Veronica laughed even harder, doubling over on the couch.
The FInCOM agent was watching them both as if they were crazy or hysterical—which probably wasn’t that far from the truth.
Veronica wiped at her face, trying to catch her breath. “Oh, Lord,” she said. “Oh, God, I haven’t laughed this hard in years.” Her eyelashes were wet with her tears of laughter, and her eyes sparkled as, still giggling, she looked up at Joe. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into doing that again?”
“No way,” Joe said, grinning back at her. “I draw the line at being humiliated more than twice in a row.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” she said, but her giggles intensified. “Yes, I was,” she corrected herself. “I was laughing at you. I’m so sorry. You must think I’m frightfully rude.” She covered her mouth with her hand, but still couldn’t stop laughing—at least not entirely.
“I think I only looked funny because I’m not dressed like the prince,” Joe argued. “I think if I were wearing some sequined suit and walking that way, you wouldn’t be able to tell the two of us apart.”
“And I think,” Veronica said. “I think…I think it’s hopeless. I think it’s time to give up.” Her eyes suddenly welled with real tears, and all traces of her laughter vanished. “Oh, damn…” She turned away, but she could neither stop nor hide her sudden flow of tears.
She heard Joe’s voice, murmuring a command to the FInCOM agents, and then she felt him sit next to her on the sofa.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, come on, Veronica. It’s not that bad.”
She felt his arms go around her and she stiffened only slightly before giving in. She let him pull her back against his chest, let him tuck her head in to his shoulder. He was so warm, so solid. And he smelled so wonderfully good…
He just held her, rocking slightly, and let her cry. He didn’t try to stop her. He just held her.
Veronica was getting his shirt wet, but she couldn’t seem to stop, and he didn’t seem to mind. She could feel his hand in her hair, gently stroking, calming, soothing.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. She could hear it rumble slightly in his chest.
“You know, this guy we’re after?” Joe said. “The terrorist? His name’s Diosdado. One name. Kind of like Cher or Madonna, but not so much fun. Still, I bet he’s as much of a celebrity in Peru, where he’s from. He’s the leader of an organization with a name that roughly translates as ‘The Cloud of Death.’ He and a friend of his—a man named Salustiano Vargas—have claimed responsibility for more than twelve hundred deaths. Diosdado’s signature was on the bomb that blew up that passenger flight from London to New York three years ago. Two hundred and fifty-four people died. Remember that one?”
Veronica nodded. She most certainly did. The plane had gone down halfway across the Atlantic. There were no survivors. Her tears slowed as she listened to him talk.
“Diosdado and his pal Vargas took out an entire busload of U.S. sailors that same year,” Joe said. “Thirty-two kids—the oldest was twenty-one years old.” He was quiet for a moment. “Mac Forrest’s son was on that bus.”
Veronica closed her eyes. “Oh, God…”
“Johnny Forrest. He was a good kid. Smart, too. He looked like Mac. Same smile, same easygoing attitude, same tenacity. I met him when he was eight. He was the little brother I never had.” Joe’s voice was husky with emotion. He cleared his throat. “He was nineteen when Diosdado blew him to pieces.”
Joe fell silent, just stroking Veronica’s hair. He cleared his throat again, but when he spoke, his voice was still tight. “Those two bombings put Diosdado and The Cloud of Death onto the Most Wanted list. Intel dug deep and came up with a number of interesting facts. Diosdado had a last name, and it was Perez. He was born in 1951, the youngest son in a wealthy family. His name means, literally, ‘God’s gift.’” Joe laughed a short burst of disgusted air. “He wasn’t God’s gift to Mac Forrest, or any of the other families of those dead sailors. Intel also found out that the sonuvabitch had a faction of his group right here in D.C. But when the CIA went to investigate, something went wrong. It turned into a firefight, and when it was over, three agents and ten members of The Cloud of Death were dead. Seven more terrorists were taken prisoner, but Diosdado and Salustiano Vargas were gone. The two men we’d wanted the most got away. They went deep underground. Rumor was Diosdado had been shot and badly hurt. He was quiet for years—no sign of him at all—until a few days ago, when apparently Vargas took a shot at Prince Tedric.”
Joe was quiet again for another moment. “So there it is,” he said. “The reason we can’t just quit. The reason this operation is going to work. We’re going to stop those bastards for good, one way or another.”
Veronica wiped her face with the back of her hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried like this. It must have been the stress getting to her. The stress and the fatigue. Still, to burst into tears like that and…
She sat up, pulling away from Joe and glancing around the room, alarmed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She’d lost it. She’d absolutely lost it—and right in front of Joe and all those FInCOM agents. But the FInCOM agents were gone.
“They’re outside the door,” Joe said, correctly reading her thoughts. “I figured you’d appreciate the privacy.”
“Thank you,” Veronica murmured.
She was blushing, and the tip of her nose was pink from crying. She looked exhausted and fragile. Joe wanted to wrap her back in his arms and hold her close. He wanted to hold her as she closed her eyes and fell asleep. He wanted to keep her warm and safe from harm, and to convince her that everything was going to be all right.
She glanced at him, embarrassment lighting her crystal blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re tired.” He gave her an easy excuse and a gentle smile.
They were alone. They were alone in the room. As Joe held her gaze, he knew she was aware of that, too.
Her hair was starting to come free from its restraints, and strands curled around her face.
He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and lightly brushing the last of her tears from her cheek. Her skin was so soft and warm. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t even move. She just gazed at him, her eyes blue and wide and so damned innocent.
Joe couldn’t remember ever wanting to kiss a woman more in his entire life. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward, searching her eyes for any protest, alert for any sign that he was taking this moment of truce too far.
Her eyes flickered and he saw her desire. She wanted him to kiss her, too. But he also saw doubt and a flash of fear. She was afraid.
Afraid of what? Of him? Of herself? Or maybe she was afraid that the overwhelming attraction they both felt would ignite in a violent, nearly unstoppable explosion of need.
Joe almost pulled back.
But then her lips parted slightly, and he couldn’t resist. He wanted a taste—just a taste—of her sweetness.
So he kissed her. Slowly, gently pressing his lips to hers.
A rush of desire hit him low in the gut and it took every ounce of control to keep from giving in to his need and pulling her hard into his arms, kissing her savagely, and running his hands along the curves of her body. Instead, he made himself slow down.
Gently, so gently, he ran his tongue across her lips, slowly gaining passage to the softness of her mouth. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to move still more slowly, even slower now. She tasted of strawberries and coffee—an enticing combination of flavors. He caressed her tongue with his own and when she responded, when she opened her mouth to him,