Maria leaned her head against his shoulder. Jon didn’t object.
“Where are we going?” he said.
“The Hotel Pacifica.”
23
THEY STOPPED AT A LOCAL DINER because Maria said she was “so hungry I could eat a cow.” At that late hour, nobody was around but the waitress and a few patrons as they talked. And talked. Maria didn’t mention her brother, Jon didn’t mention his wife—they talked about things of no real consequence that interested them, which turned out to be the same things.
Finally Jon, now feeling completely at ease with this woman he was convinced could disarm anybody, looked at his watch: it was well past midnight. Maria insisted he call her a cab.
“I promised you a ride back,” he said, “and I’ll not be known as the pastor who didn’t keep his word.”
So he drove another fifteen minutes to the Hotel Pacifica.
Where, against all better judgment, he decided that chivalry required his accompanying Maria into the lobby rather than simply dropping her off. He wasn’t doing anything wrong and didn’t really care what anyone thought. Not the concierge who took the keys to his car, not the woman in the lobby who seemed to recognize him. The freedom from all the expectations and limitations he’d been under so long felt good.
He enjoyed the sound of Maria’s stilettos rapping against the white marble floor of the lobby. He enjoyed the feel of her arm slipped around his as they turned into the dimly lit hallway where the elevators awaited. But all good things come to an end: he stopped, gently removed her arm from his, waited for her to go on into the elevator without him.
She turned to face him.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am. I…I just can’t believe someone as famous as you would take the time to listen to a nobody like me.”
“You’re not a nobody, Maria.” It was the right thing to say, but he’d lifted her chin—gently, tenderly—when he said it.
It had been years since he’d felt that current of physical and emotional attraction running through his entire being. Years since Elaine had looked up to him with admiration, adoration, desire. Yet he’d never once let his eyes or heart wander. So stop feeling guilty over nothing.
And then Maria’s eyes met his. She shuddered, and of course ebony hair fell half over her face. She didn’t lift a finger to push it aside, just kept her eyes on his as tears rolled down her cheek. How could anyone crying look so beautiful?
Nothing wrong… you’ve done nothing wrong.
Jon wiped the tears softly with his thumb. The elevator chimed. Time for Maria to go—
But Jon felt a strong tug on his hand pulling them both into the elevator. It didn’t occur to him to question or protest.
Nothing wrong…
24
FOR THE ENTIRE RIDE UP TO THE SIXTH FLOOR Maria was determined to keep any thoughts from taking shape in her mind. Even one would lead her to what she was doing yet trying so hard to deny: leading a man of God into—
You’re a sinner and going to hell anyway. Why not?
She tried to push that thought aside, though deep down it was exactly what she felt. So the feeling must be true.
It would take serious strength to act on those feelings that raged within—without regard for consequence, indulging in the forbidden just this one time. But it also took a delicate approach. Because this situation was as brittle as a sheet of ice so thin a butterfly could fall through it into the frigid depths.
The elevator slowed. Maria smiled. She and Jonathan had avoided looking at each other the whole way up.
Jonathan didn’t see the hand she put on the rail right next to his—he was looking up at the lighted numbers. Before she could talk herself out of it, Maria slid her hand under his warm fingers.
The door slid open.
Maria knew what to do. Still holding Jon’s hand, she led him down the dimly lit hallway toward her room.
“Maria, you know I—”
She turned, placed a finger on his lips.
“Shhhh.” Stopping short, he’d nearly walked into her. Close enough to whisper. “Better if we don’t talk.”
He didn’t reply, but his musky scent nearly drove her mad with desire. Was it because he was so kind, so gentle? Was it his strong chest and arms under the thin cotton t-shirt he wore beneath his jacket? Or was it because he was a man of influence to whom millions listened?
Yes.
With one tingling hand still resting against the pronounced ridges of his chest muscles, she reached into the back pocket of her jeans, pulled out the key card, and slid it into the slot.
The red light turned bright green.
A quiet beep welcomed them to her room.
25
THE ROOM IN WHICH YURI SAT contained nothing but a table and chair. Prior to arrival they’d cuffed him, put him on a helicopter with an armed guard, and flown him for about an hour to a military base in San Diego.
When—not if—they opened the suitcase and saw the contents of the package, it was all over. He’d be tried as some kind of enemy combatant, sent to Guantanamo Bay, tortured…
Ironically, he loved America. This was the land of free money to anyone who could get away with it. And “as far as he knew” the materials in the package were for scientific research, right? He never asked, just did the job.
Finally, the door creaked open.
In stepped a man in military uniform. His short-cropped hair was white, but he looked like he could take on a heavyweight champion.
“Yuri Kosolupov?” Yuri nodded. “Colonel Jack Braun. You’re in it up to your eyebrows, boy.”
“Me and my friend went on fishing trip, that’s all. Coast Guard made illegal search. No probable cause.”
“That suitcase tested positive for radioactive content, Yuri. We had more than enough cause to open it. You’ve got all the parts for two suitcase nukes.”
“What? You’re kidding me. Maybe I pick up wrong bag at—”
“Spare me the bull! How did you ever think you’d get it into the States?”
“I want lawyer, now!”
“Look, I might be able to help you out if you tell me where you got the materials.”
Yuri folded his arms and leaned back in the chair.
“Law-yer!”
The colonel slammed his hand on the desk.
“You’re a damned terrorist, that’s what you are. So you’re not in any position to make demands.”
Another officer entered the room, bent down and whispered into Braun’s ear. The colonel got up and slammed the door behind him.
The client had made it clear that if Yuri failed to deliver, there would be—what was the expression?—hell to pay. He took it to mean something really awful, probably worse than incarceration on terrorism charges. Perhaps it was better to stay under the protective custody of the United States government.
After a long wait Colonel Braun returned with a man in a black suit who introduced himself as Assistant Director Neal Walker of the Central Intelligence Agency. To Yuri’s surprise, he handed over the suitcase.
“You’re to continue on your mission,” he said.
How could this be? Not that Yuri was about to question it. But the colonel looked really pissed off at the CIA guy.
“What in hell are you—”
The CIA guy held up a hand and continued to address Yuri as if the colonel hadn’t said a word.
“And you have the apologies of the United States of America for nearly compromising your mission.”
“Uh… well, it’s okay, mistakes happen.”
“We take these matters seriously, Mister Kosolupov—”
“Then why the hell weren’t we informed?” Braun said.