Bombshell - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 15

  I shifted Bel slightly in my arms, trying to stop my legs from going to sleep. She was no feather-weight, that was for sure.

  It was hard to tell if she was awake, her head on my shoulder, her eyes closed, but when I whispered her name, her eyes opened instantly, then drooped again. But as I looked down, I could see tears glistening on her cheeks and eyelashes. She cried in complete silence, which was unnerving and somehow worse.

  As the road gleamed blackly in front of us, Clay glanced impatiently at his phone clipped to the dashboard, waiting for the signal bars to pop up.

  As soon as they did, he tossed me the phone and I woke up some poor bugger at Halo’s Scottish HQ, giving him an abbreviated version of the sitrep.

  Then it was pedal to the metal all the way to Armenia, another four hours west, where the long arm of Yad’s police chief cousin couldn’t reach us.

  We hoped.

  Arabella

  I CRIED THE whole night as we drove through the monotone landscape, the snow far behind us.

  James held me the entire time, speaking occasionally, his voice low and intimate.

  I had time to think, not just about what had happened—or nearly happened—with Yad, but everything, my whole life. It was as if the assault had triggered some seismic change inside me and the old Arabella was gone for good. She died in that moment of panic and fear, that moment when James’s pistol shattered the night.

  In truth, I think she’d started to fade the moment I set foot in Nagorno Karabakh, but now there was a line beneath my old life. I didn’t know what the new Arabella would be like—maybe, for the first time, I could choose for myself. I could be myself.

  It was with a feeling of shock that I realized that I’d been a victim my whole life. My mother had died before I was a year old, and although my father tolerated me, educated, fed and clothed me, he had never loved me. My older brother was hardly in my life and I only saw him a couple of times a year, unless we could avoid it. My so-called friends had abandoned me the moment I left London and had stopped being useful to them or paying for our shallow lifestyle—none had stayed in touch when my father had taken me out of the country.

  But a lot of that was down to me. I’d allowed my father to dictate my life; I’d allowed him to belittle and bully me; and I’d allowed my friends to use me.

  All I’d wanted was someone to say that I was worth liking, maybe even loving.

  But it was in this forlorn and war-torn country that I’d found friendship and loyalty. I’d been afraid that people would take advantage of me without my father’s power and money to protect me, but instead I’d received nothing but kindness from people who already had so little.

  The women de-miners of Nagorno Karabakh had given me their friendship—freely given without expectation of anything in return. Clay had trained me, supported me, given his time and made me laugh. Zada had shown me that there was another way to live and be useful to others, and that marriage wasn’t the ball and chain I’d seen amongst many of my friends. Former friends.

  And then there was James—enigmatic, charismatic, grouchy—the man who’d saved me from an appalling act of violence, maybe even saved my life. James, broken and sad, he had risked himself; he had been my saviour. And not for the first time.

  I’d heard the story from Zada: James had saved Clay’s life in a moment of heroism that could have cost his own when he neutralized the bomb in Times Square. I’d been shocked when I found out that was James, my James. That man was a hero, but he’d never been identified—until now. I’d seen that film footage on the news and on YouTube. Everyone said he was a hero. He was famous!

  But he’d chosen anonymity, maybe for his own safety, but I suspected more because he didn’t care about fame and publicity. So different from the people I’d known my whole life.

  And Clay had saved James from drinking himself to death. That knowledge should have been disturbing, but somehow it wasn’t. Because I could see that he was different now. Nagorno Karabakh had changed us both.

  As my tears washed away my old life, that was the moment I decided not to be a victim anymore. I wasn’t sure how, but somehow I’d choose not to be that person again.

  I sat up straighter and Zada’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “How are you?”

  Those were her first words on waking, her first thoughts. I didn’t deserve her concern, but I was willing to earn it.

  “I’m okay,” I said honestly, aware that James was watching me carefully and Clay was stealing glances at me as he drove.

  Clay nodded and smiled.

  “Good to hear that, sister.”

  My eyebrows shot up and then fresh tears formed in my eyes.

  “Blast!” I said, wiping my hand across my nose. “You’re making me cry again, Clay, and I’d promised myself no more tears.”

  Zada squeezed my hand then smiled at her husband.

  “Okay, team,” said Clay, “this is the plan. HQ have reserved rooms for us at a hotel in Yerevan and they’re sending someone to do damage control.”

  “Isn’t Yerevan in Armenia or am I still concussed?” I asked, feeling the egg-sized lump on the back of my head.”

  “Yeah, we crossed the border during the night.”

  “Oh, the checkpoint—I remember. Sort of.”

  “So we’ll find out how much influence Yadigar’s cousin has. We’ll only return to Nagorno if the Trust can get iron-clad guarantees that we won’t be harmed or harassed.” His expression was grim. “The company sponsoring this op will be pushing hard to get us back on track,” and he cut a glance at me.

  “Oh! You mean my father? Yes, you’re right—he’ll be furious that access to the coal seams will be delayed, even by a week. He’s not a very patient man.”

  That was an understatement, and I couldn’t help shivering at the prospect of seeing him again.

  “Maybe you should go home.”

  I swung my head around to stare at James in dismay, his quiet words cutting me.

  “Why? Why should I go home? I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “Because you’ll be safer,” he said flatly.

  That deflated me a little, but I glared at him all the same.

  “What about Zada? I don’t hear you suggesting that she goes home, too!”

  “Your father is rich and influential—that makes you a target. We don’t know what influence Yad will have if we go back to Nagorno—and that makes you a target, as well.”

  “You’re the one who shot him,” I snapped. “Maybe you should go home!”

  We stared at each other furiously indignant for several seconds before Clay intervened.

  “We’ll do whatever the Trust advises to keep us all safe,” he said calmly.

  After that heated exchange, we travelled in silence until we reached the hotel, shortly after lunchtime.

  James’s words had hurt me, leaving me feeling even more abandoned. He wanted to get rid of me. I couldn’t blame him—I’d brought him and the Trust nothing but trouble.

  Tears formed in my eyes as we checked in to the hotel, the staff staring at us curiously, my battered and bruised face causing hushed comments.

  Zada and Clay were kind, ensuring I had everything that I needed and taking me to my room.

  “We’ll get a doctor to come and check you out,” said Clay, his dark eyes filled with concern.

  “Honestly, I just want to shower and rest.”

  “Yeah, but head injuries are tricky. I’d feel better if a medic had seen you.”

  I gave in, too tired and depressed to argue with him.

  The hotel called a doctor who arrived a couple of hours later and luckily spoke enough English for us to manage. Unfortunately, he insisted that I wasn’t left alone for the next 24 hours.

  “I’ll stay with her,” Zada offered immediately.

  I was grateful, more than grateful. But it was still James’s arms that I yearned to have around me. Even after what he’d said, I still wanted him.

  As t
wilight dimmed the room, Zada sat in a chair reading the Qu’ran. I was afraid to sleep, so I lay on the bed, stiff and afraid, my one good eye wide open, afraid of what I’d see in my nightmares.

  A soft knock on the door startled me.

  Zada gave me a reassuring look, but checked through the spyhole first.

  “It’s James,” she said. “Do you want to talk to him?”

  I nodded silently.

  He walked into the room tentatively, as if he wouldn’t be welcome, but I felt safer already.

  “Will you stay with me?” I blurted out. “Please!”

  He cast a look at Zada who shrugged her shoulders, then nodded.

  I mouthed ‘thank you’ at Zada as she collected her book.

  “Are you sure?” she whispered. “I don’t mind staying with you.”

  I gave her a watery smile as I shook my head, and she squeezed my hand before quietly closing the door behind her.

  James went to sit in the chair, but I wanted him nearer than that, and I wasn’t beyond begging,

  “Please,” I said, gesturing at the empty space on the bed next to me. “Please, I can’t sleep alone. I don’t think I can sleep at all. When I close my eyes, it feels like it’s happening all over again.”

  But when I looked up at James, he wore an expression of unease, and my heart sank.

  “You want me to sleep in the bed?”

  “Yes, God, yes.”

  He was still hesitating, his worried glances flicking between me and the chair.

  “I thought … won’t it be worse … having a man in the room, in the bed?”

  I met his gaze as my lips trembled.

  “I feel safe with you.”

  Some indiscernible emotion fled across his face and was gone.

  We took turns in the bathroom and I slid under the sheets as I heard the shower running. When he returned, his skin had the ruddy glow of heat, and he was wearing only boxer briefs.

  “Is this okay?” he asked, concern in his eyes.

  “I’ve seen you in less,” I said drily.

  He gave a quick smile, shuffled awkwardly until he was lying on the edge of the bed, as far from me as possible, then turned off the light.

  It did feel awkward. We’d never done this before, only the frenzied fucking of need and lust.

  “Could you … will you hold me?” I asked, already preparing myself for rejection.

  There was a short pause, then the sheets rustled and he pulled me against his warm, solid chest.

  I sighed with relief. I hadn’t lied. I did feel safer in his arms.

  “Thank you,” I said against his heart. “Thank you for saving me.”

  His chest stilled as he seemed to hold his breath, then he began to speak, his voice low and soft.

  “When I saw him with you, I wanted to kill him. I wish I had.”

  His admission was shocking. He’d kill for me?

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” I said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Too much paperwork.”

  He gave a surprised choke of laughter.

  “If you’d killed him,” I said more seriously, “you’d have been arrested and God knows what after that. Even the Trust couldn’t stop you from be extradited.”

  “I would have killed him,” James said truthfully. “But I couldn’t get the angle without risking injury to you.”

  His voice was hushed.

  “I wish I’d killed him. I wanted to. People say they ‘saw red’ but I really did. I wanted him dead. I wanted to see his blood on the ground. I wanted him to suffer. I couldn’t let it happen again.”

  He stopped suddenly, as if he’d said too much.

  I looked up, watching the outline of his face in the darkening room, his sharp profile, and reached up to touch his cheek.

  “Again? What do you mean? I haven’t ever … oh … someone else? Amira?”

  I felt the lurch in his chest under my fingers, and a bolt of pain shot through my heart. He still loved her so much, just saying her name caused him pain.

  My own heart shrivelled at the knowledge.

  “Yeah,” he finally breathed out. “Amira.”

  He let out a long, shuddering breath.

  “Will you … can you tell me what happened?”

  He shifted in the bed, and at first I thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he began to talk again, his voice bleeding with pain.

  “When she … when Amira and Clay went undercover, there was a mole in the department. Smith, our CIA handler, had done everything he could to keep the op secret, but someone knew. They were compromised from the start. Instead of them infiltrating a terror cell, the terrorists planned to use them both as suicide bombers. But they didn’t know about our backup, a guy called Larson who was keeping tabs on everything. He rescued Clay, but was killed trying to save Amira. She saw him being shot and she saw him die.”

  He breathed deeply, trying to control his emotions.

  “The terrorists raped her repeatedly—she had internal injuries. It was … bad.” He paused, his voice rough. “I wasn’t there for her. I wasn’t there. And I promised myself that I’d never let anything happen to her again.” He gave a hoarse, bitter laugh. “Failed in that, as well.”

  I was shocked. Saddened by what had been done to Amira, upset that he thought it was his fault, his failure in some way.

  “I didn’t know,” I said softly.

  “No one knew, except the doctors and Smith,” he said. “It wasn’t made public and she never told her family. They knew she’d been beaten—but they never knew the full story. Zada doesn’t know. I think Clay suspects, but I’m not sure. He had his own shit going on at the time.”

  His hand closed convulsively over mine.

  “I’m sorry you got hurt, Bel.”

  I nestled against him, my mind whirling, but I felt safe, protected. Maybe even loved?

  James

  I HELD BEL in my arms, fighting back the emotions that I’d kept locked away for so long. One eye had swollen shut and her lower lip was twice its usual size. Fingermarks showed up clearly on the pale skin of her neck, and her whole body was covered in purple bruises.

  I wanted to murder the man who’d done that to her. I still would, given the chance.

  In the weeks that we’d been fucking, I’d found ways to reduce any emotional component as much as possible. Then I wouldn’t have to feel guilty for cheating on Amira. I knew that made zero sense, but that’s how it felt.

  I’d made up rules that I thought would help: we didn’t talk; I never stayed in Bel’s room after; we never planned the next time. Although, I knew better than most people that tomorrow didn’t always come.

  But despite all of that, the way she felt when I was inside her, the way she clung to me, the way she gave herself to me, it was all seeping under my skin.

  If I was honest with myself, which I rarely was, I’d started to care.

  And now she was scared and vulnerable, and she needed me.

  I didn’t want to be needed by anyone. I always let them down. People I cared about died.

  She shifted in my arms, inching closer, her warm breath fanning out across my skin. I sensed that she was looking at me.

  “I’m not good at this, Bel,” I admitted, struggling to explain how hard this was for me.

  “It feels nice right now,” she said.

  She wasn’t asking for much. God, I was a selfish bastard.

  She shifted again, a long sigh that sounded defeated.

  “I don’t think I can sleep,” she murmured. “I slept too much in the truck.”

  “Do you want to watch TV?”

  “Subtitled re-runs of Friends and Dallas? No, I’ll give that a miss, thanks.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  She chewed her lip before answering.

  “Maybe we can talk?”

  Her tone was so tentative, so cautious, so wary of me—I knew I’d treated her badly and it showed in every word she said. I’d be
en a complete and utter prick.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Nothing. Anything. Something. I don’t mind.” She paused. “Why do you still wear dog tags when you’re not in the Army anymore?”

  I touched the cord around my neck that held the two metal tags with my name, number, blood type and religion, such as it was. I was a sceptic. I didn’t know where to put my faith or even if I had any.

  “I took them off the day I was discharged from the Army, stuck them in a box and forgot about them. But when Clay asked me to come out to Nagorno, I dug them out and put them on again.”

  “But why?”

  I shrugged, wondering how much honesty she could take.

  “They’re useful for identifying the body.”

  She gasped and sat up.

  “Are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “Oh my God, James!”

  “It’s not a big deal, Bel. It’s just practical.”

  She lay down on the bed again, wrapping her body around me. I didn’t want to enjoy the way that felt.

  “You have the strangest life, James Spears.”

  I had to smile at that.

  “It’s normal for me.”

  “Did you always want to be a soldier? Was the Army in your family?”

  “No. I don’t really have family anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked softly.

  “I never knew my dad, and my mum was crap—an addict, they told me. I was taken into care when I was six, so I don’t really remember her. I was close to my granddad for a while, but he died while I was serving overseas.”

  “That’s it?” she asked, sounding sad. “No brothers or sisters?”

  It was a story of poverty and tragedy that I couldn’t escape as a kid. How could a woman like Bel ever understand? I’d needed the Army, needed the order and stability, the escape from chaos.

  “I don’t really know. Maybe my mother had other little bastards. I’d feel sorry for them if she did, but it’s possible.”

  “So the Army was your family?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Then why did you leave?”