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  As if he’d have to, her still strumming pussy observed. But she only said, “Glad to hear it.” A niggling little voice inside her head pointed out that it would be really nice if he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  Apparently, Nick Mirovic could take it or leave it when it came to sex with her.

  Shit. Why don’t I have as much self-control?

  Thirty-one

  Over drinks in the living room—on the side away from the lake so the crash site wasn’t visible—the men explained their plans and expectations.

  “Harry might send in a second team.” Nick deliberately spoke in a casual tone. “It’s just a possibility,” he added with a smile for Zoe, who sat across from him in a large cushioned chair, her feet curled up beneath her.

  “He probably won’t.” Alan was lounging on a couch, his drink resting on his chest. “But we’re not taking any chances.”

  “There’s no need to panic though,” Nick quickly interposed, noting Zoe’s apprehensive expression. “Harry won’t be sure the mission failed until late today. And he couldn’t get another crew out here in less than two, three days. So we’re figuring we’ll pack up and leave in the morning.”

  “We were wondering if you had someplace safe you could go,” Alan inquired, figuring it might be easier for him to ask than Nick.

  “If you don’t, I’ll find you a secure accommodation,” Nick quickly offered. While he appreciated Alan’s good intentions, he could deal with Zoe himself. “It wouldn’t be for long. Al and I have to take care of some business, that’s all.”

  Their taking care of business has nothing to do with economics. Not that I’m about to quiz them on the particulars. “What’s the time frame on the someplace safe?” she asked, sticking to the essentials, avoiding ethical considerations that would require a complete restructuring of her rules to live by. “I’d really like to go home.”

  Nick looked at Alan, Alan looked at Nick, and after a brief moment of silence, Nick said, “Probably two weeks.”

  That exchange of glances pretty much said it all. And after having been way too close to a bona fide, nitty-gritty battle scene, she wanted to stay as far away as possible from the next one. “I have a college friend in Chicago who doesn’t have any obvious connection to me should someone want to trace my whereabouts.” Her brows rose. “I’m supposed to be in an undisclosed location I presume.”

  Nick grinned. “Yup. Only until everything is resolved.”

  “Your stuff resolved or mine?”

  “Both.”

  “You can’t possibly deal with Willerby. Can you?” she added, part dubious, part not so sure he couldn’t.

  “I might know someone who can lean on him.”

  “I don’t think I want to ask what that means.” I can’t afford years of therapy.

  Nick smiled faintly. “Good idea.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Alan interjected. “I say we celebrate our current victory before we start talking about the next one. It’s like tempting fate—bad karma for sure. Who’s ready for another drink?” He rolled off the couch and walked to a table where a bottle of single malt from a small distillery on the Isle of Skye and a bottle of Kahlua sat on a tray beside a pot of coffee. Zoe wasn’t quite up to single malt this early in the morning. She was drinking Kahlua and coffee.

  Alan’s diplomatic proposal put an end to any further discussion of matters the men preferred not discussing—and Zoe didn’t really want to hear.

  She wanted to stay way clear of further gunfire.

  She wanted to forget that they could have been killed.

  She really didn’t want to think about what had happened to the men coming after them because that meant she would have had to deal with Nick and Alan having eliminated—shit, let’s face it—killed them. Oh, God, was she going straight to hell? Or did you get points for making the world safe from bad guys?>

  But even as she struggled to calibrate the dictates of good and evil, she also found herself increasingly aware that Nick was exiting her life. Soon, he and the pleasure he wrought would be gone—the grievous thought looping through her brain in an obsessive rotation, blocking out the men’s voices.

  Their departure was imminent, only hours . . . at the most, a day remained before she and Nick parted.

  And the word privation was beginning to flash neon bright in her brain. Despite Nick’s occasional psycho moments, he was not only unbelievably gorgeous but absolutely incredible in bed. She’d miss the awesome sex and seriously, she wasn’t sure she’d ever find someone as fine as him again. She wasn’t exaggerating; she’d dated more than her share of men before and after her marriage. And without a doubt, Nick Mirovic was one of a kind.

  “Hey, babe.”

  Looking up, she realized she’d zoned out, because Nick was smiling that knowing, perceptive smile. Like he knew what women were thinking when they were in a trance. “Sorry, I was thinking about packing,” she lied.

  “I was just asking if you want steak or fish with your breakfast. Alan and I are hungry.”

  “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  Nick held her gaze for an overlong moment. “Steak then,” he finally said, his voice soft and low. “Come sit in the kitchen and keep me company while I cook,” he added with a smile, his tone normal once again. Shape up, dude, he cautioned himself. “Alan will pour drinks and we’ll have ourselves a party.”

  Breakfast was a convivial occasion, the company excellent, the food superb—pancakes, Canadian maple syrup, steak, strawberries from Nick’s freezer with a splash of kirsch and half-thawed cream with little crystals still in it. And of course, Nick’s fantastic lattes, which in addition to all his other magnificent achievements were naturally divine.

  Alan also kept the drinks coming, in her case Kahlua in her latte.

  No one mentioned killing anyone or what had become of their attackers, nor did they speak of anyone’s plans for the next two weeks. They ate and conversed like the characters in an Alice in Wonderland unreality—about cabbages and kings or the weather and fishing, books read, favorite TV programs, the state of modern architecture in Europe for some reason. Evil and wickedness didn’t exist at the breakfast table that morning. Only cloudless, blue sky pleasantries held sway.

  It was close to nine when they finished eating.

  “I’m going to start packing my stuff,” Alan said, rising from the table. “I might leave today if it works out. Ginny worries when I’m gone.”

  Nick shoved his chair out from the table. “I’ll give you a hand,” he offered, coming to his feet. “There’s a lot to crate up.”

  “I can do it myself,” Alan said, waving off Nick. “Take it easy.”

  “Nah, I’ll help. Closing up camp is so routine for me, I can do it in a couple hours. Are you okay here alone?” he asked, turning to Zoe.

  “Perfectly fine.” She was as capable of counterfeit equanimity as her colleagues. “Let me clean up the kitchen since you did all the cooking. Then I’ll pack my bags so whenever you’re ready, I’ll be set. And if I don’t see you again, it was a pleasure,” she added, smiling at Alan.

  “The pleasure was all mine. Good luck with your writing.”

  Nick nodded at Alan. “Ready?”

  As the men’s footsteps echoed on the porch, then the stairs, Zoe slid down in her chair, and finally at liberty to dispense with the pretense that everything was dandy, she gave into a significant sense of bereavement.

  Not exactly an orthodox emotion after their recent triumph over evil. But apparently her psyche was capable of ignoring that obvious success and fixating instead on her impending loss.

  As if she’d ever had Nick anyway, her unhelpful psyche pointed out.

  So get a grip. Another unwelcome bit of advice from the irritating voice inside her head. Clean up the kitchen dammit, the bossy voice commanded, then pack your duffle bags, wait for the plane to leave, and get on with your life. Affirmation therapy— bulldozer-style—was calling the shots.


  She sighed, knowing her subconscious was just being realistic. Once they reached civilization, she’d give Rosie a call and invite herself for a visit.

  Not that Rosie would mind.

  They had taken turns crying on each other’s shoulders through the angst of college romances, jobs that sucked, and their respective divorces. Rosie was happily single now, enjoying her new position as lifestyle editor at the Sun Times and living in a darling little house overlooked in the gentrification of the Near North Side.

  It even had a patch of fenced-in yard out back where it would be possible to work if she wanted a couple rays of sun.

  Completely private.

  Perfect really.

  Sans Nick and the fantastic sex of course, but that’s the way life went sometimes.

  It couldn’t always be a bowl of cherries.

  Thirty-two

  Four hours later, Alan and Nick stacked the last two crates into the hold of Alan’s plane. Nick jumped back onto the dock.

  Alan said, “I’m outta here,” and moved down a pontoon toward the cockpit.

  “Thanks again. You saved my ass.”

  “Not a problem,” Alan said, climbing into the pilot’s seat. “See you next Thursday, ten o’clock.”

  “Roger that. I’ll have the plane and flight plan ready.”

  “Give my regards to Zoe.” Holding the cockpit door open, Alan grinned. “And remember, keep your mind on business.”

  “Will do Mom.”

  “If only I believed you.” With a last smile, Alan slammed the door shut, fired up the engines, and a minute later was taxiing away from the dock.

  Nick watched the plane until it disappeared into the high cumulus clouds that were habitual in the summer skies up north. Then he walked back down the dock and closed up the boathouse. He knew what he wanted to do next, but that meant getting involved when he didn’t want to get involved, so sex was out. Fuck.

  Instead, he trudged through two miles of timber and underbrush to the cove where his plane had been stashed and spent the remainder of the afternoon bringing his plane—and two repeat journeys later—both boats back to the boathouses. It had to be done. As did raising the boats in their lifts inside the boathouse and filling his plane with gas, checking the oil, doing all the routine maintenance necessary before they took off in the morning. After that, he locked up the sauna, the woodshed, the gasoline tank and walked back up to the cabin to pack.

  Not that he had much to pack. He kept clothes here.

  He glanced at his watch as he entered the kitchen. Four thirty.

  He inwardly groaned.

  It was going to be a long night.

  But he wanted to arrive in Ely in the morning. It would not only be more convenient for Tony to meet him, but he needed to store his plane either at Tony’s or Shagawa Resort where the usual suspects wouldn’t be looking for it. Then he figured he’d drive Zoe to Duluth and personally see that she was safely on a plane to Chicago.

  In the course of the day, Zoe had had plenty of time to talk herself into a mature state of mind with regard to Nick. They were both adults. They understood that sex was sex was sex. And the unusual circumstances that had brought them together had moved on to another phase.

  In fact, had they not been attacked in the middle of the night, she may have decided to escape Willerby’s unwanted attentions in some other fashion. By morning, she may very well have thought of Rosie as a viable option. Or Ann, another friend, who lived in a secure, gated community in San Diego.

  Ah, denial.

  So after several hours of mental gymnastics that ignored the elephant in the room—in this case, the fantastic sex—Zoe was feeling smugly in control of her emotions. Or perhaps not entirely in control, for when she heard Nick come in, she prudently stayed in the library and continued working. Actually, semiworking. Intellectually, she may have been in control, but her brain was less easily persuaded and no matter how seemingly sensible her resolve regarding Nick, she had spent lots of time daydreaming about, let’s face it, the awesome sex.

  In fact, in the midst of recalling some steamy memories, she almost jumped out of her chair when Nick knocked on the door and said, “Supper in ten minutes.”

  Fortunately, he didn’t open the door since his voice alone had put her in such a dizzy state she felt like a twelve-year-old at her first junior high dance wondering if any of the boys who were huddled in a group across the room from the girls would walk across the gym floor and ask her to dance. Where the hell did that come from?

  From the indecisive and yet much too willing libido that was goingto be a complete pushover if Nick so much as smiles in my direction at dinner.

  He didn’t though.

  Which should have made her happy but pissed her off instead. That huffiness was most helpful though because pissed off she was able to eat and converse and in general get through the meal without making a fool of herself.

  As in—asking for it.

  Although, wouldn’t you know, Nick had cooked some damned cordon bleu version of chicken with Parmesan rice and peas that melted in your mouth, along with biscuits and coconut cream pudding that was almost as good as an orgasm.

  Plus, he sat back in his chair, all casual nonchalance, and carried on a polite, easygoing conversation without so much as breaking a sweat.

  He was really, entirely annoying.

  No man should be so urbane, not to mention drop-dead handsome and expert in absolutely everything—including cooking.

  Her pique may have been evident when she came to her feet immediately after finishing her dessert and said, snappishly, “Thank you for dinner. It was excellent as usual. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He didn’t move from his lounging pose. “You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

  “Hmpf!” she muttered, and marched out of the room.

  Only when she was well out of sight, did he push himself up in his chair, reach for the wine bottle, lift it to his mouth, and drain it in one long chug. Then, coming to his feet, he proceeded to set the kitchen to rights, loading the dishwasher and starting the cycle, wiping off the counters and table, unplugging all the appliances. As if physical activity would take his mind off his relentless cravings.

  It didn’t, but at least the kitchen wound up clean.

  After that he grabbed a bottle of Canadian whiskey from the liquor table in the living room and walked out on the front porch. Slumping down in one of the chairs, he uncorked the bottle, took a slug, and cradling the bottle in his hands, gazed out at the lake. The moon was no more than a faint suggestion in the evening sky. It was summer in the north and light until ten.

  Forcing himself to concentrate on knocking off Harry instead of surrendering to lust, Nick mentally reviewed his plans, checking off items one by one, going back over the schedule twice more to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. He systematically forecast each required step with cool pragmatism. He couldn’t afford to let emotion get in the way of scoring a hit.

  He couldn’t afford mistakes.

  Harry was gonna be in full defensive mode.

  It was completely dark when Nick finished the last of the whiskey. He still wasn’t tired. Nor had the booze numbed his senses or, more particularly, his craving for the woman asleep in the bedroom down the hall. He walked back into the living room, and stood near the door debating his options. Another bottle? A few more hours outside on the porch safety zone where he could ride out the powerful wave of lust rattling his cage?

  He remained at a standstill—as though all would be lost if he moved one additional step. Clenching and unclenching his fingers, he drew in deep, calming breaths. Told himself to be sensible. Reminded himself of what was at stake.

  Come morning, they’d take off and that would be that.

  Don’t look for trouble.

  Do not look for trouble.

  He swore under his breath, the ticking of the clock on the mantel suddenly raucous in his ears.

  Out of the blue, the phrase Where have all the
flowers gone? leaped into his brain. A split second later he thought, What the hell—life’s short.

  Thirty-three

  Zoe heard the bedroom door open. She glanced at the clock—a luminous 12:23.

  Should she say something, sit up, feign sleep? Would he stay or go if he thought her sleeping?

  At the thought of him leaving, her libido quickly took charge. Sit up, sit up . . . so he knows you’re awake! Then the ball’s in his court. What prompted her sudden bashfulness, she hadn’t a clue. In the past, she would have simply asked for what she wanted. Maybe it was the effect of having been more or less ignored at dinner.

  Apparently, Nick wasn’t aware that the ball was in his court because he simply shut the door and stood there.

  A muzzled, inhibited silence vibrated in the air.

  Then they both began to speak, stopped, went mute.

  And another inarticulate hush ensued.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” Nick finally said, half under his breath.

  “I didn’t think you were coming.” She shouldn’t have been so honest. She should have said something bland and innocuous. After all, he had just pointed out that he shouldn’t be here.

  “I tried not to.” He was resting against the door, seemingly at ease, in spite of his brusque comment.

  Her temper spiked. Rude prick. “Should I be honored you decided to show up or offended by your rudeness?”

  “Suit yourself.” Edgy, restive words. But he didn’t move.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, cool and cheeky.

  “Take your time,” he drawled, abruptly pushing away from the door and moving toward the bed. “It’s still early.”

  “No it isn’t. It’s late. You woke me up.” For starters, he’d better apologize.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”

  Okay, so he had apologized. Somehow it wasn’t enough. “That’s no reason to wake me,” she peevishly retorted. This whole dance was too easy for him, too familiar, the payoff too certain.