White lies

His face softened and he put his free hand on her breasts, gently cupping them. "Then why shouldn’t we get married?"

It was hard to concentrate with his palm burning her flesh through the thin cotton of her gown, and her body quickened again. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her, and denying him was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she had no choice. Until his memory returned, she was in limbo. She couldn’t take ad- vantage of him now by marrying him under false pretenses.

"Well?" he demanded impatiently.

"I love you," she said again. Her lips trembled. "Ask me again when your memory has returned, and I’ll say yes. Until then, until we’re both certain it’s what you want, I… I just can’t."

His face hardened. "Damn it, Jay, I know what I want."

"We’ve been thrown together because of the circumstances! We don’t know each other under normal conditions. You’re not the same man I married–" how true that was! "–and I’m not the same woman. We need time! When your memory returns–"

"That’s not guaranteed," he interrupted, his voice harsh with frustration. "What if my memory never returns? What if there’s permanent brain damage? Then what? Are you still going to be saying no this time next year? Five years from now?"

"I don’t think you have brain damage," she said shakily. "You recovered your speech and motor functions too easily."

"That’s beside the damned point!" He was furious. Before she could move, he rolled onto her and pinned her hands to the bed. He was so close that she could see the yellow flecks in his irises, his curling black lashes, and a tiny scar in his left eyebrow she hadn’t noticed before. He took a deep breath and slowly relaxed, the anger fading from him as he moved against the softness of her body, letting her feel his hardness. "I won’t wait forever," he said in soft warning. "I’m going to have you. If not now, then later."

Then he rolled off her and was gone, moving with a peculiar silent grace that had become far more evident since the bandages had been removed from his eyes. There had been signs of it before, manifested in the superb control he had over his movements, but now it was striking. He didn’t just move, he flowed, his muscles rippling with liquid power. Jay lay quietly on the bed, her body burning from frustration and the lingering sensation of contact with his, her eyes on the door he had closed behind him.

Who was he? Terror washed over her again, but it was terror for him. He was an agent, obviously, but not just any agent. He had clearly had extensive training; he was valuable enough that the government was willing to spend a fortune protecting him, as well as setting up this elaborate charade with her as an unsuspecting partner. If it hadn’t been for his eyes, she might never have sus- pected a thing. But if he was that valuable to his own government, then logic told her he was of at least equal value to his enemies. All things were in proportion; whatever lengths had been taken to protect him, his enemies would be willing to go to equal lengths to find and destroy him.

As each new part of him was revealed, the stakes seemed to get higher. Now she knew that he was skilled at clandestine forced entry. She had picked up some of the lingo at Bethesda; what had she heard it called?

Light entry? No, soft entry. They called it a soft entry. Going in hard was an attack with weapons. Maybe the lock on the motel door wasn’t the sturdiest model available, but she knew that picking it was beyond the average citizen. A good burglar wouldn’t have any trouble with it, though… or a good agent.

And the way he moved. He was as controlled and graceful as a dancer, but a dancer’s moves were poetic, while Steve’s were evocative of silent danger.

His mind. No detail escaped him. He was trained to notice and use everything. Already Frank was deferring to htm, another sign of his importance.

And he was in danger. Perhaps not immediate danger, but she knew it was there waiting for him.

The phone rang at two in the morning in Frank’s room, and he muttered a sleepy curse as he fumbled for the receiver. It was second nature to him not to turn on a light, which could alert any outside observers that he was awake. Nor did he have to ask who it was, because only one man knew where they were.

"Yes," he said, and yawned.

"Piggot surfaced," the Man said. "East Berlin. We couldn’t get to him in time, but we did find out that he’s learned there was a survivor of the explosion and has made inquiries."

"Did the cover hold?"

"If Piggot asked at all, there has to be some doubt. Make certain your trail is covered. I don’t want anyone other than the two of us to know where they are. How is he doing?"

"Better than I would have, if this had been my first day out of the hospital in two months. He’s stronger than I expected. One other thing: I never would have believed it, but I think he’s falling in love with her. It isn’t just that he’s been dependent on her, I think he’s really serious."

"Good God," the Man said, startled. He laughed. "Well, it happens to the best of us. I have the final medical report on him here. His brain damage, if any, is minimal. He’s a walking miracle, especially the speed of his recovery. He should regain his full memory but it may take a trigger of some sort to release it. We may have to bring his family in, or take him home, but not until we find Piggot. Until then, he stays hidden."

"The day we get Piggot, we tell him–and Jay– what’s going on?"

The Man sighed. He sounded tired. "I hope he’s recovered his memory by then. Damn it, we need to know what happened over there, and what he found out. But with his memory or without it, he has to stay there until we get Piggot. He has to be Steve Crossfield."