Kitabı oku: «Mercenary's Honor», sayfa 3

Chapter 3

Fiona’s jaw dropped as she stared at Angel, unable to believe he’d suggest sex after all she’d been through. She wanted comfort, but screwing a virtual stranger wasn’t the path to solace. “I am not having sex with you,” she squeaked.

He raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything about sex. I said go to bed, and that’s all I meant. We’re going to have a long night ahead of us. We need to sleep when we can.”

Once again, Fiona’s cheek flushed with heat. Angel brought out the worst in her, and a part of her wished she had the option of walking away.

But she wasn’t going anywhere. He might be irritating, and there were questions as to his sobriety, but Tony trusted him to protect her and that was enough.

Besides, there wasn’t anyone else.

“Okay, sleep it is,” she said. “Where to?”

“My place is a few buildings down.”

“Fiona, here.”

Fiona turned to see Juan toss her a bundle. She caught it in midair. She unrolled the cloth. There was an army-green floppy hat and a tan jacket. She put both on. The jacket reached past her thighs and helped hide the bloodstains. She tucked her hair inside the hat. “I’m ready,” she said.

Angel assessed her from boot-clad feet to the top of her head. “It’ll do,” he said.

Like she had a choice.

“And this,” Juan said, holding out a white bundle wrapped around a few clunky objects. “It’s some bread and cheese,” he explained. “A few bottles of water.”

Fiona clung to the package, grateful for the gesture. It warmed her to know there were people out there who supported her. Who trusted her to do the right thing.

It was unfortunate that Angel thought so little of her, but she suspected it would take an act of God to convince him to trust her. She wished she knew why.

Fiona kissed Juan on the cheek. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered in his ear.

“Don’t worry about me.” Juan said. “I’m closing up for a few weeks.”

Fiona nodded. “Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “I am not sure. But there is little doubt that Montoya will track you here. It might be today. Perhaps tomorrow. Either way, I will not be here when he arrives.”

Juan squeezed her hand. Hard. “And you need to go, as well,” he said. “The longer you stay in the open, the greater the danger.”

“He’s right,” Angel said.

Fiona nodded and broke away, following Angel out the door. The lock clicked after Juan shut the door behind them. She turned to see him glance out the window. She waved.

He flashed a small smile then put a sign in the window. Cerrado. Closed.

“Will he be okay?” she asked. She didn’t know Juan, but she knew grief.

“He’ll survive,” Angel said, taking her arm and pulling her into motion. Fiona walked fast to stay by Angel’s side as he led her down the sidewalk.

Though the street wasn’t crowded, it wasn’t empty, and Fiona lowered her head, trying not to call attention to herself.

“We’re here,” Angel said, stopping at the gate to his apartment building.

More like a condemned building, she thought when he opened the iron gate and let her in. Flaking yellow paint covered pitted stucco walls. The small courtyard was a riot of half-dead plants, and the dirt-filled fountain looked like it hadn’t contained water in a decade. “Lovely,” she said.

“It’s a place to sleep,” Angel replied. “And it’s safe. Mostly.”

That was all that mattered, she told herself. Keeping close, she followed Angel up three flights to a hallway lit with twenty-watt bulbs and smelling of burnt tortillas, sweat and mold. His door was the third down on the right. As he opened it, she dreaded what she’d find on the other side.

To her surprise, it was sparse but neat and smelled better than the hallway. She scooted inside and breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not horrible,” she said.

“Gee. Thanks,” Angel said, obviously not pleased with her comment.

Fiona scrubbed at her face, mentally kicking herself for being rude. What was it about Angel that gave her foot-in-mouth syndrome? “I’m sorry. That sounded ungrateful, and I’m not. You didn’t have to do this, any of this, and I appreciate the chance you’re taking in helping me.”

“It’s okay. We’re both a little punchy.” His expression softened, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Just don’t get too comfortable. We’re not staying.”

“Why not?” A shiver of goose bumps ran up Fiona’s spine. “Were we followed?”

“No, but this is Bogotá. We’re staying in another room. One that backs up to a fire escape.”

“Won’t the occupant notice?”

“No. It’s mine. I rent it under another name.”

He kept an extra room for escape? And she thought she was paranoid. “Why stay at all?” she asked. “If it’s that dangerous, shouldn’t we keep moving?”

“We will when it’s dark,” he explained. “Even with the hat, you stick out. So for now, we minimize risk, get rest, and hope we get lucky.”

He went to the dresser, pulled out military-perfect, folded navy-blue T-shirts and black cargo pants. “Wearing those jeans is like wearing a bull’s-eye,” he said, handing her the clothes.

She held them up. The shirt reached midthigh, and the pants were a joke. “You don’t think this will set me apart?”

“It’ll do until we can get better,” Angel said, pulling a gun from the dresser. Flat black in color, it looked lethal as hell.

Perfect.

“Change,” he said, pulling another gun out. “I want to be out of here in sixty seconds.”

He was serious. Dead serious. She ran into the small, dingy bathroom. The oversize shirt was manageable, but the pants were wide in the waist and pulled across her hips.

At least they’d stay on, she mused. After transferring the tape of Maria’s death to one of the zippered cargo pockets, she pushed open the door as she tried to adjust the fit. “Got a—”

Fiona stopped midstep.

Angel stood with his back to her. With the exception of a pair of black boxers, he was naked. The muscles on his back flexed and moved. Every shadow perfect. Every line tight. But what caught her attention were the scars. A few were thin and white, as if made from a knife or a whip. Others were larger. Ugly.

He really was a mercenary, she realized. She’d known it before, but that was in her head. Now she knew—deep down knew—this man killed for a living. Or had.

Despite that, she longed to run her fingers over his battle scars. Test the texture of his skin and make the wicked lines disappear. To offer him the solace she craved.

Mesmerized, she stepped closer. A board squeaked beneath her feet. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do I have a what?” he asked without a hint of body consciousness as he slid a black T-shirt over his head.

“Belt?” she asked, tugging at the pants and staring at her feet. “Got a belt?”

“In the drawer.” He grabbed a second set of black cargo pants and put them on, removing a few items from the pants on the floor and placing them in the various pockets. “Stuff your jeans and the other clothes under the covers.”

She did as she instructed, making two long lumps side by side as she realized what he was trying to do. “That’s not going to fool anyone,” she said, shaking her head at the obvious decoy.

“It’s not supposed to,” Angel said. “If someone followed you, or if someone sells the info, Montoya will come in and shoot ‘us’ up.” He sat on the bed and put on his boots. “Consider it an early warning system.”

The goose bumps returned, and Fiona found herself speechless. A part of her mind wondered what she’d gotten herself into, but she knew the answer.

She’d crossed Ramon Montoya, and until she got the footage of Maria’s death out of Colombia, her life was in danger.

Hers, and anyone she spoke to.

Juan.

“Will they come after Juan?” she asked, panicked at the thought. “If someone saw me go into the bar, they might.”

Angel’s hands stilled, and there was something new in his hazel eyes. Something she hadn’t seen before and wasn’t sure how to interpret.

Angel went back to lacing his boots. “He’s already gone. He’ll be fine.” He finished and picked up his guns. “Take this,” he said, holding one out.

It was for her? She eyed it. She’d shot a rifle before but only a few times. She took the gun. It was lighter than she expected.

“Can you shoot it if you have to?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She put the weapon in a pocket then grabbed the small bag of food, the jacket and her hat.

Angel pressed a key into her hand. “End of the hallway. Last door on the left.”

Slowly, he opened the door and edged into the hallway. “All clear. Go!”

The sun sank below the horizon, casting shadows and gold light over Fiona’s sleeping body. She seemed much too innocent to be a reporter, Angel decided as he watched her sleep. She frowned, and her eyelids flickered, betraying the fact that she dreamed.

Bad dreams, he was sure.

He knew what those were like.

“Anthony,” she mumbled, the dead man’s name almost incoherent.

Yep, bad dreams. His back against the wall, a Glock on his lap and another tucked at the back of his waist, he touched a long, pale blond curl that had turned the color of honey in the setting sun.

Isabel’s opposite, he mused. Isabel with her black hair, chocolate eyes and olive skin. He shut his eyes. Though it was over two years since her death, she still haunted him.

Fiona mumbled again. Whimpered. Kicked. Angel opened his eyes and stroked her hair, careful not to wake her. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”

Her whimper turned into a sigh, and she turned over, sticking a leg out from the unzipped side of the sleeping bag.

She slept in her clothes in case they had to bug out, but even seeing her in boots and pants, he didn’t miss the perfect curve of her thigh.

Looking at her, with her pale hair and a body that would make a monk question his vows, he knew he had nothing but trouble on his hands. Angel let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. When she’d asked for help, he should have told her to move on. To find someone else. But no, instead he had to play the hero.

Play being the operative word. He was a mercenary, dammit. Not a knight. And he would do well to remember that. He had a head full of memories to keep him in line. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always Isabel’s engagement ring to remind him about what happened to people who put themselves in situations better left alone. He touched the zippered pants pocket where he’d transferred it earlier.

“Crap, what a mistake,” he muttered.

“What is?” Fiona turned over, blinking at him and yawning.

He stared at her, irked that she’d overheard his comment but more irked at himself for not keeping his mouth shut.

“Well?” she asked.

He ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to say other than the truth. “You. Me. Running from the law.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

She looked sorry. And helpless.

She sat up, crossing her legs beneath her. “If it makes a difference, I’ve thought about what you said earlier. About me putting people in danger for a story.”

“And?” he asked, curious.

“I like to think that when it comes to humanity versus the story, I’d choose humanity. I’d save a life over getting a good story.” Her voice trembled with uncertainty.

“You’re not sure though, are you?” he asked, knowing that Isabel would have gone for the story every time. She couldn’t help herself, even when it meant putting herself in danger.

Fiona shook her head. “In this case? No. Montoya needs to be stopped. That’s not in question. Maria’s death gave me the means to do just that. It isn’t fair, but I’m glad I was there to capture it. And as for Tony…” Fiona ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

“Me, too,” Angel said.

“But you need to know that despite what happened, I can’t start questioning the morality of my job. What I can do is make sure that Montoya pays for his actions. That he goes to jail.”

“I understand,” he replied.

She managed a weak smile then stood, letting the sleeping bag drop to her feet, and went to the bathroom.

Angel watched her walk away from him, and his mouth went dry. He’d thought her legs were good. Her ass was better.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said, closing the door.

Angel rose, asking himself again what he was doing. Then muffled sobs caught his ear. Fiona. She was sobbing in the bathroom, and not the fake crying that most women did. The kind that meant they wanted someone to comfort them but wanted the man to initiate the effort so they gave a half-hearted attempt to be quiet.

No. Her cries were almost silent. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he wouldn’t have noticed.

It seemed she wasn’t as emotionally distant from the day’s events as either of them liked to pretend.

On the other side of the door, Fiona turned on the water, the splashing water covering the sound of her sobs.

Angel let his head fall back again. He should go in there. Comfort her. But what could he say? Tony and Maria were dead, and nothing he said or did would change the past.

“This is what I meant by mistake,” he said to no one. Everything she did, everything she was, made her a distraction. The water stopped, and silence reigned again.

Angel rose, stretching, and peeked out the front window. People going to and from the market filled the streets along with cars that were comprised more of rust than metal. Children played. Men stood in groups, smoking cheap cigarettes and talking to each other.

No one glanced his way or did anything that appeared the least suspicious, but that meant nothing. Any one of them would sell Fiona out. They were poor and putting food on the table took precedence over a gringa with a supposed tape of Montoya killing a rebel leader.

The sound of gunshots reverberated in the room.

Montoya. They’d found the dummies. Damn, he’d hoped they’d have more time. It was at least thirty minutes until dark.

“It’s him!” Fiona barreled out of the bathroom, running into Angel.

“I know,” he said, taking a deep breath and controlling the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through his blood. They had thirty seconds. Maybe.

There were shouts, and then the sound of doors splintering as Montoya’s men made their way down the hallway, checking the rooms.

Angel ran to the window that faced the alley and the fire escape. The window slid up on well-oiled tracks. He might not live in the room but he made sure he maintained it since there was no point in having an escape route that was ineffective.

“Climb up.” He stood aside, his weapon trained on the door.

To her credit, Fiona didn’t argue but clambered out onto the rickety metal steps and headed toward the roof.

Angel followed, sliding the window shut. Not that their escape would fool the thugs for long, but if he and Fiona made the roof before they arrived, the men might assume they’d gone down.

It was what most people would do.

Above him, Fiona climbed onto the roof, her booted feet disappearing over the edge. In the room below, he heard the door splinter. He pushed himself and in seconds joined Fiona on the roof.

The sound of breaking glass followed. In the dimming light, Fiona’s eyes widened. “What do we do?” she asked, her voice low and shaky.

“We jump.”

“Excuse me?”

There was no time to explain. Grabbing her arm, he hurried her to the far side of the building. The next building was five feet away. “Jump to the next roof.”

She leaned over the edge. “That’s a helluva drop.”

“Would you prefer a bullet?”

She paled but shook her head, walked back a few feet and barreled toward the edge. It’s just five feet, he told himself as she launched herself into the air and over the alley. She landed on the other side, feet solid on the flat, tarred surface. Facing him, she motioned for him to hurry.

Good girl.

He leapt and landed next to her. “Again,” he said, gesturing toward the next building.

“If they come up here, we’ll be sitting ducks on these flat roofs,” Fiona said.

“I know. So quit talking and get moving. Get to the next building, then we go down on the far side.”

She frowned but ran, clearing the five-foot span with ease, and headed across the roof without a glance back.

He hurried, not breaking stride and staying on her heels. They reached the ladder as a gunshot rent the air, ripping into the graveled tar paper a few inches from Angel’s feet. Fiona froze.

The goons were smarter than he thought, and he had the suspicion that in better light, they’d have hit him. “Hurry!” he shouted.

Fiona slid down the ladder, using her feet and hands on the outside edges to push inward on the rails and create a controlled fall.

Gravel peppered his legs, and Angel turned, firing back. There was a cry, and in the growing shadows, one of the men fell to the ground.

He hoped it hurt. A lot. Sticking his gun into the back of his pants, he slid down the ladder, as well, dropping the last few feet.

“What do we do?” Fiona asked, already edging toward the entrance to the alley and the crowds that offered some protective anonymity.

“We walk,” Angel said. Taking her arm, he pulled her close, and they entered the crowd. It took less than thirty seconds to realize his mistake. Fiona was close to six feet tall, making her stand out. Where was her hat? Her blond hair stood out like a beacon.

Men were already turning heads, gawking at her. They wouldn’t proposition her since she had him as an escort, but if Montoya’s men questioned anyone, there would be no doubt that they’d remember the exotic blonde.

Damn it. He walked faster

“What are you doing? Slow down.”

“You’re too damned pretty. I knew it would be a problem,” Angel muttered.

“Well, excuse me,” Fiona whispered. “It’s not like I do it on purpose. You want to complain? Take it up with my parents for giving me the good genes.”

He glanced at her, too worried and focused to give her points for being right. “We’ve got to cover your head,” he said. Entering the outdoor market, he worked his way in through the crowds. “Wait here,” he said, leaving Fiona in front of a booth crammed with spices and dried fruit.

“Wait?” Her eyes were dark in the dim lights, but her pale skin glowed. “Where are you going?”

“I need to buy a few things, and I do not want anyone to remember that I bought them for you.”

“Are you coming back?” she asked, clutching at his arm.

Under any other circumstances, he’d be insulted at the insinuation he would abandon someone under his protection, but the fear in her voice negated any insult. He gripped her shoulders and met her uneasy stare. “I am coming back. I promise.”

She swallowed and gave him a tight nod. “Okay. Just hurry.”

Almost running, Angel stopped at the first booth that sold clothes. There was no time for haggling. He grabbed a red shawl and a hat, pressing pesos into the vendor’s hand.

“That was more than thirty seconds,” Fiona said, as she took the garments, gripping them like a lifeline.

“So sue me,” Angel said.

She put on the large hat, stuffing her hair inside, and wrapped the shawl around her, hunching over. “How’s this?” she asked.

The disguise wasn’t great. Nothing short of hair dye and a sudden drop in height would make her blend in with the locals.

Behind him, there were shouts. Montoya’s men. They couldn’t be far behind.

Taking her hand, he pulled her back into the throng of people. “Good enough.”

Chapter 4

Angel looked over Fiona’s shoulder as she gazed at herself in the motel room’s cracked bathroom mirror, glanced at the box and then back at herself. She held up a box of hair color, drawing his attention from her expressive eyes. “They didn’t have brown? I’ll look like a Goth wannabe.”

Angel chuckled at the image in his head.

“It’ll look hideous,” she hissed.

The thought of being less than beautiful probably wasn’t something she was used to, but remorse was the farthest thing from Angel’s heart. “There were only three options.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Black. Red. Blonde.”

“I don’t know…”

“I only rented the room for two hours. Let’s get this done and get out of here while it’s still early,” Angel said, biting back his irritation. It was just hair, for crying out loud. It wasn’t as if he were asking her to shave her head or turn herself orange with a cheap self-tanner.

She glared at him. “Fine.”

He held back the urge to roll his eyes. He knew that when a woman said fine, there was thirty minutes’ worth of subtext beneath the single word, but that didn’t mean he was going to ask her about it.

He didn’t care that much, he told himself. This was a favor for a dead man. A job. Helping her because he was the kind of man who kept his word. Nothing more. “Good. Take off your shirt.”

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Our resources are limited. Unless you want to run around smelling like a cheap beauty parlor, I suggest you remove it. Now.”

She didn’t seem convinced, and in fact, stared at him like he was a pervert.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, replying to her unfriendly stare with a dare. “I’ve seen it all before. I wouldn’t care if you were naked.”

Still facing the mirror, her rigid stance told him she was determined to match him in the stubborn department.

He didn’t back down, though he knew that if Fiona asked and if he were truthful, he’d admit that he did care. Very much.

Her eyes narrowed, and in a single move, she pulled her shirt over her head and stood in the middle of the stale, dingy bathroom in nothing but a pink bra and his black pants.

The cramped room felt suddenly devoid of air. He hadn’t expected her to take his challenge and remove the garment while he was in the room.

Now that she had, there was only word for Fiona. Perfection. The thought caught him unaware. Angel turned on his heel. “I’ll let you get to it.”

“I thought you didn’t care,” Fiona said.

He stopped midstep.

She rattled the box. “Unless you want me to be even more obvious, I’ll need you to help with the back of my head to make sure I don’t miss any spots.”

He hesitated, sure she was baiting him on purpose but unable to argue with her logic and even less willing to walk away from the unspoken dare since she’d called him on his. He turned back. “Give it over.” She handed him the box, and he tried to ignore her as she combed her pale hair out with the cheap brush he’d purchased.

God help him, he wanted to run his hands through the strands. See if they were as silky as they appeared. Instead, he opened the box and let the various tubes and bottle roll into the sink.

Pulling out a piece of paper, he opened it to find a pair of gloves folded inside. He set them on top of the bottles and read.

“Reading the directions?” Fiona smiled. “There’s a first. If the man union finds out, you might get expelled.”

He ignored the gibe. It seemed like a straightforward process. Mix the B tube with the ingredients of A and apply.

He picked up the gloves. “Crap.”

Fiona’s eyes slid from his hands to the tiny pieces of plastic that appeared two sizes too small. “Maybe I should do this.”

“Have you ever colored your hair?”

She let a swatch of blond slide through her fingers. “Nope. This is all me.”

All over? He managed to keep the words in his head. “I’ll do it,” he said. “As you pointed out, we don’t want any missed spots.”

“It’s your skin.” She took a deep breath, and it took every ounce of control to keep his eyes from sliding to her breasts.

Her perfect, lace-bound breasts.

“Sit.” The command came out harsher than he intended, but she didn’t argue, or even balk, as she flipped down the toilet lid and sat.

“I hate this,” she said, all defiance and boldness gone from her blue eyes.

“I know.” Angel almost felt sorry for her. Was she more than her blond hair, flawless skin and perfect breasts?

They were about to find out.

He picked up the plastic bottle and shook it, mixing the contents. Shoving his hands into the thin gloves, he squeezed the dark color down the part in her hair. Carefully, he worked the contents through the blond strands, fighting off the urge to glance downward at her porcelain flesh.

For a few awkward minutes, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing echoing on the tile and, even with the door open, the acrid, hair-coloring chemicals making both cough. “Done.” He sighed in relief, sliding off the tight gloves and tossing them into the sink.

Fiona rose, looked at herself in the mirror, and frowned. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Probably,” Angel agreed.

She raised a brow, and he groaned. “We forgot your eyebrows.”

“Oh hell.” Turning to face him, she shut her eyes, and her mouth turned downward at the corners. “Just do it and please, be careful. I don’t want to look like Groucho Marx when we’re done.”

She was close enough for him to feel her breath against his skin. Using his pinky, he transferred a small bit of the black hair color to her eyebrows, being careful to leave her surrounding skin as stain free as possible. “Don’t open your eyes,” he said. “The fumes could strip the paint off a wall.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Her eyes squeezed shut, and her nose wrinkled at the obnoxious smell. “Just stand here?”

“Here.” He took her hand to help her sit down. Her skin was smooth, soft, and for a flicker of insanity, he wondered how her fingers would feel on his bare skin. When she was perched on the toilet lid again, he let her hand slide from his with a shudder of relief.

“Thanks,” she said, managing to appear both bored and—despite the chemical giving her hair a matted, quasi dreadlocked appearance—beautiful.

He knew it verged on voyeurism, but he took the opportunity to stare at her half-naked body. She really was perfect. Not a bit of silicon or surgery.

Just natural beauty.

Perfect for a reporter, he told himself, turning away. Her long hair, stunning eyes and perfect breasts would probably land her a spot on prime-time television one day.

Isabel would have envied her opportunities.

“Quit staring at me,” Fiona said.

“I’m not,” he replied.

“Liar,” Fiona said with a smirk. “You might not like me but you’re still a man. All men are a bit voyeuristic. It’s genetically encoded into their biological makeup.”

Angel snorted in disbelief. “Think you know men that well?”

She nodded. “I’m pretty, not dumb.”

“The jury is still out on that,” he shot back.

She stiffened, and he knew he’d hit a nerve, no matter how unintentional. “Gee, thanks.” Her mouth curled into a perfect, ruby-colored sneer. “I didn’t know you were part of the ‘she’s pretty so she must have the IQ of a rock’ club.”

Angel hesitated. She had a point. A good one. There was nothing more irritating than being judged based on one aspect of self—like being a mercenary—and there was nothing more shallow than being the person doing the judging.

But he refused to feel bad, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to apologize for a simple, stupid off-the-cuff comment. “What I’m saying is that you lack gut instinct,” he tried to explain.

“About men? I don’t think so.”

“About life,” he countered. “Which has nothing to do with your IQ and everything to do with the fact that you’re inexperienced and in over your head.”

“Says who?”

“Says Tony.”

“Oh.” Fiona took a deep breath. Though she kept her eyes shut, a shimmer of tears glimmered on the fringes.

Angel scrubbed his face with his palms, glad her eyes were closed because he knew he’d acted like a jerk. “Let’s rinse your eyebrows off,” he said, changing the topic. “We don’t want you to go blind.”

Waiting for the hair color to do its work, Fiona sat alone in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror and listening to Angel’s heavy footsteps pace the length of the small bedroom just beyond her. She wanted to dislike Angel. Hate him. Anything besides agree with him.

But his comments, even the small ones, haunted her now that she had time to think.

Especially the ones about her being too pretty and that it would cause him trouble. He didn’t know it, but her appearance was one of the reasons Tony had died.

To her, the fact she was beautiful was simply luck of the draw. Sure, she used it to her advantage, and flirting had saved her from more than one speeding ticket, but big blue eyes and blond hair didn’t always help her.

To some women, she was a threat. To men, something pretty to put on their arm. Worse, to her network, her looks translated into a lack of connection with the audience. Viewers watched her but couldn’t associate with her. Didn’t believe she could understand, or report, their problems with genuine empathy.

As if being pretty left her with no worries of her own.

She shook her head. “I wish.”

So, instead of being given prime stories, her boss tagged her as “pretty but stupid” and gave her stories that dealt more with supermodels and less with the world at large.

Tony had been one of the few men who never tried to get her into bed and, even more amazing, saw past the pretty face.

She wished the station saw her through his eyes.

Then Tony made a proposal she couldn’t refuse. They would both take time off, but instead of a vacation, they’d go to his native Colombia and find a story worthy of reporting. Something that would make their careers and help Tony’s people. True, it was unorthodox, but Tony pointed out that if they waited for the network to give them a prize-winning story, they’d be too old to enjoy the moment. They had to seize it themselves. Now.

Fiona had jumped at the chance to go to Colombia with her cameraman. And it was also why, when it came down to it, he’d died. Because she wanted to be more than a pretty face.