A haze of smoke and weariness permeated the hotel suite’s center room as five somber-faced men sprawled on chairs and couches. Clothes were rumpled, eyes stung, stubborn jaws sported a day’s growth of bristly whiskers, and throats were raw from too much smoke and talk. No one had even considered sleep. Gallons of coffee had been brewed and drunk while they worked out a strategy in this chess game between sworn enemies. Living on adrenaline and caffeine was second nature now, though it had been months since they’d been tested.
“Damn, these all-nighters used to be more fun,” Eddie Ramsey grumbled.
“Everything used to be more fun,” Richard said. “Let’s face it, guys, we’re getting old.”
“Speak for yourself,” Caleb declared as he poured himself a cup of fresh coffee from the carafe Jonathan had just set in the middle of the table. “Me, I’m in my prime.”
“In your dreams, Stone,” Gordo retorted.
After pacing the room, Jonathan lowered himself awkwardly into a chair. His hip was giving him fits, but he’d been reluctant to take the medication that dulled his mind along with the pain. “You guys can blow smoke all you want,” he said as he unfolded his napkin, “but me, I’m ready to admit I’ve had it with field work.”
“Amen, brother,” Richard muttered.
“Okay, hotshots. If we give up the field, who’s going to take our places?” Cal challenged.
“Funny you should ask,” Gordon told him with a grin. “I’m seriously considering asking Elliot to handle the medical end in Montebello.” He paused. “According to the Medics Without Limits scheduling clerk I rousted out of bed a couple of minutes ago, he’s taking R and R in Spain as we speak. Depending on transport, he could be on scene in a matter of hours.”
Jonathan regarded him with thoughtful eyes. “You think he can handle this kind of assignment?”
“I know he’s rock steady in the OR, which is what’s desperately needed in Montebello at the moment. How he would react under more extreme mission conditions is another question. Maybe the best thing is to take it one step at a time, see how he handles this, before talking to him about joining us.”
The room fell silent as the others considered. Coffee cups clinked against saucers for a good five minutes before Jonathan broke the silence. Although the Noble Men had no official leadership hierarchy, as the man who’d gathered them together into a cohesive force, he was considered the group’s de facto commander.
“Sounds reasonable to me,” he stated, his drawl more prevalent than usual, a sign of weariness they all recognized. “In fact, I’ve been toying with the idea of bringing Jack into the mix now and then. Provided he’d be interested.”
“Hell, we’ve all been thinking about bringing our boys into the fold,” Eddie declared, glancing around the table with eyes habitually attuned to the smallest flicker of emotion in friend and foe alike. “Me, I don’t mind admitting it’s something in the nature of a dream for me, the thought of working closely with my boy.”
“Maybe it is time we gave this some serious thought,” Richard mused aloud. “This thing in Montebello could be a good testing ground, at least for Gordo’s boy and maybe some of the others.”
“Then we’re agreed—Elliot gets a call?” Gordon asked, his emotions tangling despite the calm deliberately layered into his voice.
“Agreed,” Jonathan said immediately.
“Works for me,” Cal said as he refilled his cup. The others chimed in with various comments, all of which were affirmative.
Gordon excused himself to make the call. He only hoped to hell he wasn’t asking more of his son than Elliot could bear.
Elliot wasn’t dead. He knew that because some sadistic SOB was presently pounding a dull railroad spike into the cavity behind his eyeballs.
He opened his eyes slowly, then winced at the sudden glare of daylight filtering through ancient venetian blinds. The .44 was on the pillow next to him. Still fully loaded.
Nothing had changed. He still wanted to die. So why hadn’t he pulled the trigger? His dad’s voice, that’s why, shouting in his head. Remember this if you never remember anything else, son—as long as he has breath in his body and blood in his veins, a real man never surrenders.
A real man? Hell, Elliot had ended up crying himself to sleep like a two-year-old terrified of monsters in the night. The inside of his eyelids felt raw, and he was pretty sure he must have swallowed sandpaper while he slept. One arm was numb, and his gut was full of greasy eels.
Slowly he rolled to his back, then waited out a sudden rush of nausea. He figured he could make it down the hall to the can before his stomach revolted—as long as no one was foolish enough to get in his way.
It took some doing, but he managed to sit up and get his feet on the floor without upchucking. He’d just braced one hand on the night table and was working up his courage to push himself to his feet when the cell phone next to his hand suddenly rang.
Something resembling cymbals crashed in his head, and he let out a pitiful groan. Damn thing, why hadn’t he tossed it after buying the bottle? What does a dead man need with a cell phone, anyway?
He was giving serious thought to smashing the miserable thing before the conscience he’d never quite wrestled into silence kicked him into answering.
The smell of chlorine and sex swirled around their heated bodies. His mouth was hot on hers as tension built to a feverish pitch inside her. Her soft, eager moans mingled with the soft humming of the filter behind the pool house wall. Strong, skillful hands lightly stroked the sensitive curve of her inner thighs, sending warm ribbons of mindless pleasure swirling through her naked body.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice thick and urgent.
“Yes, oh yes, Elliot. Please love me, please. I want you….”
His broad chest radiated heat as he pressed her deeply into the thick cushion of the pool house lounge. The hair covering his pectoral muscles rubbed against her small breasts. Awash in pleasure, she writhed, desperate to find relief from the sweet pressure in all the private places inside.
“Spread your legs for me, Katydid. Let me inside you.” His voice was harsh, his breathing labored. His dear face was taut with strain, his eyes dark with an almost savage need.
“I love you,” she cried as he plunged into her, rending intimate flesh and ending her innocence.
The phone by the bed was ringing. Kate jerked awake to discover her fingers clutching the pillow, her breath coming in harsh gasps. A quick glance at the clock had her letting out a heartfelt groan. Not quite 6:00 a.m., it was far too early to be waking on the last day of her vacation.
She was definitely not on call, so it couldn’t be the clinic. Heaven help the person on the other end if this was a telemarketing call. Accustomed to phones ringing at all hours, she took a moment to clear her throat and focus her mind before sitting up to reach for the receiver.
“Dr. Remson,” she said crisply.
“Katherine, this is Gordon Hunter. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Shock rendered her speechless for a full second before she found her voice. “Uh, no, not at all, Dr. Hunter. Is…is something wrong?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Before she could give voice to the questions already jamming her head, he went on. “Are you near a TV set?”
“Yes, why?”