A/N: I have nothing witty to say at the moment, so just leave it at. I'm sorry about the brevity of this chapter and I hope you'll all understand. I do have more coming though, hopefully by the end of the week. Disclaimers in full force and effect. I own nothing but the people you don't recognize and the plot. Everything else belongs to someone far richer than I.

Previously: Tim and Calleigh took off on the Ducati and ended up in Daytona Beach; Sorcha and Hank are alone in the house. This picks up immediately following the last chapter.

Eleven

He looked so cute, his body propped against the headboard, soft snores emitting from his mouth. Calleigh wrapped her arms tighter around the towel, water dripping from her hair down her nice clean body. She didn't want to get back into the clothes she'd worn all day, mainly because she was going to have to wear them again on the ride home. She'd done the smart thing too, washing out her underwear and using the hotel provided hair dryer to at least start the drying process. However, that left her with no options for sleep wear. . . unless. Calleigh spied Tim's shirt hanging on the chair next to the television and grinned. Okay, so it wasn't clean, but at least it would cover her from shoulders to thighs, and she wouldn't have to worry about not wearing any underwear.

Tiptoeing past Tim's sleeping form, Calleigh nearly jumped out of her skin when he muttered something unintelligible. She stood up straight, body frozen in the act of reaching for his discarded shirt, hoping he wasn't going to catch her in the act. When he lapsed back into sleep, she reached out for it, scurrying like a scared rabbit back into the bathroom. Heart pounding, Calleigh shut the door harder than she intended and again froze. Geezuz, girl, you're a cop, you should be stealthier than this. Lordy. . . . please don't wake up, stay asleep.

Waiting in the bathroom for some indication that he'd woken up, Calleigh wriggled into his shirt, hanging the towel on the shower curtain bar. Quickly braiding her still wet hair, she faced herself in the mirror and chuckled. I look like a teenager wearing her boyfriend's favorite shirt. Girl, you've got it bad.

Not hearing any other noise except for the muted sound of the television, Calleigh slipped from the bathroom. Tim had shifted, slumping slightly so that his head was now at an awkward angle. Emitting a soft sigh, she realized she was going to have to move him, otherwise he'd be in pain come the morning. Calleigh covered the distance between them in short strides. The remote was falling out of his hand and the pillows behind him were all askew. He looked even younger in sleep, despite the darkening of his beard. She understood now why he left it that way. He had such a baby face, looking far younger than his almost thirty years, and the stubble gave him much needed age and gravity. Even so, he was cute with or without the stubble. A smile stole over her features, and had either of them seen it, there would have been no doubt in either mind about Calleigh's feelings, and she gently moved the pillows behind his head.

His sleeping form followed the movement, curling onto his side, his hand brushing over Calleigh's bare thigh. Suppressing the shivers his accidental touch invoked, Calleigh pulled the sheet and blanket over his bare shoulders.

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The rooms were all quiet, and Hank moved on silent feet through the mostly empty rooms as he did a sweep. Like most nights, he started and ended his security checks in the same place – just outside Sorcha's door. He didn't like leaving her alone, not since Lopez had tried raping her, even with Gonsalvo's presence in the house.

Whatever deal he'd been setting up was nearing completion and Hank had a feeling everything would be coming to a head at the same time. Live by the sword, die by it. And El Comadreja had been living by the sword for longer than Hank knew. He'd gotten a complete dossier on the man before he'd gone undercover, and he'd learned more in the three years he'd been with him – but Hank had had enough. He wanted out.

I'm gonna be thirty-six on my next birthday and I don't want to spend it gathering intel on this asshole, like the last three. He inhaled deeply, his brain running through the placement of the surveillance equipment he'd placed throughout the house in an effort to avoid thinking about his situation. Or Sorcha.

There was a complication his life absolutely did not need. And yet. . . . and yet. This time his deep exhalation rattled the peacock feathers standing in a floor vase and he sneezed when dust shifted in the air. He froze, waiting to see if any of the other guards were in this part of the house, waiting for the count of a hundred before he actually moved. Once he was satisfied he was alone, Hank stepped away from the offending peacock feathers heading straight for Sorcha's suite.

He didn't want to care. Not about her. Not about the baby. But he was beginning to think he cared more than he wanted to admit. Somehow, some crazy fucked-up way, she'd gotten to him. Gotten under his skin and made him care.

If he did nothing else in the next two weeks – he was going to make damn certain one of them got away. He'd prefer it be both of them, but if he couldn't manipulate circumstances to free Sorcha, the baby was going to be safe.

The arms deal El Comadreja was brokering had a target date of two weeks.

Two weeks.

There were no cameras in her room, no microphones either. Whoever this estate belonged to, Gonsavlo didn't dare alter anything, something which made Hank both grateful and wary simultaneously. For his purposes now, though, he was damn glad she wasn't under constant surveillance. The last thing he wanted to worry about was El Comadreja finding out what he was about to do. It was bad enough he was doing it.

He'd resisted the urge for so long that it festered, brewing and simmering away, but long enough for him to believe, at least partially that he'd actually managed to completely suppress it. Hank knew he'd been fooling himself. Her child's birth had been the spark to set the urge burning, spewing his feelings through his guts, consuming him.

Somehow, without his permission or his awareness, he'd fallen.

Fallen hard for a woman who by rights, he never would have met. Or should have.

Fate had twisted, turning his life on the thinnest of threads, altering his path.

Covert ops and undercover work hadn't been in his plans. Naval intelligence was just supposed to be a back up, something to do while he recovered from a knife wound that had gotten septic and nearly killed him. Instead, when his superiors realized in addition to the Farsi and Arabic he'd managed to learn, that he spoke another four languages they'd sent him through Quantico and other, more specialized training. Given his exotic looks, inherited from a long dead Cherokee ancestor mixed with his predominantly Scottish heritage, he could blend in easily with nearly any cultural background they decided to supply him with. For the last two years, just before El Comadreja had snatched Sorcha from Miami, he'd been working undercover to infiltrate – and destroy if necessary – an arms dealing syndicate operating between Miami and the Azores.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Neither of them were.

The dossier and cover story provided by the Navy had gotten him entry into the world; however it was his skills and seeming lack of morals that had brought him El Comadreja's attention.

He was trusted – to a point.

And now, he was about to violate that trust.

Hank decided he really didn't care. What was trust given from a man who did the things El Comadreja did?

What kind of man did that make him?

Moving into the room on silent, bare feet, he watched as the moonlight wreathed the tiny infant. Like a spun sugar princess, she slept blissfully on, unaware of how delicately balanced her very existence was. Her mother stirred, feeling the presence of another in the room, alert as only those who are constantly hunted can be.

Before she could move, he was at her side, his hand covering her mouth, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. Hank lowered his mouth to hover just over her ear, his voice a mere extension of his breathing. "It's me."

Her fingers stopped scratching at his hand, and the panicked breathing eased, but only a little. "Relax."

She did, but again, barely enough to give meaning to the term. His fingers eased, sliding down her jaw. Sorcha turned her head, angling so she could see his face. Her voice was no louder than his. "Why?"

"Don't ask." He easily lifted her off the bed, letting the sheet slide down her body. Like her daughter, her pale Irish skin drew any stray bolt of moonglow, and every bit of saliva in his mouth disappeared.

Sorcha stared at him, her eyes searching his for some knowledge only she could see. He didn't doubt she could. He'd seen too much truth come from her mouth to doubt. She touched him then, slim fingers brushing over the hard planes of his face, gossamer soft. Her eyes lost their focus, seeing through him, hand stilled. She barely breathed, her mind intent on what she learned of him, no doubt from the very moon itself. Hank waited, knowing she would snap out of it when her brain finished processing the jumbled images.

He wasn't prepared for her reaction though. Sorcha slumped forward, into his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, silent tears seeping from her eyes. Her hand slipped out of his to rest over his heart and she whispered words he'd never thought he'd hear from her.

"I trust you."

to be continued. . .