Angel of Desire, page 4
"You must not be from around here," he probed.
She closed her eyes as the taxi abruptly cut in front of a Shoreham hotel curtesy van, earning a deafening squeal of brakes, then a furious bleat of the van's horn.
"I'm not." Now that, she considered, was a major understatement.
Gingerly she peeked again, just in time to watch the driver cut off a delivery van. "Is the restaurant very far?"
"No. So where's home?"
Relief flooded through her. As admittedly thrilling as the ride was, she didn't know how much more of it she could take. "I was born in Massachusetts."
"Ah. I thought I recognized the accent." Although the cadence was different, it reminded Shade slightly of Marianne's Bostonian tones. Perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. "Boston?"
"Salem."
"So, do you live there now?"
"I left some time ago. Dear Lord," she murmured, pressing a palm against her pounding heart as two bicyclists suddenly cut across three lanes of fast-moving traffic.
In the front seat the driver leaned on the horn and shouted a string of colorful, imaginative curses out the open window. The lead bicyclist responded with the raised middle finger of his gloved hand.
"So, where do you live now?"
"Oh, here and there." She wondered what he'd say if she told him the absolute truth, and decided he'd probably take her directly to the local lunatic asylum.
"What do you do? Here and there. For a living," he added at her blank look.
"I'm a midwife," she answered, relieved that the cycle had gone full circle and her former occupation was returning to vogue. Another falsehood safely averted.
"I thought midwives went out with gaslights and horse and buggies."
"They did lose popularity for a time," she agreed. "But now there are a great many women who prefer having their children at home, with their family present."
"Sound like leftover hippies to me," Shade decided.
She tapped down the flare of irritation created by his dismissive attitude. "Well, you're certainly entitled to your opinion. But you're wrong," she was unable to resist tacking on.
"If I'm wrong, why don't you tell me more about your work?" he suggested. "In order to help me better understand?"
He wasn't at all interested in her work as a midwife, Rachel knew. He was digging for information about her. About her past. She wondered if telling him the unvarnished truth would wipe that superior expression off his rugged face.
"Oh, look," she breathed, partly in an attempt to change the subject, partly in heartfelt appreciation of the sight, "aren't the cherry blossoms lovely!" The flowers reminded her of puffy pink clouds.
"Gorgeous." He didn't bother looking at the world-famous trees, decked out in their best springtime finery, bordering the equally famous Tidal Basin. "Have we met?"
Rachel sighed. She'd been waiting for this question. "Met?" she hedged, thinking back on that brief episode when Shade had been trapped under the ice. "No," she said with absolute, unwavering conviction, "we've never met."
Shade had very good instincts about people. More than once his life had depended on such intuition. He sensed she was telling the truth. But he still couldn't quite shake the feeling their paths had crossed before.
"Then why do I feel as if I've known you?"
"Perhaps in some previous life?"
"Sorry, sweetheart, but I don't believe in previous lives, second sight, Ouija boards or any other hocus-pocus kind of stuff." He didn't add that he'd never bought into Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy, either.
Rachel knew all too well that Shade possessed a relentlessly logical mind. It had been folly to even attempt to throw him off track.
"Well," she murmured with a slight shrug of her shoulders, feigning intense interest in the towering marble and granite obelisk the cab was approaching, "they say everyone has a double."
As they passed the Washington Monument, she thought back to the gallant young revolutionary soldier she'd seen through that freezing winter at Valley Forge. He'd survived the war, with her help, and had gone back to his Virginia farm where he'd married and fathered six children and lived happily ever after with his family for another thirty years.
"That's what they say." But Shade didn't believe he was remembering Rachel Parrish's double any more than he believed they might have been acquaintances in a previous life.
He and Rachel Parrish had known each other. Shade was positive of that.
Now all he had to do was figure out when. And where.
Which shouldn't be all that difficult, he assured himself as the cab pulled up in front of the restaurant. Not with the entire intelligence community at his disposal.
He glanced out the back window to ensure they hadn't been followed. As he exited the cab, Shade decided to get the guys started on the lady's background check right away. Although she seemed harmless enough, it was, he told himself as they entered the restaurant, the prudent, the only, thing to do.
Chapter Three
THE RESTAURANT, nestled amid the restored Victorian town homes and lush gardens of Georgetown, was an oasis of tranquillity in the teeming, bustling capital city.
The tables were draped in pink damask and had been placed far enough apart to permit intimacy between diners. Candles glowed warmly in crystal holders, Impressionist paintings and gilt-framed mirrors adorned walls covered in silk paper. In a far corner, a tuxedo-clad man played Gershwin on a gleaming black Steinway grand.
"Oh, this is absolutely lovely," Rachel enthused after the maître d' had welcomed Shade back to Washington, led them to a plush banquette at the back of the room, handed them a pair of tasseled menus and the wine book with a continental flourish, then departed.
At first she was surprised Shade had chosen such a pretty location for his interrogation, then recalled his talent for putting his intended victim off guard. A person would not be likely to expect a brutal grilling in these genteel surroundings.
Shade glanced around with a decided lack of interest. "It's okay, I guess." They'd been shown to Shade's usual table. Although a long way from the power booths located at the front of the restaurant, it allowed him to view the entire room while engaging in private conversation. It also kept his back to the wall.
He handed her the leather-bound wine list. "I've got some business to attend to. Why don't you pick out something for us to drink?"
Her attention drawn to what appeared to be either an original Monet or a very good copy hanging on the wall behind him, Rachel nodded absently.
Ignoring the bank of pay phones in the hallway leading to the rest rooms, Shade took the service elevator to the second-floor offices.
The manager of the restaurant, long appreciative of the business Shade and his colleagues represented, greeted him as expansively as the maître d' had, hoped he was enjoying his visit to Washington, then left the office without being asked.
Shade claimed the black leather chair behind the desk, picked up the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. An unfamiliar, obviously computerized female voice came onto the line, asking for his security code. Missing the flirtatious banter of the old operators, Shade punched in the new five-digit code he'd acquired just that afternoon.
There was a brief pause as the computer verified the number, then a clicking as the call was processed.
On the other end of the line, in an office in suburban Virginia, the phone was picked up on the very first ring.
"McGee," the voice answered.
"It's me." Shade was also not into proper telephone etiquette.
"Christ," Agent Elizabeth Anne McGee complained when she recognized Shade's voice. "It's only been a couple hours since you left here. I told you we'd put a rush on the job, but you know Tony's a perfectionist."
"I'm not calling about the papers. I want you to run a background check on someone."
"Dammit, Shade," she complained, "I was just on my way out. I have a date."
"A date?"
"Yeah, you remember what that is, don't you, lover? A few drinks, a nice dinner in an out-of-the-way bistro. Maybe, if the guy's real lucky and treats me real nice, a little roll in the hay at the end of the evening. A date," she repeated. "Kinda like what you and I used to do, except we never seemed to get around to the dinner."
"I don't remember you ever complaining."
"I wasn't complaining now. I was just pointing out that I had other plans for my evening. With a guy who doesn't flinch every time he sees me slip into my shoulder holster."
"Does he work for the Company?"
"Hell, no." She laughed, but he thought the sound lacked her usual self-assurance. "He's a cardiologist at Georgetown hospital. And he must be a little cracked, because he's actually talking marriage." Another shaky little laugh. "What do you think, Shade? Can you see me as a doctor's wife?"
"You'd make a damn terrific wife, Liz." Shade meant it. Realizing that he'd never be able to give her what she deserved—a home and a family—was the reason he'd let their affair drift away.
This time her laugh held a bit more of its old spunk. "Why don't you write me a reference letter?" she suggested. "Just in case my feminine persuasion needs a little backup."
"I really need this, sweetheart." His voice was low and warm and compelling. Although he did not recognize it as the same tone he used to coax women into his bed—not that they ever needed all that much coaxing—Agent Elizabeth McGee did.
He heard her resigned sigh resonate over the wires. "If I end up an old maid, it'll be on your head," she grumbled. "Shoot. What's the name?"
"Parrish. Rachel Parrish."
"Rachel?" He could practically see her auburn brow climbing her forehead. "If you're using me to prescreen your bed partners these days, Shade—"
"It's strictly business."
"Sure. And I've got some beachfront property in lovely downtown Beirut I'll sell you for a song."
"Liz." His voice dropped into its lowest registers. "Have I ever, in all the years we've known each other, lied to you?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "No, Shade. You were always unflinchingly honest." She actually sounded hurt, which surprised him, since he'd always prided himself on being completely up-front about his aversion to setting up housekeeping. It wasn't that he didn't like women. A steady stream of them had shared the moment, and his bed, since the summer he'd turned fourteen and had been seduced by the orphanage's new nurse, a married, decidedly lusty older woman in her thirties.
Other women had followed. Although sex, he'd discovered that long-ago sun-drenched day, was easily acquired, no woman had ever made an imprint on the dark interior of his spirit.
"You said Parrish?" Her tone was briskly professional.
"Rachel," he confirmed.
There was a tapping of fingernails on computer keys. "Age?"
"I don't know exactly. Mid-twenties. Five foot four, one hundred and five pounds, dark blond hair, gray eyes."
"Aha," Liz murmured, as if he'd just confirmed her previous suspicion. "Where's the lady from?"
"She said she was born in Massachusetts, and I think her accent, if it's not faked, backs her up. But she also hedged when I asked her where she's been living recently."
"No problem. Social Security and tax records will have that." More tap-tap-tapping. "Occupation?"
"Midwife." When he didn't receive the disbelief he'd expected, he added, "She says having kids at home is back in fashion." His voice went up on the end, turning it into a question.
"It is. And not just on those leftover hippie communes in northern California, either."
He laughed at that. "You know me too well, Liz."
"I always did, Shade. Which explains why I gave up on you and decided there was something to be said for cardiology."
Shade couldn't think of anything to say to that. It was, after all, true.
"So, can you give me anything else about this Rachel Parrish?" Elizabeth McGee asked.
"Sorry, that's it."
"Don't worry. If the lady's not in my data banks, she doesn't exist. By tomorrow morning, I'll know her shoe size, the name of her hairdresser, any other jobs she might have had and every guy she's gone to bed with since her senior prom."
Personally, Shade didn't think that last list would be very long. He wondered what Liz would say if he suggested she might want to check any nearby convents for runaway nuns. Or missing vestal virgins.
There was something about Rachel Parrish. Something so—Shade searched for the proper word—undefiled. An archaic term, he considered, after it had popped into his mind. But strangely, it fit.
"Mainly I want to know if she's intelligence," he revealed. "And whatever ties she's got to Yaznovia."
There was a moment's silence on the other end of the line.
"Be careful," Elizabeth McGee said finally. "This cockeyed plan of yours is going to be hard enough to pull off without getting involved with Mata Hari."
"Piece of cake," Shade promised. He'd been told his entire life that his plans wouldn't—couldn't—work. Which always made him all the more determined to prove his detractors wrong.
And this time, he thought as he hung up the phone, he could not afford to fail. Because this time, it was personal.
RACHEL STUDIED the wine list, staring at the mind-boggling choices. She was trying to decipher the myriad foreign and American choices, but she might as well have been attempting to read Sanskrit.
"Does mademoiselle have a special request?" a deep, all-too-familiar voice inquired, breaking into her concentration.
She glanced up, clearly startled. "Joshua? What are you doing here?"
"Playing the piano. And a very fine instrument it is, too," he commented, flexing his fingers with overt satisfaction. "Did you like my rendition of 'Rhapsody In Blue'?"
"To tell you the truth, I didn't even notice." She glanced nervously around, worried that Shade would return at any minute. "Surely a sudden musical urge didn't bring you all this way."
"Of course not. I came to check on you. How are you?" He leaned close, looking into her eyes, seeing all the way to her soul.
"I'm fine."
"You looked pale in the tavern."
"I just needed a slight period of adjustment. I'm feeling much better now. Really."
He seemed willing to take her words at face value. "Have you deterred Shade from his mission?"
"Not yet. Really, Joshua, these things take time."
It was clearly not the answer he'd been hoping for. He arched a silver patrician brow. "How much time?"
A flare of impatience burned away the last of the cobwebs fogging her mind. "I don't know. Shade is very intransigent. And since I've been forbidden to tell him the truth, I must find some other way to reach him."
"Work quickly," Joshua advised.
Rachel recognized the tone. All too well. She sighed. "You're here to bring me my deadline, aren't you?" When she'd left, that last detail had not yet been agreed upon.
"Yes." His warm gaze offered encouragement, and a warning she knew would be folly to ignore. "You have five days."
"Five days!" Realizing that she'd raised her voice, she quickly glanced around to ensure she hadn't drawn any undue attention. "It will take at least two or three days to even get to Yaznovia."
The brow lifted again, this time higher. "Surely you do not plan to accompany Shade to Yaznovia."
"If it proves necessary, yes." Jittery all over again at the gravity of her mission, Rachel vowed not to fail. "I must do this, Joshua."
"I understand your concerns, but—"
"You must go back and try to win me a little more time," she interrupted earnestly. "Please, Joshua?"
The older man let out a breath on a soft sound. "I'll try, little one." Then he did something he'd never done before. He brushed his knuckles affectionately, lovingly, down her cheek. "Take care, Rachel. I fear that this time your dedication and enthusiasm may have gotten you in over your head."
He lowered his hand. '"Embraceable You,'" he said, raising his voice to a purposefully public volume. "An excellent choice, mademoiselle. One of Gershwin's most memorable works. And a personal favorite of mine, as well."
Giving her one last fond yet warning look, he returned to the Steinway.
Leaning her elbows on the table, she linked her fingers together, braced her chin on her joined hands, watched Joshua settle himself theatrically at the piano and willed herself to relax. But the jumpiness in her refused to dissipate.
Her nerves were not helped by Shade's return. He was crossing the room toward her, looking once again, she considered, like a great dark cat.
"Did you choose our wine?" he inquired blandly.
Rachel glanced cautiously up and found herself looking straight into the pagan iridescence of Shade's green eyes. A ripple of fear and something else, something dark and dangerous she could not identify, skimmed up her spine.
"I thought I would prefer to leave that to you." It was only a whisper, forced past the tattered heartbeat lodged in her throat. Rachel took a breath and tried again. "Did you get your business taken care of?" Her smile was frail and false.
"For now."
Shade slid into the booth, cynically enjoying the slight tremor she tried to hide but couldn't when his leg brushed against hers beneath the table.
He hadn't missed the intimate little tête-à-tête between Rachel and the pianist. It only confirmed his suspicions that she was not as innocent as she appeared to be.
Whoever Rachel Parrish was, he wasn't about to let her interfere with his mission. He'd get into Yaznovia, rescue Conlan, kill the general—nice and neat and clean, not the lengthy, drawn-out, messy way the coldblooded bastard did away with his innocent victims—and most importantly, return Conlan to his pregnant wife.
And if Sister Rachel thought she was going to stop him, Shade thought savagely, the wide-eyed little nun was in for the surprise of her life.
She was good. Better than good, Shade decided more than two hours later. Contrary to her innocent butter-would-melt-in-that-soft-mouth appearance, the woman was proving to be a world-class equivocator.
