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  “Mitchell,” she murmured, burning with desire for him.

  Jackknifing to his knees, he released the button of her jeans, tugged at the zipper, and then, with one determined movement, stripped her jeans down her legs. His open mouth followed their descent, searing against her bare skin as he nibbled and kissed her from her knees to her thighs.

  Katrina had to bite her lip to keep her cries in check. Sinking her fingers into his thick hair, she climbed the rungs of pleasure, willing each moment to last while yearning for fulfillment.

  “Oh, God!” His fingers, lips and tongue found their way beneath her panties. He teased her into a state of mindless rapture.

  “Wait!” It was happening too quickly. She longed to slow it down, to revel in the moment. “I want you with me,” she insisted, tugging him upward.

  He stood up, undressing swiftly. Katrina watched in fascination as his shirt came off, exposing a chest rippling with muscle and dusted with light-brown hair. As he bent to pull his jeans off his feet, she glimpsed lean hips and powerful thighs. He stood up, displaying an arousal that was both beautiful and proud.

  Before joining her on the bed, he rummaged in his bag, withdrawing a packet of condoms.

  “Oh,” she said, having given no thought whatsoever to protection.

  With a seriousness that brought back the memory of her situation, Mitch tore open a wrapper and sheathed himself. Then he glanced up, sending her a look that curled her toes and made her tingle all over. In the next moment, he was looming over her, blocking her view of the iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. She closed her eyes as he settled over her and tenderly kissed her. With hungry hands, she explored him, running her palms over his delightfully smooth skin, intrigued by the terrain of muscle and sinew beneath.

  He kissed her, returning her to the same feverish state she’d been in just prior.

  “Look at me,” he breathed against her lips. He was poised to enter her.

  Her blood flashed hot as she met his eyes. The smooth head of his sex nudged her opening simultaneously. Watching her response to him, he sank slowly, inexorably into her, filling her so completely, with such focus, that her eyelids fluttered closed once more.

  Withdrawing and filling her again, he drew a cry of abandon from her lips. “Mitchell!”

  “Yes, baby,” he gritted, sounding like a man in pain.

  Catching her straying hands, he drew them over her head and pinned them to the pillows. Then, responding to her desperation, he drove himself into her, launching her pleasure to the stratosphere.

  Katrina strained to greet each deep stroke. The muscles in her body tightened. Having felt him like this, she would never let him go. She would treasure him in her heart, and in her soul, forever.

  “I love you,” she heard herself cry as her climax claimed her suddenly.

  With a growl, he surged into her one more time, burying his face in her hair and succumbing to his own release. They shuddered simultaneously, deeply joined.

  With his heart still pounding against her breasts, Mitchell lifted his head and met her gaze.

  “I love you, too,” he said, sounding a bit bemused.

  This moment, Katrina thought. This was the moment she would revisit in the weeks, the months of loneliness ahead of her. She would replay it again and again, feeding on the memory, recalling Mitch’s earnest expression to give her courage; the memory of how it felt with their limbs entwined, still relishing the aftershocks of pleasure.

  I will feel this way again, she swore to herself. This will not be the end.

  At 7 a.m., Mitch traced the delicate line of Katrina’s spine to rouse her from her slumber. They had both slept fitfully, finding solace from impending doom in the delights of getting physically acquainted. He’d never experienced such perfect chemistry before.

  Their night together—as haunted as it was by the specter of dawn—had sealed his decision to wait for her. She would come to him when the trial was over, when The Liberation Front ceased to pose a threat to anyone.

  If only he could be certain del Rey would keep his promise. What if Katrina was charged, after all, with colluding with her brothers? She could be sentenced to years in prison. How long was Mitch willing to wait? Or what if members of The Liberation Front found some way to strike back at her, in spite of del Rey’s protection? Could the captain really keep her safe, or was that feat beyond the limits of his powers?

  Mitch’s worries, plus the added distraction of Katrina’s naked body, had kept him from sleeping. Then, too, Austin and Chuck had swept into their shared suite around two in the morning. Mitch had rolled out of bed to apprise them of Katina’s situation, his news putting a damper on their high spirits.

  Mitch glanced again at his watch—7:10. “It’s time to get up, sweetheart,” he murmured. Del Rey wasn’t going to give them a minute past eight before he came after them.

  Issuing a moan of protest, Katrina turned to face him. Hooking a thigh around his hips, she snuggled as close to him as was feasible, making him regret that they’d depleted his modest stash of condoms. As much as he longed to make love to her again, he wasn’t about to compound her uncertain fate by leaving her pregnant.

  Skin to skin, he rocked her gently as she issued a sob against his neck.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he murmured. “You’ll get through this. Eventually it’ll all be behind you, and you can come find me. I’ll be waiting,” he added. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.” Hearing himself make that promise, he knew it was the right one.

  Sniffing, she tipped her head back. Just enough pearly light fringed the shutters for him to make out her beautiful features.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you,” she murmured. With trembling fingers, she traced the lines of his face as if to memorize them.

  The lump in his throat kept him from answering. He was about to reiterate the need to rise when she pressed her lips to his, pulled away, and rolled with resignation from the bed to meet her fate.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Del Rey was waiting for them. He sat at the same table he had occupied the previous night, this time in his uniform, red beret perched just so atop his coal-black hair. Seated across from him was the second man—also in uniform, with a patch on his shoulders that suggested he was a sergeant of some sort.

  The pair looked up at Mitch and Katrina as they emerged from the elevator, then went back to their breakfasts, clearly pleased not to have to fetch them. Carrying Katrina’s backpack over his left shoulder, Mitch led her to the breakfast bar.

  “You should eat something,” he encouraged as she eyed the pastry display apathetically.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Mitch reached for a plate with his free hand. That very instant, the familiar crack of a bullet shattered the peaceful quiet. Del Rey and his sergeant exploded from their seats. Katrina slammed into the counter next to Mitch and bounced off, dragging a tray of pastries down on top of her as she collapsed onto the terracotta tiles. Her head struck the floor before Mitch could prevent it. He threw himself over her, fully expecting another round to be discharged.

  Crack! The second shot struck tile, mere inches from their skulls, splintering ceramic and leaving his ears ringing. Mitch groped for the Astra 600 he had slid into the waistband of his jeans at the last minute before they left the suite. Pulling it out, he assessed Katrina briefly, noting her slack features, her closed eyes. A circle of blood bloomed on her left shoulder. Jesus.

  He turned his head, taking the lay of the land.

  Del Rey and his subordinate were taking refuge against the far wall, which put them immediately under the shooter, with no direct line of fire. All the same, the sergeant had drawn his weapon and was darting out of his hiding place to keep the shooter distracted.

  Crack! Crack! Pits of plaster and tile rained down into the courtyard.

  “Move!” Del Rey gestured violently for Mitch to take cover.

  The depth of their vulnerability wasn’t lost on Mitch
. But, depending on the type of bullet lodged in her shoulder, moving Katrina could send it straight to her heart. Lunging for the base of the nearest table, Mitch jerked it hard and toppled it, dragging it close enough that the tabletop shielded them.

  Still crouched, he thumbed off the Astra’s safety and aimed it at a dark head peeking around the pillar on the gallery above him. He took a bead and fired, discharging a round and embedding it in the old brick just inches away. Dismayed by his inaccuracy with the unfamiliar weapon, he adjusted his aim and fired again. Sshh-clenk. The pistol jerked. Mitch willed his aim back to point then realized the second round had lodged against the spent shell of the first. The gun had jammed, making it useless.

  A cold sweat enveloped him as he reset the safety and set it down. He and Katrina were sitting ducks. Glancing down at her, he found her alarmingly pale, the stain on her shirt wider.

  “Hey, asshole.”

  Mitch’s hopes rocketed as Austin’s taunt echoed off the walls of the courtyard. Oh, thank God. His teammates had roused to the sound of shooting and naturally headed right for the trouble.

  “What the fuck, dude? You’re waking everybody up.”

  Mitch peered up over the tabletop to see a shirtless Austin ambling along the gallery with his hands outspread, no weapon in sight. What looked like sheer stupidity was, in fact, a distraction. Just then, the elevator slid open on the other side of the shooter, revealing an equally shirtless Chuck.

  The shooter hesitated, uncertain of whom to fire at first. With a sweep of his hand, Chuck hurled one of his shuriken. The metallic star-shaped blade struck its target in the chest. With a scream of agony, the shooter sank to his knees, dropping his weapon.

  Both SEALs ran at him. Austin pegged him to the ground, and Chuck kicked the man’s pistol under the railing. As it fell with a clatter onto the courtyard floor, del Rey’s sergeant retrieved it, then charged up the stairs to assume control of the situation.

  Mitch scarcely recognized his strangled voice as he shouted to del Rey, “Call an ambulance! Katrina’s hit!” Pushing away the overturned table, he hovered over her, releasing the upper buttons of her blouse to assess the bullet wound. The point of entry was more than an inch across; the slug had gone deep into her chest.

  “No, no,” he muttered. Shock threatened to slip over him, cold and numbing. Falling back on his training, he kept it at bay by feeling her pulse at her throat, talking to her to keep her present, and praying.

  On more than one op, he’d taken Bullfrog’s place as the acting medic. As such, he’d treated several bullet wounds, but never on a woman he cared for. And never one that looked so fatal.

  Grubbing in her backpack for something to use as a compress, he found a soft white T-shirt and pressed it to the wound. Palpating her wrist, he counted her weak heartbeats, while listening to her shallow breaths.

  Without warning, she gave a groan. Her eyelids fluttered, and she blinked up at him.

  The disoriented and pained look in her eyes tore at his heartstrings.

  “Hey, baby,” he crooned. “Don’t move,” he added as she lifted her head to assess her situation. Almost immediately, her eyes rolled back and she passed out again.

  Mitch swallowed a howl of frustration. “Come on, Katrina. Stay with me,” he pleaded.

  Not so much as a flicker of acknowledgement.

  “Damn it, don’t leave me. Look at me!”

  The memory of her looking at him when they’d made love last night blew through his mind. Her eyes remained closed. His heart felt too heavy to beat.

  Del Rey joined him, dropping onto his knees next to him with a look of shocked dismay. “Is she—?”

  “She’s alive.” Mitch bit out the words, doubling the pressure on her wound. “Where’s the ambulance?” he demanded.

  “They’re on their way—five minutes.” Del Rey’s phone was still pressed to his ear.

  Sparing a glance for the action taking place on the gallery, Mitch noted the sergeant wrestling the shooter into a pair of handcuffs. The man wailed in agony while shouting what sounded like “Desperta Ferro!” along with intermittent invectives.

  “I’m so sorry,” del Rey said, as he put his phone away.

  Mitch couldn’t look at him. “Is that her brother, Martí?”

  “I believe so,” the captain affirmed. “We’ve had a warrant out for his arrest. If I’d realized he would follow her here…”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  But it could be mine, Mitch acknowledged miserably. Katrina had warned him Armando was likely to tell her brothers what he’d seen on the train. Mitch should have sensed Martí Ferrer long before that man ever opened fire. If she died on him…

  He refused to accept that outcome. “She’ll be fine,” he insisted.

  “Yes, of course. I hear the ambulance,” del Rey said, standing up to greet the paramedics at the door.

  Ten minutes later, Mitch tried to follow the gurney carrying Katrina into the back of the ambulance.

  One of the paramedics jumped in his way. “Are you her husband?” he demanded.

  Mitch hesitated then ground out, “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the man, firmly but with sympathy. He turned away and proceeded to enter the vehicle.

  “Wait, take her backpack. It has her ID in it.”

  “I’ll take that,” del Rey said, wresting it from Mitch’s grasp and turning away.

  Mitch pursued him. “Give me a ride,” he demanded. “I need to stay with her.”

  With an audible sigh, del Rey turned back to speak with him. They stood on a narrow sidewalk being gawked at by pedestrians. Austin and Chuck had finished dressing and joined him, standing on either side like faithful bookends.

  Dividing a gentle look among the three of them, del Rey gestured toward a van with a camera mounted atop it creeping up the cobbled street. “Are you sure you want to stick around? When the press realize the same men who prevented a massacre in Barcelona just saved a young woman’s life in Seville, you’re going to get far more attention than you bargained for.”

  Mitch didn’t give a shit about attention. “We’ll deal with it. Just take me with you,” he exhorted.

  All at once Chuck’s sat phone gave a shrill ring. Tensing, Mitch looked over as Chuck took the call.

  “Suzuki.”

  It was often hard to tell what the unflappable Haiku was thinking, but the way his dark eyes darted first to Mitch then to Austin, Mitch knew with a plummeting of his heart that Spec Ops was calling. Some unforeseen occurrence necessitated their immediate return—a hazard they had all learned to accept in their line of work.

  “Roger that. On our way.” Chuck hung up.

  Del Rey was astute enough to pick up on their new orders. He laid a firm hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Go,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

  The doors of the ambulance shut with a clang, wresting Mitch’s attention toward the red cross emblazoned on the back. Austin and Chuck shifted wordlessly closer as the vehicle pulled away, turning at the next corner. A second ambulance carrying Martí Ferrer chased silently after it, its red lights sparkling, sirens conspicuously silent. Mitch felt his heart unraveling.

  Del Rey gave them one last look then stepped away to speak with the handful of local policemen who’d responded to calls from the hotel staff.

  Mitch, who could feel nothing apart from devastation, managed to find words for his two teammates. “I guess we’re leaving.”

  Katrina floated up and away from the nagging pain in her shoulder. As she rose, her consciousness sharpened, bringing an awareness of her environment that had been lacking up until then. With astonished curiosity, she realized she was looking down at a small gathering of people—all of them dressed in surgical gowns and masks and standing over a prone body. A plethora of medical instruments whirred and beeped. The patient, lying naked from the waist up, clearly belonged to a female. The patient’s hair had been stuffed into a cap, but some of it had escaped, so that a gold
en-brown tendril spilled over the edge of the operating table, drawing Katrina’s notice.

  With a sense of shock, she recognized the hair was hers. It occurred to her that she was looking down at her own body, which meant that she was no longer in it.

  One of the medical instruments gave a shrill peep.

  “She’s flat-lining!” announced a nurse in rapid-fire Spanish.

  The doctor hissed out a curse. Without pausing in his intent activity—digging into her chest with what looked like tongs—he barked orders for her to be hit with a defibrillator.

  Katrina longed to flee the distressing scene. Two nurses wheeled the defibrillator closer. One snatched up the paddles, placing them on her bare chest.

  The other called, “Clear!”

  It occurred to Katrina that the choice was hers to stay or go. Sensing a warm light close above her, she was tempted to escape if only to avoid the pain she knew awaited her if she returned. Yet some magnetic pull compelled her to return to her body. A promise. Yes, she was bound by a promise, one she intended to keep.

  Mitchell.

  His name came suddenly to mind, followed by a powerful rush of emotion. He had said that he would wait for her. She couldn’t let him down.

  Beep.

  With a violent jerk and sudden discomfort, Katrina returned to her flesh.

  The 747 was still lumbering toward the arrivals terminal when Mitchell powered on his cell phone. Halleluiah. Now that they were back on the east coast, his phone worked. Through eyes that stung from sleep deprivation and ignoring the voice mail from his task unit commander, Mitch accessed the number he’d transferred from del Rey’s business card into his contacts.

  By now, eight hours after the shooting, del Rey would have definitive news on Katrina’s condition.

  Over the pounding in his temple that had worsened over the course of the flight, Mitch listened to del Rey’s phone ring and ring. When his call went to voicemail, he left a terse message for the captain to return it and apprise him of Katrina’s status.