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Sullivan's Last Stand
Sullivan's Last Stand
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Sullivan's Last Stand

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“Jackson?” He looked up quickly. “Hank Jackson?”

“Yes, Hank,” she said impatiently. “When he reported back to her—”

“You’re telling me that Hank Jackson screwed up on a job, honey?” Despite his casual posture, there was a tenseness about him. “It didn’t happen, sweetheart. Not Hank—he’s my best investigator.”

Gone was the man she’d walked in on ten minutes ago, the man whose easy charm had so irritated her. Gone also was the man she remembered from last year. Looking at his hard, set features, Bailey suddenly recalled that Terrence Patrick Sullivan hadn’t always worn Armani and driven Jaguars. He hadn’t always run a security and investigative firm that was doing so well he had to keep a string of girlfriends just to help him spend his money.

He didn’t hide his past, but he didn’t talk about it, either. She hadn’t known he’d been a mercenary until afterward, when she’d needed to find out everything about the man that she could in order to make some sense of his actions toward her. It had been astonishingly difficult to find anyone who claimed to know the real Sullivan, and even harder to persuade those who did to talk, but digging up information was what she did for a living. Eventually she’d pieced together just enough rumors and half-truths to realize she’d never known the man at all.

He’d been one of the toughest soldiers-for-hire available, she’d been told by a big man in a smoky bar one rainy night. An older man, trim and ramrod straight despite his advancing years, had met her on a park bench in the Common. While throwing bread crusts to the ducks, in a clipped British accent he’d informed her that Sully had been a maniac, always volunteering for the most dangerous missions available and never seeming to take anything seriously. When she’d asked him if he’d ever served with him, the faded gray eyes had met hers as if she was the one who was mad. Every damned chance he could, he’d told her. And if Sully came up to him today and asked him to join him on one last suicide jaunt, he’d sign on with him in a flash, he’d added wistfully.

There had been others she’d talked to—not many, just a handful—but slowly a picture had grown in her mind of a man who was nothing like the Terrence Sullivan he now presented to the world.

She was looking at that man right now, Bailey thought. But that didn’t change what she’d come here to tell him. She watched him walk back to the desk and sit down across from her.

“He might be your best investigator,” she said flatly, meeting his cool gaze with an even chillier one of her own. “But he made a judgment call that sucked big time, and that’s what I’ve got a problem with.”

Even in shirtsleeves and with that glossy black hair in need of a trim, he seemed suddenly remote. She found herself wishing that she’d picked out something more businesslike and intimidating to wear herself. Jeans and a Pearl Jam tee weren’t exactly power-dressing, she told herself ruefully. And her own hair kept falling out of the banana clip she’d pinned it up with this morning, in deference to the unseasonable—for Boston, at least—May heat.

Still she had one edge over him. She knew what had happened, and he, by his own admission, didn’t. His next action made it obvious he didn’t intend to let that state of affairs last much longer.

Leaning forward, he jabbed the intercom button on his phone. “Moira, ask Hank to come in here, will you? If he’s not in his office, have him paged.” He sat back, his expression grim. “I won’t conduct a court-martial of one of my own men without giving him the chance to tell his side of the story, Bailey. But go on. What exactly is it you’re accusing him of?”

His attitude was meant to put her on the defensive, but with a tightening of her lips she continued. “Jackson gave Angelica the gist of his findings over the phone on Sunday night. The written report was to follow, along with copies of the photos he’d taken, and apparently they alone were pretty damning. Aaron’s ‘business meeting’ was with a gorgeous brunette young enough to be his daughter. Of course, all of his wives after the first Mrs. Plowright have been young enough to be his daughters, so the age thing isn’t surprising,” she added. “But they weren’t exactly discussing a merger. According to Jackson, they were in the middle of one—a very personal, very intimate merger.”

“So what’s the big problem you keep talking about?” A moment ago, Sullivan’s wry smile would have seemed natural. Now she could discern the effort it cost him to hide his anger, and her own temper flared.

“The problem is that Angelica’s not the most stable person you could drop a bombshell like this on, even if she did semi-suspect something. Besides which, Jackson apparently gave her the bad news only an hour or so before Aaron himself returned.” Bailey’s eyes flashed. “A twobit PI with a mail-order diploma would have known better. He had to have realized what a volatile situation he was creating.”

“Then why didn’t you try to soften the blow, since you were so concerned about how she would take it?”

“I wasn’t there, dammit!” Her features sharpened with frustration. “I was on a stakeout all Sunday night and right up until noon on Monday. When I got home I took a shower and then crashed for a few hours. After I woke up I saw the message light blinking on my answering machine, and that’s when I heard Angel’s message from the night before. She’d wanted to talk to me before Aaron arrived home, but I—” Bailey hesitated “—I wasn’t there for her,” she finished, looking swiftly down at her hands.

He’d been watching her intently. Now he shook his head, his gaze still on her. “You can’t be around all the time. Besides, after she gets over the blow to her pride, your little sister’ll realize that she’s looking at a rock-solid divorce settlement. From what you’ve told me about her in the past, that’s probably more to her liking than a diamond eternity band and a bunch of red roses on their next anniversary, anyway.”

“That’s the way I thought she’d take it.” She looked up at him. “But the message she left on my machine was so hysterical I could hardly make out what she was saying. She said she was going to confront Aaron with the whole thing as soon as he walked in the door.”

“Not wise,” he said shortly. “Plowright’s got the kind of money that can erase memories. She should have kept quiet about it and let her lawyer get statements from anyone Jackson mentions in his report.” He frowned. “Today’s Wednesday. Aaron’s had time to do a lot of damage control already. Where’s Angelica been staying since she turned on the fan and watched everything hit it?”

“That’s just it—she’s disappeared, and no one seems to have any idea where she’s gone.” Her eyes met his and her voice hardened. “Jackson’s your man, Sullivan. I’m holding you responsible for anything that’s happened to Angelica.”

“ If anything’s happened to her and if Hank behaved un-professionally, then I’ll accept that responsibility,” he said curtly. “But maybe you should keep personal out of this yourself, honey.”

Bailey stiffened. “What possible connection could there be between my problem with one of your investigators and the way I feel about you personally?”

“You know damn well what the connection is. It’s not Hank Jackson who blew it as far as you’re concerned, is it? It’s me. I’m the one who screwed up big time.”

Raking his hair back with one hand in a suddenly frustrated gesture, he held her gaze intently. “I always wanted to call you up and apologize for the way I behaved, but I figured you’d just slam the phone down as soon as you heard my voice,” he said softly. “But you’re here now. I’m sorry for what happened last year, Bailey. No excuses. I handled things badly.”

She stared at him, taken completely off guard. Once she would have given almost anything to hear him say what he’d just said, she thought. For months after, her heart had skipped a beat every time her phone had rung, thinking it might—just might—be him. But as he’d said, he’d never called.

She hadn’t been able to forget him completely, but she’d gotten on with her life. His twelve-months-late apology shouldn’t have the power to rip away the scar tissue of composure it had taken her so long to build up.

But it did. And all of a sudden she was back there in his house, standing in the doorway of his study and clad only in one of his shirts, listening to him methodically pull her world to bits.

Bailey blinked. Her throat felt as if it had a drawstring around it and someone had just tugged the drawstring shut.

“You’re wrong, Sullivan. There’s nothing personal left at all between us. I’m over you completely.” Her voice was barely audible. “Want proof?”

She got to her feet and leaned over the desk until she was close enough to him to lightly grasp the pearl-gray silk of his tie. Sullivan half rose from his chair, his eyes dark with suspicion.

“What the hell—” he began, but she didn’t give him a chance to finish. With a swift movement she brought her lips to his. Her tongue darted out and flicked the corner of his mouth teasingly, and immediately she felt a tremor run through him and heard his sudden indrawn breath. Those eyes, which only a moment ago had been narrowed and wary, closed, the thick lashes fanning against the hard ridge of his cheekbones.

Bailey kept her own open with an effort and fought down the dazed languor that she could feel spreading through her. She couldn’t keep this up for more than a second or so, she told herself disjointedly. Already the taste of him was spilling through her like some kind of dangerous intoxicant, addictive and seductive.

It had taken long months to break that addiction the last time. She wasn’t going to let herself get hooked on it again.

Her hand tightened on his tie. She ran her tongue lightly across his parted lips, forcing herself to ignore the impulse to explore deeper, and finished up at the opposite corner of his mouth with another little flick of her tongue.

“Completely. Over. You,” she whispered against his mouth. Then she drew back from him and let go of his tie.

His eyes opened and he stared at her in disbelief, his gaze still slightly unfocused and his breath audibly shallow. She kept her own expression impassive, willing herself not to betray the shakiness she was feeling. She gave him a brief smile.

“So now that you know it’s not personal, what are you planning to do about finding my sister?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he slowly lowered himself to his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. “That was dirty fighting, honey,” he said softly. “You’ve changed.”

She sat down herself, her legs feeling as if they couldn’t support her a minute longer. “Maybe I have, Sullivan. Maybe you changed me.” She shrugged tightly. “You played me for a fool once. I came so damned close to falling in love with you that one more kiss would have done it. I looked at you and saw the person I’d been waiting for all my life—a sexy, gorgeous man with a wicked sense of humor who, by some miracle, was falling in love with me.” She paused. “I thought we were two halves of a whole,” she added. “I was wrong.”

For a moment she thought he was about to speak, but when he said nothing she continued, her tone brisker.

“Anyway, we both know how that turned out. I was a wreck for about a week after, and then for two weeks more I think I hated you. But after a while I realized that was simply the way you were, and to expect anything more of you had been unreasonable of me. You’ve got a reputation, Sullivan. I was well aware of it before I went home with you the first time.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve got a reputation,” he said shortly.

“Please.” Her smile was humorless. “Of course you do, and of course you know it. You never stay with the same woman for more than a month or so, but that doesn’t matter, because the women you date prefer brief relationships. You don’t like intense, you like casual. You say that you intend to settle down one day, but no one’s putting their money on the likelihood of that happening.”

“I see.” He looked away, and then back at her, his expression shuttered. “That’s quite a list, honey. Anything on the plus side that you can think of?”

She blinked, wondering if she’d imagined the thread of unsteadiness she thought she’d heard in his voice. Of course she had, she told herself impatiently. She hadn’t exactly hit the man with any painful revelations about himself.

“On the plus side, you’re a damn good investigator,” she said smoothly. “Or at least you used to be. That’s why I came—”

“Sully?”

The interruption came from the doorway and, looking over her shoulder, Bailey saw Sullivan’s indispensable secretary, Moira, standing there surveying them quizzically. The slim, dark-haired woman sounded hesitant.

“Jackson hasn’t been in to work for the past three days, and Shirley in personnel says she hasn’t been able to contact him at home. It seems that his line’s out of order.” Moira’s expression clouded. “You’d better send someone over to his house to see what’s wrong, Sully. I—I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Chapter Two

One way or another, Bailey Flowers had been the biggest mistake of his life, Terrence Sullivan told himself, pressing the button for the elevator and slanting a sideways glance at the straight-backed figure beside him. He just wasn’t sure what part had been a mistake—acting so out of character as to let himself get involved with her in the first place, or reverting at the last possible moment back to type and letting her walk away for good.

The former, of course, he thought with a familiar twinge of self-disgust. He’d known from the moment he’d laid eyes on her that she was capable of blowing the precariously fragile existence he’d carved out for himself all the way to hell and gone. He’d known she wasn’t the type that he’d been so careful to restrict himself to up until then. A few laughs, a couple of heated encounters between the sheets, and the women he usually dated would be casting their big blue eyes around as restlessly as he was, looking for someone new.

Bailey’s eyes were the color of water running over stones in a stream. They hadn’t glanced around restlessly; they’d been direct and clear, looking at him and only him. Sometimes he’d even had the unsettling feeling that her hazel eyes could look right through him and see everything he’d always kept so well hidden.

The rest of her was a combination of ordinary attributes that somehow added up to beauty. Her hair was a rich, peaty brown, with glints of honey and amber in it. She’d pinned it up on top of her head once, and the exposed nape of her neck had excited him as no blatant display of any other woman’s cleavage ever had. Her mouth was wide, and a dead giveaway to whatever she was feeling. She was slim, her muscles had definition, and all in all she was as unlike the kittenish blondes he was used to as possible.

He’d fallen for her like a ton of bricks.

Things had ended badly between them, and it had been his fault entirely. But as brief as their affair had been, there had been moments about it that he’d clung to since she’d walked out on him. One wet afternoon they’d gone to a horrendously bad kickboxing double feature, and Bailey had laughed so hard she’d spilled a jumbo carton of popcorn all over him. Once they’d gone on a picnic, and she’d fallen asleep in his lap under a big shade tree, with the sunlight dappling her features, the breeze stirring those honey-amber strands of hair, and him just watching her, drinking in all the delicate details of her face and stamping them on his memory. He could remember every single time they’d made love—her hands on him, his on her, the scent of her skin and the taste of her mouth and the small shallow sigh she gave just before the two of them reached the limits of their control and soared over the far edge of desire together.

But from her attitude toward him since she’d walked into his office, it was all too obvious she’d kept none of those memories. And if they didn’t exist for her, then maybe one day he would lose them, too. Fear shafted through him, bright and painful.

“My sister and now your best operative. Are you starting to see a pattern here?”

Wrenching his thoughts back to the present, Sullivan frowned as the elevator doors opened and Bailey stepped in. He followed her and the doors slid closed behind him.

“Not yet. But there’s something taking shape I don’t like.” He reached over and grasped her shoulder lightly. Immediately she stiffened.

“Hands off, Sully. Like I told you, this is strictly work.”

“I know.” He pivoted her around to face him. “And like you also said, my firm screwed up. Why don’t you go back to Triple-A and I’ll call you after I talk to Hank? There’s no need for you to be involved in this.”

She gave him a blankly incredulous look. “Come again?”

He sighed. “Let’s face it, the past half hour just proved we can’t even keep up a civilized facade when we’re together.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit. “Hell, we’ve got a history, and my part in it isn’t anything I feel too proud about. Let me find Hank, locate Angelica, and send you a report when I’m through.”

“You’re giving me the brush-off.” Her voice was dis-believing. “Again.”

“For crying out loud, Bailey, it’s not like that at—” he began, but she cut him off.

“It’s exactly like that.” Her glance flicked to somewhere a little lower than his midsection, and then back again to his face. “Tell me, Sully, are they made of brass? Is that your secret? Because you’ve got a nerve like I just don’t freakin’ believe!”

Her eyes glinted ominously. “Your conscience is bugging you. Tough. Learn to live with it, because this time I’m not going to quietly disappear just to make things easier on you. I’m coming with you to talk to Jackson. You owe me that much, at least.”

The elevator doors opened to the lobby, and the guard behind the desk looked over at them. He gave the man a brief nod and switched his attention back to Bailey.

“It won’t work, you and me together, and you know it, lady.” He shrugged. “Within twenty-four hours you’ll be at my throat or I’ll have you in my bed—and neither of those scenarios can have a happy ending.”

“You never know.” Her tone was ice. “Why don’t we give that first one a shot and see how it plays out?”

He wasn’t going to win this one, Sullivan told himself in defeat. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. He took a deep breath.

“Move that sweet butt and let’s get going, honey.”

For a moment—just for a moment—the woman he’d once known looked up at him through those clear, brilliant eyes. Then she was gone again.

“Don’t push me, Sullivan.” Her lips tightened. “I’m in no mood, believe me.”

No matter what she’d said to him, it looked like Bailey Flowers was back in his life again, he told himself as he exited the building behind the slim, straight figure striding ahead of him to the parking lot. And no matter what he’d said to her, he was glad she was.

Except that in a day or so he was going to have to arrange things so that she walked away from him again. But this time he’d have to make her hate him enough to stay away, Sullivan thought wearily.

And this time it would have to be for good.

IT SEEMED AS THOUGH they’d hit upon a way of being together that didn’t lead to a confrontation, Bailey thought—total silence. So far on the drive to Jackson’s house neither one of them had said a word. Sullivan had concentrated on avoiding the worst of the traffic snarl-ups, she had stared out of her window, and an edgy peace was prevailing.

She closed her eyes, acutely aware of his presence beside her, and tried to make some sense of the way she’d acted back in his office. She’d walked in there planning to keep her emotions under control whatever the provocation, but within minutes she’d—she’d—

For crying out loud, Flowers, she told herself uncomfortably, within minutes you practically had your tongue in his mouth. How restrained was that?

Even so, right up until the second her lips had touched his she’d thought she could handle it, because what she’d told him was true—she was over Terrence Patrick Sullivan. Completely and totally over him. So why at the exact moment of contact had she experienced that icily electric thrill, as if she had leaped recklessly out into empty space and was suddenly plunging toward destruction?

Her only consolation was that he’d obviously been hit by the same force that had smashed her detachment to bits. And although she was pretty sure she’d hidden her reaction from him, Bailey thought shakily, there had been no mistaking his response for anything other than pure, immediate desire.

But that meant nothing. She opened her eyes. If all she wanted from the man was another brief physical fling, she could be in his bed within twenty-four hours. She could have those strong, hard hands on whatever part of her body she chose. She could see those blue, blue eyes looking down on her and becoming blindly hazed with passion. She could feel his mouth the way she used to feel it, slowly and unerringly igniting every secret desire she’d ever imagined.

But that would be all she would ever have from him. And that was why she was over him.

“The way I hear it, your guy Jackson used to have an alcohol-abuse problem,” she said abruptly. “How under control is it?”

A driver in front of them made a typical Boston lane change—no signal and at the last possible minute—and Sullivan jammed on his brakes. He looked over at her. “Hank takes it day by day, just like any other recovering alcoholic. He’s got his five-year pin from AA, if that’s what you’re getting at, and I’d trust him with my life.”

“But you’re still checking up on him personally,” she argued. “You’ve got some doubts about him, haven’t you?”

“No.” His tone was flat and uncompromising. “If he hasn’t been at work for the past few days then something’s the matter. I should have known about this sooner.” He geared the Jaguar down as they entered a rotary, merging seamlessly with the flow of traffic. “You were right about one thing. I’ve let myself slack off these last few months.”

There was a hard edge to his voice, but Bailey knew instinctively it wasn’t directed at her. It was directed at himself, she thought curiously, darting a look at him through her lashes, but self-chastisement was something that the Terry Sullivan she knew didn’t indulge in.

His jaw was set and his expression was unreadable. Maybe she’d imagined that tone of disgust in his voice, she thought hesitantly, but now that she was studying him, she realized there were other changes she hadn’t noticed earlier. They were subtle, but they were there.

There was a steel-wire tenseness about him that betrayed itself in the grim lines that bracketed his mouth. His face was leaner somehow, his cheekbones harder looking. He drove with the same casual competence he’d always had, but on closer inspection she could see that the knuckles of the hand wrapped carelessly around the steering wheel were held tightly enough that they were whiter than the rest of his skin.

At first glance he still gave the impression of a big, lazily sexy man with not much more on his mind than the nearest attractive female. He gave that impression because he wanted to give that impression, she thought slowly. Had it always been a facade? Had it been a facade even when she’d known him a year ago?

“Sully? The man was a maniac—always volunteering for suicide missions, always with that incredibly charming but quite mad grin on his face. It got worse after the Salazar woman was killed.”

The gray-haired British officer’s words came back to her, and so did the feeling of frustration she’d felt when the man had refused to elaborate any further on what he’d told her. The name of Maria Salazar had had that effect on others who had known Sullivan, too. One of his closest friends, a pale-eyed, grimly silent mercenary named Quinn McGuire, had simply gotten up from the table and walked away when she’d asked him what he knew about the woman.

But right now wasn’t the time to go into the subject of Maria Salazar. She cleared her throat awkwardly.

“You run a different kind of operation than Triple-A. With the dozens of case files that Sullivan Investigations must be working on at any given time, it’s not possible for you to be familiar with each one personally. I was out of line saying that.”

“Yeah, but that’s what I liked about you, honey.” Like magic, the grim look had disappeared from his face. One corner of his mouth lifted wryly as he briefly switched his attention from the traffic to her. “You were always out of line. I’ve missed that.”

He didn’t know it, but he couldn’t have said anything more calculated to wipe out the fragile dеtente she’d been about to embark on. Bailey stiffened.