Without A Trace Read online

  "This is just the beginning," he told her as he laid her on the bed. "Tonight I'm going to do all the things to you I imagined the first time I saw you." Her hair spread out like a fan of flame on the plain white cover. The first sprinkling of moonlight filtered in, along with a breeze that smelled faintly of the sea. "I can take you places you've never been. Places you may wish tomorrow you hadn't gone."

  She believed him. Excited, afraid, she reached up to him. "Show me."

  She hadn't known anyone could kiss that way. Before he'd shown her passion, temper, restraint. Now the restraint had been lifted, to be replaced by a devastating skill. His tongue teased and tormented, his teeth aroused and provoked. She found herself responding with a totality she'd never experienced. Already more involved than she'd ever been before, she dragged him back again and again.

  Then he began to touch.

  He had the hands of a musician, and he knew how to play a woman. Fingertips stroked, pressed, lingered, until she was breathless beneath him. Her murmurs were soft, then urgent, then delirious. She reached for him, held him, demanded with a strength that seemed to have been born of the moment. She fumbled for the snap of his pants, ready to take him to her, ready to give back this pleasure that she thought could reach no higher. Then his fingers found a new secret. Her body tensed, shuddered, then went lax.

  No, she'd never been to this place before. It was dark, and the air was thick and sweet. Her arms felt so heavy, her head so light. She felt the trace of his lips down her throat to where the material lay on her breast. He dipped his tongue beneath to run over the peak. She could only moan.

  He caught the strap in his teeth and lowered it slowly while his hands continued to work their magic. This was how he'd wanted her, weak from pleasure, drugged with desire. He could taste where he chose. Such sweetness. Even as her skin grew hot and damp, there was such sweetness. He could have fed on it for days.

  The moonlight grew brighter, the passion darker.

  He drew the material down and down, following the path with his mouth. He could make her shudder. And did. He could make her moan. And did. He let her sigh with quiet delight, murmur with easy pleasure, then shot her back to desperation.

  Catapulted up, Gillian reached for him. They rolled together, caught in a need that was so close to being fulfilled. Again she struggled to undress him, and this time he made no protest. She moved quickly. When they were naked, he moved more quickly.

  When he plunged into her, she let out a strangled cry. Half mad, she grabbed his hair and dragged his mouth to hers. He took her hard and fast, but she found herself more than able to match her rhythm to his. More than that, it seemed to her that their hearts beat in the same rhythm. She felt him form her name against her mouth, heard the sudden shudder of his breath as emotion merged with passion. She saw as her eyes fluttered open the dark intensity of his.

  Then he buried his face in her hair and they took each other.

  Chapter Eight

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  It had been a mistake to stay with her. To sleep with her through the night. To wake beside her in the morning. Trace had known when they'd wrapped themselves around each other in the night that he'd pay. A man always paid for his mistakes.

  The problem was, it felt so damn good.

  In sleep she was as warm, as soft, as pliable, as she had been in passion. Her head was nestled on his shoulder as if it belonged there. Her hand, curled loosely in a fist, lay over his heart as if a claim had been staked. He wished, in those early-morning moments, that such things were true. Knowing better wasn't easy, it just was.

  The odd and uneasy thing was that the desire hadn't dissipated. He still needed, still craved, just as sharply as he had the night before, when she'd put her hands on him for the first time.

  He wanted to gather her close, to wake her slowly, erotically, and send them both spinning back to where they'd gone before sleep had claimed them. He wanted, somehow more intensely, to gather her close, to stroke her hair and absorb the quiet excitement of dozing with her through the morning.

  He couldn't do either. Though Trace would never have considered himself noble, he was thinking of her. He was a man who did his job and did as he chose. He lived as hard as he worked and had no ties to anyone. In Gillian he recognized a woman to whom home and hearth and family came first. He had no doubt she was good at what she did, that she was devoted to her work, but there were white picket fences and flower gardens buried inside her. A man who'd never had a home, who'd chosen never to have one, could only complicate the life of a woman who made one wherever she went.

  But she felt so good curled around him.

  He drew away more abruptly than he'd intended. When she stirred and murmured something, he rose to pull on his loose drawstring pants. He didn't have to turn around to know she was awake and watching him.

  "You can sleep a while longer," he told her. "I've got some things to do."

  Gillian drew the sheet with her as she sat up. She'd been half awake, or thought she had been. Perhaps she'd dreamed that he'd been stroking her hair. "I'll go with you."

  "Well-bred ladies don't belong where I'm going."

  Strange how quickly a chill could come. She'd lain half dreaming, warm and secure. Now she was cold and alone again. Her fingers tensed on the sheet, but her voice came out calmly. "I thought we were going to work together."

  "When it suits, sweetheart."

  Her fingers began to work on the sheet. "When it suits whom?"

  "Me." He reached for a cigarette before he turned back to her. It was just as he'd thought. She looked more beautiful now than she had any right to, with her skin pale, her hair vivid, her eyes dark and heavy. "You'd get in the way."

  "Apparently I already am." She fought back humiliation as she tossed the sheets aside to gather up what she could find of her clothes. Holding them in front of her, she paused long enough to look at him. She would say what she had to say, she told herself. Too often in the past she'd taken an emotional slap with a bowed head. No more.

  "I don't know what you're afraid of, O'Hurley, except yourself and your own feelings, but there's no need to behave this way."

  "I'm just doing what comes naturally." He drew on the cigarette. It tasted as bitter as his thoughts. "Look, if you're going to order breakfast, get me some coffee. I'm going to take a shower before I go out."

  "It's fine to regret what happened. That's your privilege." She wouldn't cry. That she promised herself. "But it isn't fine to be cruel about it. Were you thinking I'd expect a pledge of undying love? Did you have it in your mind that I'd be waiting for you to fall on your knees and tell me I'd changed your life? I'm not the fool you think I am."

  "I've never thought you were a fool."

  "That's good, because I'm not." It was satisfying, she'd discovered, very satisfying, to bite back. "I didn't expect those things from you. But I didn't expect that you'd treat me as if I were something you'd bought and paid for and had the right to discard in the morning. I didn't expect that, either, Trace. Maybe I should have."

  She walked quickly into her room and, tossing the crumpled clothes aside, headed straight for her shower. She wouldn't weep for him. No, by the saints, there wouldn't be one tear wasted on him. Turning the spray up to near scalding, she stepped into the shower. All she needed was to be warm again, to wash the scent of him from her skin, to rinse the taste of him from her mouth. Then she would be fine again.

  She wasn't a fool, she told herself. She was simply a woman who'd made an error in judgment and now had to deal with it. She was an adult, one who made her own decisions and accepted fully and freely the consequences of her own actions.

  But she was a fool. As big and as stupid as they came. Gillian pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes as the water streamed over her. Damn him, and her. Who else but a fool fell in love with a man who would never give anything back?

  When the curtain whipped back, her head snapped up. She turned and gave Trace a cool, d
isinterested stare. The hurt wasn't his problem, she told herself. And she'd see him in hell before she'd let it show. "I'm busy at the moment."

  "Let's get something straight. Just because I didn't babble over you like an idiot this morning doesn't mean I think of you as someone I could have picked up off the street."

  Gillian picked up the soap to rub it hi slow circles over her shoulder. So he was angry. It was there, darkening his eyes and his voice. That, too, was satisfying. "It occurs to me that I'm better off not giving a damn what you think. Your pitiful excuses don't interest me, O'Hurley, and you're getting water all over the floor." She snatched the curtain back into place. It didn't even have time to settle before he tore it open again.

  His eyes were furious, and his voice entirely too soft and steady. "Don't ever close a door in my face."

  She wondered why she should feel like laughing at this point in her life. "It's not a door I'm closing, it's a curtain. A door would be more effective, but this will have to do." She pulled it closed again. Trace ripped it from the rod in one angry tug. As the little metal hooks jingled against the rod, Gillian tossed wet hair out of her eyes. "Well, now, that was a brilliant move. If you've finished taking out your foulness on an inanimate object, you can go."

  He kicked the torn curtain aside. "What the hell do you want?"

  "At the moment, to wash my hair in peace." Deliberately she stuck her head under the spray. Despite her determination, she let out a quick yelp when she was dragged back. He stood in the tub with her now, his cotton pants plastered to his legs. Water bounced off them both and onto the tile.

  "I don't have time for this guilt trip. I've got a job to do, and we're going to clear the air so I can concentrate on doing it."

  "Fine. The air's clear." She smacked the soap back in its holder. "You want absolution? You've got it."

  "I've got nothing to feel guilty about." He stepped closer, and the spray hit his chest. "You threw yourself at me."

  With one hand, Gillian dragged her hair back from her face. The steam rose, clouding the room. "Aye, that I did. You fought like a tiger, but I overpowered you." She shoved a hand into his chest. "Better clear out, O'Hurley, before I force myself on you again."

  "You smart-mouthed little—" He'd started forward, then had the breath knocked out of him as her fist connected with his stomach. As the water beat down on both of them, they stared at each other in equal surprise. All at once Gillian let out a gurgle of laughter and covered her mouth with her hand.

  "What the hell's so funny?"

  "Nothing." She choked back another laugh. "Nothing at all, except you look like a bloody fool, and I feel like one." Still laughing, she turned her face into the spray. "Be on your way, O'Hurley, before I really get tough."

  He touched a hand to his stomach for a moment, amazed that she'd gotten one in under his guard. He was slipping. Then, because the anger had disappeared, he laid a hand on her shoulder to turn her around again. "You pack a hell of a punch, Doc."

  It might have been her imagination, or wishful thinking, but she thought he was speaking of more than her fist. "Thank you."

  "You know you run the water too hot."

  "I was in the mood for hot."

  "Uh-huh." He touched her cheek, running his thumb over the light sprinkling of freckles. She wondered if he knew he was apologizing. "Why don't I wash your back?"

  "No."

  He slipped his arms around her. "Then you can wash mine."

  "Trace." She brought her hands up in a small defensive gesture. "This isn't the answer."

  "It's the only one I've got." He lowered his head to rub his lips over hers. "I want you. Isn't that what you wanted to hear?"

  If only it were so simple. If only she cared less. She let the sigh come as she pressed her cheek to his. "Last night was special. I can accept that it didn't mean anything to you, but I can't afford to get in any deeper, because it did mean something to me."

  He was silent for a moment, knowing they would both be better off without the words even as he understood that they had to be said. "It meant something to me, Gillian." He framed her face in his hands so that he could look at her as he took the risk. "It meant too damn much."

  Her heart broke a little. "And that makes things hard for you."

  "Hard for me, maybe impossible for you." He would have let his hands drop, but she caught them in hers. "I'm no good for you."

  "No, you're not." She smiled as she pulled his arms around her. "Neither's chocolate cake, but I can never resist that, either."

  He wasn't sure it was wise to take Gillian to the bidonville, but he'd nearly convinced himself it was necessary. She might be better off seeing how low he had to sink in his job, and what kind of people he often did business with. What had happened between them that morning hadn't changed his mind about the senselessness of their relationship, but it had made him realize that a bond had formed, like it or not. It was up to him to be certain she had a clear-eyed view of what she was getting into.

  So he took her on a roundabout route until he'd lost both Kendesa's tail and the shadow Addison had assigned to him. The first he not only expected but accepted as part of the game. The second proved to him that the ISS, or perhaps Addison alone, had decided against giving him a free hand. That only meant he had to take it.

  Once he was certain he'd ditched both teams, Trace took one last circle before heading toward the shacks and squalor of the bidonville.

  Because he wanted to go on foot, he carried a pistol under his jacket, another strapped to his calf, and a silent and very effective switchblade. Though his visit this trip had been brief, he knew his way here, just as he knew his way through so many other slums and ghettos.

  There were plenty of unemployed men loitering in the narrow streets and cramped alleyways. But the two of them were never approached. Trace didn't walk like a tourist who'd lost his way or a curiosity seeker who'd come to take snapshots of the other side of Casablanca.

  It stank. Gillian said nothing as she walked beside Trace. She wondered if he sensed it as she did. The smell was more than sweat, animal and rot. Over that there was the scent of anger and hatred. She'd seen poverty in Ireland, she'd witnessed the homeless and destitute in New York, but she'd never seen such misery and squalor as this.

  There was blood here, newly spilled. There was disease waiting patiently to take hold. And there was death, more easily understood than life. She saw men watching her with hard black eyes. Veiled women never lifted theirs.

  Trace approached a shack. It couldn't be called anything else, though it had glass in the windows and an excuse for a yard. A scrawny dog bared its teeth but backed away when Trace continued forward. There was a vegetable garden scratched into the ground. Someone had weeded it, and the rows were straight.

  Trace knocked on the door of the shack before taking a long, sweeping view of the street. They were still watched, that was expected, but what went on in the bidonville stayed in the bidonville. Kendesa wouldn't find out about his visit unless Trace arranged it himself.

  The door was opened by a small woman in a dark dress and veil. Her eyes showed the quick light of fear as she looked at Trace.

  "Good morning. I've come to speak to your husband." His Arabic was rusty but competent enough. Gillian watched the woman's eyes dart here and there before she bowed the door the rest of the way open.

  "If you would be pleased to sit."

  Whatever filth and dirt were outside, the inside of the shack was neat as a pin. The floors and walls were scrubbed and still smelled lightly of the harsh soap used. The furniture was sparse, but without a speck of dust. In the center of the room sat a small boy in a cloth diaper. He grinned up at Trace and Gillian and pounded on the floor with a wooden spoon.

  "I will bring my husband." The woman scooped up the child and disappeared through the back door.

  Gillian bent to pick up the wooden spoon. "Why is she afraid of you?"

  "Because she's smarter than you are. Sit down, Doc, a
nd look a little bored. This shouldn't take too long."

  With the spoon still in her hand, Gillian sat on a spindly chair. "Why are we here? Why did we come to this place?"

  "Because Bakir has something for me. I've come to collect it." Trace slipped a hand inside his jacket as the door opened. He let it relax again when he saw that the man was alone.

  Bakir was a little weasel of a man with a thin build and a narrow face. His eyes were small and dark. When he smiled, his teeth gleamed white and sharp. He was dressed in a gray robe that might have started off as spotless as the room. Now it was grimy at the hem. Two fresh grease stains spoiled the sleeve. Gillian felt an instant and uncontrollable revulsion.

  "Ah, old friend. You were not expected until tomorrow."

  "Sometimes the unexpected is preferable."

  Though they spoke hi English—Trace wasn't feigning an accent—Gillian said nothing. She wished quite fiercely that she had remained behind. The shack didn't seem clean and harmless now that Bakir had come inside.

  "You are in a hurry to complete our business?"

  "Do you have the merchandise, Bakir? I have other matters to attend to today."

  "Of course, of course, you're a busy man." He glanced at Gillian and, with a grin, said something in Arabic. Trace's eyes went hard as stone. His reply was only a murmur, but whatever he said was enough to make Baku-blanch and bow. Pushing a table aside, he lifted a portion of the floor to reveal a wide trench beneath.

  "Your assistance, please."

  Trace bent to the task. Between the two of them, they hauled up a long wooden crate. Moving in silence now, Bakir pulled a crowbar from the trench and pried off the lid. Gillian's fingers tensed when Trace pulled out the first rifle.

  It was black and oiled. She knew by the ease with which he lifted and sighted that he'd used one before. He broke it open and, in the practical manner of a man who understood guns, examined it.

  "Almost like new," Bakir offered.

  Instead of acknowledging him, Trace put the rifle back and drew out another. He performed the same careful examination on it, then on the next and the next, as he pulled them out of the crate. Each time he lifted a new one, Gillian's heart jolted.

  He looked so natural with a gun in his hands. The same hands that had held and stroked and aroused her only a short time before. He was the same man. And yet as she looked at him now she wondered how he could seem so different in this place, with a crate of weapons at his feet and one in his hand.

  Satisfied that the guns and ammunition were in order, Trace nodded. "You'll have the merchandise shipped to Sefrou. This address." He passed Bakir a sheet of paper. "Shipment tomorrow."

  He reached into his jacket for an envelope fat with ISS money. He wondered what Addison's reaction would be when he learned Trace had requisitioned it.

  The envelope disappeared into the folds of Bakir's cloak, but his hand remained on it. "As you wish. It may interest you that certain powers have offered great rewards for information on II Gatto."

  "Make the shipment, Bakir, and remember what would be done to anyone found to have done business with II Gatto."

  Bakir only grinned. "My memory is excellent."

  "I don't understand." Gillian stayed close to Trace's side as they started down the narrow street. "Where did you get that money?"

  "From taxpayers." As he walked he let his gaze swing right and left. "This is an ISS-backed operation now."

  "But you gave him money for those guns. I thought Captain Addison was arranging for the weapons."

  "He is." He took her arm to steer her around a corner.

  "Well, if Addison's arranging for the weapons you're to show Husad, why did you pay that man for more?"

  "Backup. If things don't go Addison's way, I don't figure on trying to get your brother out with a pistol and a charming smile."

  Gillian felt the knot of tension in her stomach tighten. "I see. Then they're for you."

  "That's right, sweetheart. Keep walking," he said when she hesitated. "This isn't the neighborhood for window-shopping."

  "Trace, what good are those weapons going to do you, one man, alone?"

  "Isn't that what you hired me for?"

  "Yes." She pressed her lips together as she kept pace with him. "Yes, but—"

  "Having second thoughts?"

  She was having more than second thoughts. But how could she explain to him that the past few days had changed everything? How could she tell him that he was now every bit as important to her as the man and the child she wanted so desperately to see safe? He would laugh at her concern—or, worse, be annoyed by it.

  "I don't know what I think anymore," she murmured, "The longer this goes on, the less real it seems. When it first started, I thought I knew exactly what had to be done. Now I'm not sure of anything."

  "Just let me do the thinking."

  A man in a grimy white robe stumbled in front of them. He only had tune to gesture toward Gillian and mutter something in a drunken slur before Trace had the switchblade out. Gillian saw the sun glint off steel as Trace issued a quiet warning. Still grinning, the man lifted both hands palms up and teetered out of