Mountain Retreat. Cassie Miles

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СКАЧАТЬ enough moonlight spilled around the edges of the window that she could see a dresser with a mirror, an overstuffed chair and a bedside table. A digital clock showed the time: 2:37. On a typical Friday night, her shift at the saloon would have ended. She’d be off work and on her way home. Would those intruders have been waiting for her?

      If Nick hadn’t been there to shove her out of the way, she would have walked into a blast of gunfire. Or not. If she’d been alone, they wouldn’t have needed guns to subdue her. She could have been taken hostage.

      Leaning forward, she balanced on the soles of her bare feet. Her toes were cold. As soon as she shed the comforter, she shivered. All she was wearing was an oversize T-shirt that hung halfway to her knees. The white bandage on her upper arm gleamed in the moonlight.

      She practiced taking one step forward and one step back, not wanting to be far away from the bed in case her knees buckled. As she straightened her shoulders, pain from her wound radiated across the upper half of her body. Fighting it, she clenched her jaw.

      Her mouth was parched. She reached for a half-full water glass on the bedside table and wetted her lips. The liquid revived her. She drank it all, set down the glass and cleared her throat. Better, she felt better.

      Calling out for help was one option, but she didn’t want to be seen as helpless. As an engineer, she worked mostly with men, and she knew they tended to see women as the weaker gender, easily pacified and disregarded. Not this time. Maybe she wasn’t as fierce as a lioness, but she meant to be taken seriously.

      At the lower edge of her bedroom door, she saw an outline of light. Outside this room, other people were awake and probably making plans. She would join them and become part of the team.

      Easier said than done. Obviously, she had to change clothes. Stumbling into a cabal of intelligence agents in her oversize T-shirt and bare feet wouldn’t gain her any respect. She shuffled to the closet and opened the door. The total darkness inside the closet dissipated when she flipped a light switch at the edge of the door frame. Smart move, Sidney. Turning on the bedroom lights should have been step number one.

      With the overhead light on, she searched for something to wear. After fumbling around, she managed to get dressed in a flannel shirt, baggy sweatpants and moccasins that were a couple of sizes too big. Not exactly what she’d choose to confront the precisely groomed Agent Victoria Hawthorne, but this makeshift outfit would have to do.

      She opened the bedroom door. To her left was a long hallway with rooms on one side and a carved, wooden balustrade on the other. Below her, on the first floor, was a vast, open room with a two-story moss rock fireplace. Standing at the banister, she looked down into a living room and a dining area where several people sat around a table.

      Nick was there.

      Her fingers tightened on the polished wood of the banister rail as she looked down at the back of his head. He still wore the trousers from his gray suit but had shed the jacket. His white shirt was rolled up to his elbows, displaying powerful forearms and wrists.

      The muscular lieutenant from Marine Intelligence sat beside Nick. Across the table was Agent Phillips. He sat with his elbows on the tabletop and his chin propped on his fist. The poor guy looked exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open. Agent Hawthorne sat at the head of the table, of course.

      From this angle, Sidney viewed Hawthorne in profile. Not a hair in her sleek brunette bun was out of place. On the table in front of her were folders and electronic equipment. Her tone was calm, and Sidney strained to hear what she was saying. It sounded like a recap of tonight’s incidents.

      At one point, Hawthorne reached over and patted Nick’s arm. Her slender white fingers contrasted with his olive skin and the soft black hair on his forearm. The mere fact that another woman was touching him gave Sidney a pang of jealousy, and she was glad when he jerked away from her.

      “In conclusion,” Hawthorne said, “I assure you gentlemen that we will uncover the source of this information leak. I will need full cooperation from each of your services.”

      The marine officer shook his head. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll take care of it.”

      “I prefer conducting my own interrogations.”

      “Not going to happen, ma’am. I have to protect the identities of my undercover operatives.”

      “We’ll see,” she said. “None of us like to think we have a traitor, but how else would information about Nick be made available?”

      “What’s done is done,” Nick said. “I’m more concerned about what happens next.”

      “We proceed as planned,” Hawthorne said. “Three days from now, on Monday, we transfer you into the hotel where Hurtado and the others are staying. You will have private talks and interviews with the oil companies, politicians and investors. At the banquet, you will praise the little dictator. Then, you’re done.”

      “Seems like a lot of fuss for public relations,” he said with some bitterness. “Tell me again why this is useful.”

      Sidney wanted to know the answer to that question, too. It might be better for her to stay out of sight and listen while they talked. She ducked behind the carved, polished wooden spokes holding up the banister rail.

      “How many times do I have to say this?” Hawthorne abruptly rose from her chair and pressed her hand across her forehead as though physically holding back a migraine. “It’s in the best interest of the US to keep Hurtado in power, and the Tiquanna rebels are garnering sympathy. It’s your job to make Tomas Hurtado look like a hero.”

      “So the oil development firms will choose to do business with him,” Nick concluded her speech.

      “It’s no big deal,” she snapped. “All you have to do is put on your uniform, flash your charming smile and tell everyone about being rescued by Hurtado.”

      Those were stories Sidney wanted to hear. While Nick was gone, she’d imagined him suffering a horrible fate and then tried to convince herself that he was off at a picnic in the Tiquanna jungle. After he told her the real version, she might be able to let go of the tears she’d wept and the pain she’d imagined.

      She sat cross-legged on the floor and peered down from the balcony. They wouldn’t see her unless they were really looking, but she had a clear view of the table. Her simple surveillance was kind of ironic, considering they were spies.

      “You’re not telling me the whole story,” Nick said.

      “Of course, I am.”

      “If it’s no big deal, why did the rebels come after me tonight with guns blazing? I deserve a real answer. My fiancée is lying in a bed upstairs with a gunshot wound.”

      When he gestured toward the balcony, their heads turned in her direction and she pulled back into the shadows.

      Agent Hawthorne slapped her palms on the table and thrust her face toward him. In profile, her nose was as long and sharp as a ferret’s. Her lips drew back from her teeth.

      “I was going to ask you the same question,” she said. “Is there something you haven’t told us? Some bit of information you haven’t seen fit to share?”

      “My debriefings are complete. I gave you pages of intel on the rebel camps, on where they’re getting their weapons СКАЧАТЬ