness had been one of the things that had been so hard to accept. She could understand his anger with the agency, but not why it had also been directed at her. As she’d reminded him tonight, she’d had nothing to do with Gunther Jorgensen.

She straightened, the same questions that had circled endlessly through her brain all those years ago there again. She had found no explanation for what he had done then. Nor was she likely to now.

Why the hell had he shown up here now? she thought with a surge of fury. And why the hell had she invited him to dinner? It seemed that in the silent darkness she could still feel him, just as she had been aware of him watching her all week without understanding what she was feeling.