Barbara Phinney - Necessary Secrets

Panic seized her. Would she make it? Standing on the curb, holding back bile, she spotted the receptionist from the medical center lead a man out into the brilliant sunshine. The woman scanned the street until her gaze settled on Sylvie. Touching the man’s arm, the receptionist pointed directly at her.

Oh, boy. She wouldn’t make it now. That guy, whoever he was, would intercept her. He was heading straight into disaster—

Striding across the street like he owned the town, the tall man fixed his stare on her. Rooted her to the sidewalk.

Within seconds he reached her. “Warrant Officer Mitchell?”

She stiffened, thankful the six-inch curb brought her eye level with him. “I’m retired now,” she said after a bitter swallow. “Call me Sylvie.”

“Sylvie?” The man tested the name on his tongue, all the while his riveting gaze drilling into her. “Sylvie.”

Good heavens. The way he said her name conjured up warm, moonless nights when crickets provided the music…and someone in the dark provided the silky caresses.

Her bones melted. Were these hormones going to plague her like this for the next six months? Nauseated one minute, aroused the next?

She forced her voice to stay brisk. “What can I do for you?”

He studied her with eyes squinting against the sun. An incredible, body-weakening image of the fantasy from a moment ago wafted in on the warm southerly wind, as vivid as any nightmare her time in Bosnia still produced on those damned sleepless nights she’d had lately.

She didn’t welcome either vision.

The man stepped onto the curb. Sylvie craned her neck to stare up at him. His ebony hair lifted with the breeze, the same breeze that delivered a warm, lingering male scent to her keen nose. She couldn’t help but inhale it, draw it deeply in and hold it.

“Were you recently in Bosnia?” he asked.

Her jaw tightened and she wet her lips. “Yes.” Most soldiers took Bosnia in stride, a tour of duty that was difficult but necessary.

She’d wished, mostly in the dead of night when the horror returned, that she had the same casual outlook.

The government believed the Former Yugoslavia had been stabilized. They wouldn’t give credence to the small pocket of resistance she’d faced that night, a resistance she knew had friends inside her own camp.

Instead, NATO and the new Bosnian government had discounted those who’d ambushed her truck, diplomatically announcing that the group would eventually negotiate or disperse. No, they weren’t associated with any terrorists. They’d see the light as soon as they realized their actions weren’t getting the media’s attention.

Sylvie couldn’t manage the same simplistic view. Too many frightening, conflicting memories. Begging children and mined areas too dangerous to even graze goats, now overgrown with various self-seeded grains. Food for hungry children that was too risky to harvest.

And Rick, killed in an ambush she could never acknowledge because of that damn simplistic view…and a nondisclosure agreement.

The man cut deep into her thoughts with his smooth voice. “You had a young soldier working for you. A Rick Cahill?”

The sun beat hard on her back. With no breakfast to fortify her, her knees weakened to those of a newborn calf. And her everchurning stomach—

She swallowed again, at the same time locking her knees to steady them. “Yes, Rick worked for me.” How did she manage to sound so calm?

The man’s piercing eyes darkened and the creases between his brows deepened. “I’m Jon Cahill. Rick’s brother. I’ve come to find out exactly what happened to Rick the night he died.”

Jon waited for the woman in front of him to answer. All she did was pale dramatically. If he hadn’t seen an obvious faint before, he’d have accused Sylvie Mitchell of offering a distraction to hide something important concerning Rick’s death.

He might still do that.

But her eyes glazed over and one undulating wave wobbled through her body. His wife, no, ex-wife now, had done this exact same damn thing before she’d dropped to the ground. She’d been pregnant with another man’s child.

Jon caught Sylvie Mitchell before she fell. Quickly he wrapped his left arm around her back and bent to shove his right hand under her jean-clad knees. Scooping her up, he marched across the street and straight back into the medical center.

Thankfully, an elderly couple opened all the doors for him, and the startled receptionist who a moment before had pointed out Sylvie, hurried to locate a free bed in the adjoining ward.

“She’s fainted,” he stated, laying her down on the examination bed. A nurse bustled in, shoving him back as she began a quick assessment.

A movement caught his attention. The receptionist had opened the door to leave, but not before eyeing him with open curiosity. Did she expect him to follow?

No way. And he told her so with a sharp frown before she hurried out. Jon turned back to the examination table.

After checking Sylvie’s vital signs, the nurse rolled her into the recovery position. Then she looked up at him. “What was she doing when she fainted?”

“Talking to me. I caught her before she fell.”

“Good thing. She could have really rapped her head.” She slung the stethoscope around her neck. “Her vitals are fine, but I’ll get the doctor to look at her, just in case.” She stalked over to the wide medicine cabinet and pulled out a clear capsule. She returned to the bed, broke it open and shoved it under Sylvie’s nose.

Sylvie flinched. Her eyelids fluttered wide and she batted the nurse’s hand away. “Ew! What the hell?”

The nurse smiled as she discarded the smelling salts. “Works every time.” She peered down at Sylvie before patting her hand. “You fainted. Lie still. I’ll ask the doctor to check you over.”

The nurse left them alone. Jon remained by the window, again speculating on whether the faint had been a ploy to avoid answering his question. The military had pulled every other damn stunt to prevent him from learning exactly what had happened the night Rick died.

Like the night he’d called Rick’s commanding officer. Oh, the man had been more than polite, calling Jon “sir” and showing in his voice the right amount of sympathy and concern. But Jon’s gut tightened with intuition when the man turned vague about the details: investigation still on-going; bad weather that night; trouble finding the truck they’d sent out on detail.

Jon was a police officer in Canada’s biggest city. Lies, omissions, and cover-ups came with the territory, and there were some of each crossing through the phone lines that night.

“Trouble finding the truck?” he’d barked back. “How could that happen? You sent them out on a detail, with a route to follow?”

“The weather was poor, Mr. Cahill,” the commander had answered. “I’m sorry, but the connection is bad on this end. I must tell you, we’re still investigating your brother’s death very thoroughly.”

“What did his supervisor say happened?”

“Warrant Officer Mitchell gave her statement that night, sir, and has already repatriated back to Canada.”

Jon had frowned. “When?”

“The day after the memorial service, actually.”

“Would it be possible to talk to her?”

“Mr. Cahill, I’m not at liberty to say any more—”

The line had gone dead, and Jon wagered it wasn’t because of a bad connection. Not at liberty to say. The commander had been watching too many media interviews on TV.

Why had Rick’s supervisor been shipped back so soon? She sure as hell got out of Dodge pretty damn quick. And why couldn’t they find their own supply truck? Intuition burned hot inside of him.

Now the military would get a lesson in how good the police were with investigations. Finding Warrant Officer Sylvie Mitchell had been a breeze.