Free Diamond Bay by Linda Howard Page B

"And an agency is an
agency?"
    "Yeah, something like that. Keep quiet about it, but keep
your eyes open. I'm not real comfortable with the feel of this."
    He wasn't the only one. "I will. Thanks."
    "Sure thing. Listen, why don't you come to dinner some night
soon? It's been a while since we've seen you."
    "Thanks, I'd love to. Have Trish call me."
    They hung up, and Rachel drew a deep breath. If Andy didn't think
the men were FBI, that was good enough for her. Going into the bedroom, she
stood beside the bed and watched the man sleep, his deep chest slowly rising
and falling. She had kept the blinds closed since the night she had brought him
into the house, so the room was dim and cool, but a thin ray of sunlight crept
between two of the slats and slanted across his stomach, making that long, thin
scar glow. Whoever he was, whatever he was involved in, he wasn't a common
criminal.
    They played lethal games, the men
and women who peopled the shadowy world of intelligence and
counterintelligence. They lived their lives
balanced on the razor's edge of death; they were hard and cold, intense but
casual. They weren't like other people, the people who worked at the same job
every day and went home to their houses, to their families. Was he one of those
for whom a normal life was impossible? She was almost certain of it now. But
what was going on, and who could she trust? Someone had shot him. Either he had
escaped, or he had been dumped in the ocean to drown. Were those two men
hunting for him to protect him, or to finish off the job? Did he possess some
highly sensitive information, something critical to defense?
    She trailed her fingers over his hand, which was lying limply on
top of the sheet. His skin was hot and dry; fever still burned inside him as
his body tried to mend itself. She had been able to spoon enough sweetened tea
and water into him to keep him from becoming dehydrated, but he had to begin
eating soon, or she would be forced to take him to a hospital. This was the
third day; he had to have nourishment.
    Her brow furrowed. If he could swallow tea, he could swallow soup.
She should have thought of that before!
    Briskly she went into the kitchen and opened a can of chicken
noodle soup, ran it through the blender until it was liquified, then put it on
the stove to simmer. "Sorry it isn't homemade," she muttered to the
man in the bedroom. "But I don't have any chicken in the freezer. Besides,
this is easier."
    She watched him closely, checking on him every few minutes; when
he began to stir restlessly, moving his head back and forth on the pillow and
kicking at the sheet, she prepared a tray for his first "meal," such
as it was. It didn't take her long, less than five minutes. She carried the
tray into the bedroom and almost dropped it when he suddenly heaved himself up
on his right elbow, staring at her with those piercing, fever-bright black
eyes.
    Rachel's entire body tensed as desperation flooded her. If he fell
off the bed she wouldn't be able to get him back on it without help. He was
weaving back and forth on his precarious prop, still staring at her with
burning intensity. She plunked the tray down on the floor where she stood,
sloshing some of the soup over the side of the bowl, then darted to the side of
the bed to catch him. Gently, supporting his head and trying not to jostle his
shoulder, she put her arm around his back and eased his head onto her shoulder,
bracing herself against his weight. "Lie down," she said in the calm,
soothing tone she always used for him. "You can't get up yet."
    A frown laced his black eyebrows
together, and he resisted her efforts. "It's
time for the party," he muttered, his words still drunkenly slurred.
    He was awake, but certainly not lucid, drifting in a fever-induced
dream world. "No, the party hasn't started yet," she reassured him,
catching his right elbow and pulling it forward so he wouldn't be able to prop
himself up on it.
    His weight fell heavily on her supporting arm