Undercover Mistress

Though even the most difficult things couldn’t be avoided forever.

“It’s going to be a beautiful sunset,” Celia said, as they paused to watch waves break against a jagged ridge of volcanic rock. Her voice had a kind of tightness to it that told him she’d most likely been wanting to break the silence, but hadn’t known how, and had finally given up hoping he’d do it for her.

“Yeah,” Roy said dryly, “it’s because of all that air pollution the Santa Ana wind just blew out there.”

She laughed and threw him a crooked smile. “You’re in a romantic mood.”

“Got a lot on my mind.” He said it gently, because he’d heard vulnerability in her voice, too.

“Yeah, me too.”

There was silence, then, while he struggled with the temptation to simply let it go, knowing she must be doing the same. Then a stray puff of wind carried her scent to him, and he was hit with a wave of memory so powerful he had to catch his breath. The taste, touch, and feel of her…images, the way she’d looked this morning, so vulnerable, so frightened…and flushed with desire for him, too…

He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened when it was in his mind every waking moment. Couldn’t let it happen again no matter how much he wanted to. How much they both wanted to.

“About last night-” They both began at the same time, then broke off with uneasy laughter.

To give them both time to rebuild defenses, Roy bent down, picked up a piece of driftwood and hurled it into the surf. Aiming a wry grin at the brilliant horizon, he said, “Yeah, that’s definitely one of the things on my mind.”

He glanced over at her, but she, too, seemed to find the western horizon intensely fascinating. Her expression seemed thoughtful. Or guarded, he thought.

It occurred to him then that no matter how good an actress she was, there were times he was starting to be able to read her. Times when he could tell what was real and what wasn’t. He never doubted last night had been as…he tried to think of a word for it, but the only thing he could come up with was real. As real for her as for him. And as certain as he was of that, he was just as sure right now that she was going to use all her acting skills to try to keep him from knowing that.

She’s in love with me, he thought. Or thinks she is.

Which made it that much harder for him. If she believed it, it would be too easy to let himself believe it, too.

And if he did believe it? Where did that leave him? Given his lifestyle, the choices he’d made? Loving someone-really loving-knowing they loved you back, belonging to someone, making a life together…joining. Being responsible for-and to-someone…

He gave his head one hard shake. No way. Not for him. It just didn’t compute.

But there was last night. This morning. How in the hell was he supposed to make himself forget about that?

He took a breath, stared at a retreating wave near his feet and said gruffly, “What Max said…”

Her own quick intake of breath interrupted him, as she rushed to be the first to say it and he paused to let her. “Yeah. I know. He’s right. What were we thinking?”

He looked at her and she looked back at him, the question she’d asked lying unanswered between them. But though her face…her eyes…seemed outwardly composed…even serene, with his newfound ability to read her he found the signs easily enough: the bruised, transparent look of the skin beneath her eyes…the blurred softness of her mouth. She’s in pain, he thought. I know. I can feel it.

Then, he thought, who the hell am I kidding? That’s not her pain I’m feeling. It’s mine. I’m hurtin’, too, dammit. I guess we both are.

He swallowed, and even that hurt. “Bad idea,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” she said, “bad idea.”

Then they simply looked at each other in helpless silence, and in the faraway calling of the gulls he heard aching denial, and the question they couldn’t bring themselves to ask: Why? Why is it so bad when it feels so good?

“Not so much a bad idea, as bad timing,” Roy answered it gruffly. Regret, because he couldn’t give the answer they both wanted so much, made his voice harsh. “We’ve got no business getting…you know, emotionally involved. Not in the middle of an operation. Not with God knows how many lives at stake. Like Max said-gotta stay focused.”

“I know…” She said it on an exhalation and turned her face to the setting sun, not before he caught the tiny spasm of pain that shivered through those delicate tissues around her eyes.

She reached up, and with a swift, almost violent motion, pulled away the elastic band that held her hair in its ponytail, then gave her head a shake that tumbled her hair into the wind.

Watching her do that-face lifted to the sun, and her fingers scrubbing that Santa Ana wind into her hair-made Roy think of a song from his childhood; his momma had been a big fan of Broadway musicals, so he’d been a captive audience for probably every Rodgers and Hammerstein movie ever made. Right then he was thinking of “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair.”

Which was maybe why, when she turned to walk on again, he didn’t take her hand, although the impulse to do so was a powerful ache inside him.

After a few minutes of watching her bare feet make prints in the wet sand, she caught a quick, lifting breath and said, “Do you think maybe…” He glanced at her, waiting for the rest, but she looked away and shook her head, smiling a little.

He was pretty sure he knew what she’d almost asked. Do you think maybe…after this is over?

He knew, too, why she hadn’t finished it. Neither of them dared to think that far ahead.

Drawing a breath to quell the queasiness in his stomach, Roy said with false brightness, “So-what’s on our agenda for Christmas?”

Celia squinted at him, shading her eyes with her hand against the setting sun. “We were going to party-hop. We’ve got several different invitations. But now I’m thinking-” she shrugged “-you know, what’s the point?”

“Yeah…” They’d accomplished their purpose; that part of the job was done. He watched his feet for a few steps, then glanced over at her. “So…you don’t much feel like partyin’, is that what you’re sayin’?”

“Not really,” she said warily. “Do you?”

He gave a dismal huff of laughter. “Hell, no.”

Fact was, he’d never felt less like partyin’ in his whole life. He’d never felt less like Christmas, either. What he did feel was heavy and dull and sad. He’d never been much of one for moods-sure as hell couldn’t recall ever having been depressed before. He wondered if this was what depressed felt like. Because if it was, he could kind of understand why people made such a big deal about it.

“Then let’s stay home.” There was a gay lilt in her voice that, though masterfully done, didn’t fool him. After a little pause just for effect, she added slyly, “I’ll cook dinner.”

Because he knew she wanted him to, because she was trying so hard, Roy laughed, rolled his eyes, groaned and said, “Oh, my Lord, save us…” in his very best Southern drawl.

Chapter 14

“I’m serious,” Celia said, and her eyes gleamed bravely. “I, Celia Cross, am going to cook us a traditional Christmas dinner. With all the trimmings-whatever that means.”

“Tell me the truth, you poor little Hollywood princess, you,” he said, grinning skeptically at her. “Do you even know what a traditional Christmas dinner is?”

She gave him an insulted look. “Of course, I do-I’ve read A Christmas Carol. I know all the songs. Aren’t you supposed to cook a goose? And roast chestnuts, right? Then there’s something called figgy pudding-I have no idea what that is, but I bet I could find a recipe for it online. Did you know, there’s this wonderful thing called Google…”

“Turkey,” he said with a sigh.

“I beg your pardon?”