Doyle yawned and stretched out across the bed, wondering what had awoken him. He gazed around himself muzzily, before becoming aware of the figure standing in the doorway.
"Wakey wakey."
The lazy voice, barely able to contain the laughter, woke him immediately. "Maggie? What you doing here?
She shrugged, a dark shadow against the sunlight streaming through the door.
"Cowley sent me to tell you there's a debrief at 1400 hours." Her voice was calm and detached.
She knew.
She closed the door and moved into the bedroom. He closed his eyes, waiting for the outburst.
"It's not working."
He opened his eyes to see her staring at him like a scientist studying microbes swarming under a microscope.
"What?" he said, struck by her calm, controlled demeanour.
She smiled and he felt a surge of pain and loneliness. It was not a happy smile.
She sat on the side of the bed, staring down at him with unreadable eyes. "I don't think you're a suitable candidate for monogamy, Ray Doyle."
"Maggie," he began.
"Look," she interrupted. "It's okay. Honestly." Strangely, she seemed more amused, although he could see a kind of grim fatality to her smile. "You're the way you are because you have to be," she continued, not allowing him to speak. "You have to take each day, live each day as it comes. And I know how that feels. But I'm not in the same place now. I need something else, and so do you."
"Like what?" His mouth felt dry. They had had something he knew had been special. Something rare. She understood everything about him, and he knew her. But it didn't always seem enough. Even if he never had this much again, it hadn't been enough.
She smiled, more humour in her expression now. "Well, I'm not ready for the rose covered cottage and picket fence," she said with a stifled, if forced, laugh. "Maybe I never will be."
"What is it then?"
She stared at him for a moment. He could sense her searching for the right words. Considering what he had done, he thought she was being far kinder to him than he deserved.
"I don't know," she said. "I just know this isn't it." She leaned down to him and gently brushed his lips with her own. "I do love you, Ray. In my own way. But it's not right."
He stared into her violet eyes, wondering what it was that was missing.
She sighed, looking away from him. "I've never quite managed…" She began awkwardly, breaking off with another huff of frustration, casting her eyes around the organised chaos of the bedroom as though she could find the words she needed to say. "I thought I could put certain things behind me, but it seems I can't. It may mean I have to leave. I haven't decided."
"Leave?" The sudden announcement startled him more than the break up of the relationship. He sat up quickly, reaching across the bed to grasp her wrist, as though that gesture alone would make her stay. "Why leave? Because of me?"
She laughed, gently extricating her wrist from his grip, patting his hand soothingly. "Oh Ray," she giggled. She smiled down at him, but there was sadness in her eyes. "It's not you. It's someone else." Her smile faded. "It's always been someone else. And it seems it always will be."
"What do you mean, someone else?" He felt a bizarre surge of jealousy, even though he knew it was hypocritical.
"Someone who doesn't even know it," she said firmly with the same sad smile. "Someone who would be very embarrassed if he knew."
She took a deep breath, standing up as though shrugging off whatever melancholy had filled her. "Goodbye, Ray. Maybe in time, we'll know what we both want. Maybe we'll find answers."
"I'm sorry, Maggie," he whispered, surprised to hear himself speak.
"Don't be. What we had was right for then. And I wouldn't change you for the world. It's me. I thought I could stop chasing fairytales but apparently…" She finished the sentence with a small shrug. She stood silhouetted in the doorway again, just a dark shadow against the sunlight. "Next time I see you, 4-5, I'll kick your arse," she said with her far more customary sarcasm.
He smiled, despite the pain in his heart. "I wouldn't expect anything else."
"Give Bodie my love," she said, then closed the door behind her, shutting him out from the rest of her life.
He leaned back against the pillows with a sigh. Maybe he had thrown it all away, but he also felt the truth of her words. However good it had been, it hadn't been quite right.
He was at a loss to think how it could have been better.
# # # # # # #
Magpie entered the training facility, her pale face a mask. Without a word, she picked up one of the AK-47s and sighted it quickly, before taking a magazine and sliding it into place. She picked up another two magazines, slipping one into the back pocket of her jeans before turning to leave.
"Anything I should know about?" Macklin's crisp, clear tones cut through the air, stopping her in her tracks.
"Nothing I can think of," she said curtly, violet eyes daring him to disagree.
Steel blue eyes appraised her coolly, not falling for the aggressive exterior for a second. Macklin could still remember the 14 year old waif he had first met almost twenty years before.
"Something's going on," he insisted.
She gave a careless, lazy shrug, her manner bordering on insolence.
Macklin watched her carefully, seeing no sign of distress or anger. It wasn't reassuring. He knew Maggie was her most truthful when her anger was in full flow.
"I've known you a long time, Maggie," he began.
"A long time isn't the same as knowing someone, Brian." She didn't quite snarl, but he heard the warning bite.
He sighed, unwilling to provoke her. If this was how she wanted to play it, then so be it.
"I'm going to the range," she said brusquely.
He nodded his understanding and watched her leave, shouldering the AK-47 against her chest, the long barrel resting against her neck.
He always seemed to watch her walk away.
# # # # # # #
Almost twenty years ago, Brian Macklin - almost 24 years of age, with the responsibilities and experiences of a man ten years older - had stood on a black tarmac runway in Hong Kong and waited for a plane to arrive. The girl who had walked from the plane had not been what he expected. George Cowley had told him what had happened to his God-daughter, the steps he had taken to protect her. Now she was fit enough to travel, he had sent her half-way across the world to regain her strength.
A person without identity - untraceable, unknown - was an opportunity Special Forces would watch carefully. Although Cowley had made it clear that nothing had been decided - that nothing could be decided by a 14 year old suffering the trauma of murder, rape and near death - nevertheless, the opportunity existed.
But that was for the future. For now, all Macklin had to do was ensure the child recovered and returned to health, as far away from the men who threatened her as possible.
The girl who walked towards him was slim to the point of thinness. Her black hair was short, obviously growing out from a crop in wisps and feathery curls. Large violet blue eyes stood out in a pale face that showed no sign of weakness. Old eyes in a young face, he thought with a chill. She had seen things, endured things, that no-one, least of all a child, should experience.
He stepped towards her, fixing a welcoming smile in place. "Morgan? I'm here to meet you."
The look she gave him was out of place on a 14 year old girl.
"I'm not Morgan," she said, her voice breathy, as though she had difficult projecting. He remembered the knife wounds to her abdomen; the muscles there would be too weak as yet to allow her to breathe and support any strength in her voice. Singing lessons, he thought abstractly, to strengthen the internal muscles of the diaphragm, and to teach her breath control once more.
"Then what do I call you?" he asked. He wasn't used to children, or teenage girls, and while she acted like neither, he wasn't entirely sure what she was yet.
"Whatever name is on my passport," she snapped, her voice clipped and short with what he came to understand was her way of showing pain. "Or whatever else you like."
Maggie had never been easy to deal with.
# # # # # # #
Maggie felt the reassuring kick of the AK-47 in her shoulder as each round hit its target without fail. The wooden stock of the barrel was warm beneath her hands, smoothed and soothed by the gentle, almost loving way she cradled the rifle against her. Each bullet tore through the target, but Maggie did not see. She was looking back, remembering; rifling through a set of memories each more painful than the last.
Steel blue eyes glanced up at her as she entered the warehouse. She had not seen him for the best part of twenty years, but not a day had gone by when she hadn't thought of him – and cursed herself for remembering.
But she saw no recognition in the dark blue eyes regarding her; no flicker of discomfort or memory. Her heart beat furiously in her throat, her palms clammy with sweat. She had murdered dictators with less nerves than when she faced Brian Macklin after so many years.
She was surprised she managed to hold her hand out so steadily, waiting for his handshake. She was even more amazed at the calm voice that issued from her lips.
"Brian Macklin? George Cowley sent me to see you."
She caught a look in those blue eyes then, something glinting that may have been remembrance, but she didn't have time to consider it. A subtle shift in the air – the slightest change in the shadows around them – and she dived to the left, landing easily on one shoulder, rolling and landing on her feet like a cat.
She stared up – and up – at the man-mountain in front of her. White teeth shone in a dark face.
"Oh I like her," he said.
"That's nothing." Macklin stood up, drawing himself up to his full height, which just fell short of the immense man standing beside him. "Justin Towser – meet Magpie."
Maggie straightened smoothly, stepping towards them with her hand outstretched to greet the man who had nearly managed to attack her. "Maggie Draven," she said, shaking his hand with an easy smile. Seconds later, after a quick shift of her weight and twist of her wrist, he lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
Towser laughed – a roaring belly laugh of sheer delight. "Oh she'll do just fine," he beamed.
Maggie had glanced up from the laughing man to look at Macklin, hoping for something – some spark of acknowledgment or even, perhaps, approval. But nothing. Cold as steel, blue as the twilight sky, he simply met her look and nodded once.
"We'll see," he'd said.
That was all. "We'll see." She stopped shooting, knowing instinctively that the last bullet had been fired, and lowered the weapon. "We'll see." And he had – putting her through so many tests and questions, she had wondered whether he'd been trying to find a reason to refuse to take her on.
The Kalashnikov came apart under her expert hands, sliding into separate pieces which she laid on the already prepared cloth. Gun oil and brushes lay ready, the scent of WD40 and fine grade oil heavy in the air. Methodically, she began to strip and clean the rifle.
But Macklin couldn't find any reason to say no. Couldn't find any weakness in her that would give him the excuse he seemed to be looking for. Of course, he hadn't been looking for the one weakness.
He'd managed to find it, though. By accident rather than design. And perhaps he hadn't even been aware of it.
It was traditional. After a week of having seven kinds of it beaten out of them, the agents would meet at the nearby pub and lick their wounds, compare bruises, and congratulate anyone who managed to put any of the three trainers on the mat. There were few of the latter.
She had taken to the same habit, sitting in the corner of the snug, hidden by the tall wooden partition from the rest of the pub. She nursed her whisky carefully. The temptation to lose herself in a bottle of Laphroaig was never far away, but there was always the fear that she wouldn't find her way back out again. Or - perhaps even worse - that she'd meet herself in there, and be lost forever. Sometimes, she remained hidden, listening to the gossip of the agents; sometimes, she would leave her hideout and see what reception she got. She had been surprised at how friendly they were to her. Outside the training facility, they seemed more able to accept her in their circles, no matter what she had done to them during training. It was a refreshing change, but it didn't lift the loneliness inside her as much as she had thought it would.
She glanced idly through the newspaper in front of her, not really concentrating on the articles. Something had made her glance up, her gaze instantly landing on the two men striding purposefully towards the pub. Justin Towser dressed casually in jeans and a white t-shirt with a faded red check shirt thrown over. It did little to disguise the muscles, but it did seem to make him more approachable, disguising the sheer power that normally surrounded him. Beside him strode the slighter figure of Brian Macklin. Only the towering hulk of Towser could make Macklin look slight; although Macklin lacked the sheer bulk of muscle that made up Towser's mass, he had a sleek, lean frame, each muscle laced smoothly over the bone. Macklin was more than muscle, while Towser left little room for anything else. Towser was quick – for a man his size. And cunning. The muscles weren't created at the expense of his intelligence. Years of SAS training had honed him into a thinking killing machine.
Macklin, however, was something else. Almost born to it, perhaps; as though he couldn't help the way his bones carried the sleek muscles. A two-legged panther, created by nature to be the perfect athlete.
He carried a brown leather jacket, slung carelessly over one shoulder. His other hand was pushed into the front pocket of tight jeans that emphasised those impossibly long legs and each smooth muscle moving beneath the surface. He wore a denim shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, with enough buttons open at the front to allow a tantalising glimpse of chest. The setting sun added red tones to his burnished hair, and caught the glint of his dark blue eyes as he laughed.
Maggie had caught herself staring, suddenly aware that the men intended entering the bar, and not knowing how to react. Then finding herself wondering why she didn't know how to react. It was perfectly natural. Why shouldn't they be here?
But then a small dark red MG convertible had pulled up alongside them, the two men slowing to speak to the driver – a pretty brunette woman, her red lips painted expertly and grinning in welcome. Let it be for Towser, Maggie had prayed. But her prayers went unanswered; Macklin swung his long legs over the passenger door of the car, not even needing to open it, before sliding into the leather interior. A friendly double blast of the horn and wave left Towser standing in the street, and Maggie wondering why she ever bothered to entertain a shred of hope.
She had sipped her Laphroaig despondently and thought about leaving.
Maggie hadn't known how to react when she saw the two names rostered for refresher training that week. William Bodie – 3-7; Ray Doyle – 4-5. She remembered waking in the hospital room, finding Doyle looking down at her with a soft look in his green eyes. Hazy though the edges of the memory were, dulled with anaesthetic and analgesia, nevertheless, she remembered what had been said. "Well, when you've decided, you look me up," he'd said. That had been five months ago.
And what had she learned about herself since then? Only that perhaps she hadn't just left Macklin all those years ago in Hong Kong. Maybe she had left herself as well. And maybe she should start again with someone else.
So she had trained them all week, ran them ragged, left them beaten, bruised and battered. Then gone to the pub on the Friday evening and bought them all a drink. And allowed Doyle to buy her more drinks.
What she was, she realised, was something between Maggie and Magpie. What she needed was someone strong enough to hold those two parts of her together. Maybe Doyle could do that.
But he hadn't, she reflected as she slid the rifle back together. Oh he was strong; a defiant, reckless firecracker of a man, all heat and fury. And she had allowed that fire to warm her, trying to thaw herself on him. But it hadn't been enough; not enough to make her forget the warmth of a body pinning her to the mat, hands grasping her impersonally, ferociously, sometimes forcing her to surrender, sometimes surrendering to her. No matter how much she and Macklin danced together, he never let her close enough to feel the warmth she knew would be so much more than Doyle's.
It wasn't fair to her; it wasn't fair to Doyle at all. Regardless of Doyle's infidelities, and regardless of how immature it sounded. It simply wasn't fair.
It was simply the way it was.
She finished putting the rifle together and sighed heavily. None of it had been enough of a distraction; not the Kalashnikov, not the ranges, and not Doyle. Maybe she should stop tormenting herself. Maybe she should just give up and leave.
Macklin searched the ranges, but heard no distinctive Kalashnikov bark. He frowned, turning back to the compound to track her down. A movement from one of the gyms caught his eye as he passed along the corridor. He recognised the powerful, sleek economy of movement of Towser, and wondered who he was fighting.
Looking through the door, he saw the tall man square up against the slight figure of Magpie, her delicate frame dwarfed by his greater bulk.
But Maggie wasn't that delicate, Macklin knew. She had the delicacy of titanium. Delicate, but never fragile. Not in obvious ways, at least.
They were too intent on each other to notice him stood in the open door.
Three years after that meeting on the tarmac in Hong Kong, Macklin had been in a jasmine scented garden, watching a 17 year old woman walk away from him, feeling the warmth of her lips on his mouth and a dull throb in his heart at the accusation he had seen in tear-filled violet eyes.
He'd been 26 years old. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
He was forced out of his reminiscence by the move he saw coming, seeing the fist plough into Maggie's flat stomach a split second before Towser had completed the move.
"No!"
He sprinted across the hall, sliding the remaining few feet on his knees to catch her before she hit the floor. He wrapped his arms around her, knowing she would never permit such familiarity had she the breath to complain.
He glared up at Towser, noting the cut lip oozing blood down the man's chin.
"If she has a weakness, she should protect it," Towser snarled, breathless, before Macklin could speak.
"That's not the point!" he snapped, cut glass Public School accent sharper and harder with his anger.
"Yes. It is," Maggie's voice came in gasps and pants. "My fault. Should... protect myself... Better."
She pushed away from him and rose unsteadily to her feet, one arm still curled protectively around her midriff. She turned, drawing herself up straight, and walked from the room, sparing no glance for either man.
Macklin was on his feet in an instant, grabbing Towser's head in one hand while the other powerful forearm pressed against his throat.
"That's not her fighting style," he snarled, dark blue eyes aflame with anger. Towser blinked in surprise. Macklin never got angry, never rose to any bait. He was always ice cold, professional, detached.
"It was a mistake," Towser gasped through the painful choke hold. "I just reacted."
Macklin glared at him, the normally calm, handsome mask contorted with rage. Towser felt the muscles in Macklin's arms tighten, felt his breath being cut off, and wondered if Macklin had heard him at all, before - finally - the choke hold was broken and he found himself gasping on the floor.
By the time he looked up, Macklin had gone.
# # # # # # #
It was ridiculous, Brian Macklin fumed. He sat in his own domain – his own kingdom where he reigned supreme. And she walked in the door and knocked him flat on his back again.
He watched her approach, searching the pale face for any kind of response – recognition, regret, even boredom. Nothing. Not even when she held her hand out and said his name as though seeking confirmation. As though she never recognised him at all. He had had two months to prepare for this moment – two months when the livid scars down her arms faded to silvery traces – and yet, when it came, she still left him floundering.
She'd avoided Towser's surprise attack, which impressed his colleague, he could tell. He was concentrating too much on remaining calm and professional to allow any congratulations. Then he put her through her paces – hand guns, rifles, target practice – anything to avoid actual physical contact. But then he'd had to do that as well – a final test, as much for himself as for her.
It was strange, this duelling with her again. She was so like the girl he remembered in Hong Kong, and yet so much more. More elusive, more elegant. And so much quicker, he realised, relying on instinct more than intellect to avoid the sleek practiced attack.
After six weeks, he thought he'd get used to seeing her every day. But somehow he never quite lost the sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach whenever he caught her eye, or the heat threatening his calm resolve whenever he felt her lithe body beneath – or above – him.
No mention of the night of her birthday; of the evening spent treating her like the lady he had always thought of her, at the opera, a restaurant. Giggles over sparkling champagne and smoked salmon. He didn't remember a time when he'd been so captivated.
No mention of jasmine scented gardens, or the clumsy, delightful press of her against him, her lips seeking his, kissing him with so much sweetness he could have drowned in it.
Nothing in her look or features betrayed any memory of those times. He might even begin to believe he'd imagined it. Now, as before, he tried to lose himself in other women, treating them all with the same courteous consideration and gallantry as came so naturally to him; but never allowing any of them close enough. An evening's amusement, a night of passion – but nothing that lifted the grip over his heart.
Nothing that calmed the fury the moment he'd seen Ray Doyle arrive one evening to take Maggie out. Or the raging anger when she didn't return until morning.
He'd told himself he could deal with it; that he would accept any price to keep her. Nine years her senior, he couldn't even consider the possibility that she might look at him the same way she looked at Doyle. He couldn't possibly think a kiss stolen by a 17 year old girl fifteen years before would mean anything now. Or that it had meant anything then.
But she had left, disappeared the next morning before he'd been able to explain himself to her. And she'd returned from London two weeks ago with a look in those violet eyes that he found disturbing. She looked like a cornered bird, seeking an escape. She looked like she was looking for a way out.
Whatever happened, Macklin couldn't let her go again. Not without explaining.
The door to the shower block slammed open in front of him as he barged through, feeling ridiculous in this self-imposed role of protector. He ran his hand over his close cropped blond hair, ruffling the short layers into haphazard spikes. How could someone with the reputation - deserved, he well knew it - of a cold-blooded killer possibly need protection?
What protection could he offer, a small voice accused him deep inside his soul. He couldn't kill, couldn't protect anyone.
Anyway, another smaller voice complained, didn't Maggie have the power to hurt him far more? Shouldn't he be the one needing protection from her?
"Maggie," he called out, resisting the primal urge to kick down every stall door until he found her.
"If that's you, Brian Macklin, you can just fuck off." Her voice was rasping and dry, and he could hear her retching again straight after she had spoken.
It was still the most beautiful sound he had heard.
"Watch your fucking language, my girl," he snapped primly, unable to stop a smile spreading across his face.
He heard a breathy laugh. "It hurts when I laugh," she said, laughing anyway.
And that was true, he knew. And no laughing matter.
He heard the toilet flush and hovered, nervous in way that would have amazed Towser or any of the agents convinced by his hard man act.
The stall door opened and Maggie emerged, pale and wan, eyes streaming with tears from the vehemence of her vomiting.
Even now, she was beautiful in a way that caught the breath in his throat. The cool, detached former Captain, who no-one believed to be human - the mad bastard incapable of any emotion - had wanted to pound mercilessly into Doyle as soon as he'd recognised the thaw in her violet eyes whenever she looked at Agent 4-5. But he had no right to that jealousy. Any right he may have had had been left behind in a perfumed garden on a hot summer night in Hong Kong.
Nevertheless, if Ray Doyle had anything to do with the pain he sensed in Maggie Draven, Macklin would make sure he paid for it.
"You're hovering like a mother hen, Brian," she accused him. A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "It's most unbecoming."
He leaned against the wall, even military and correct when lounging, and folded his arms across his chest, muscles flexing smoothly. "I don't believe I know how to hover," he said calmly. "And I've certainly never been accused of being a mother hen before."
"Stop trying to wrap me in cotton wool then," she snarled, all trace of humour suddenly stripped from her face.
He started, pushing himself off the wall, his arms falling to his sides defensively. "I'm not. I just want to be sure you don't slap Towser with a manslaughter charge," he said, his voice curt.
"Takes more than him to kill me." Her flippant tone annoyed him. She needled him like no-one else could, he knew. She had got under his skin so many years ago now he had no defence against her.
His gaze travelled down the long silvery scars tracing the length of her arms. She folded her arms, instinctively hiding the scars from him. "Don't push your luck, Maggie," he snapped.
"Why not?" Her voice was sharp with anger, and he braced himself for an argument he knew had been a long time coming. "You know about me," she continued, her voice lower but sounding more petulant for it. "I don't know anything about you. I don't even know why you're here." The sulky tone became more evident. "I thought you'd still be in Hong Kong."
She hadn't know, he realised with shock. And she hadn't wanted him to know it bothered her.
Almost five months now, they'd worked together. Every day, he'd woken from dreams of a violet-blue eyed child-woman, pushing, testing, unsmiling, in Hong Kong. In their own way, these dreams were just as painful as the nightmares of torture. Memories : painful, precious.
Every day, for almost five months, he had planned and trained with her, delighted to see her laughing and joking; destroyed by the thoughts that it was Doyle who had coaxed the laughter to her lips and taught her how to smile. All he had ever done was teach her how to kill.
"Cowley didn't tell you?" he said.
She shook her head. "I never asked," she admitted.
He gave a short nod, stifling the wince he felt as her words struck home. It was too late; she was too perceptive.
He wondered if she had ever forgiven him, if she had ever understood. "I asked him not to tell you," he admitted. "I had thought you might worry." And had she, he wondered? Or had she not given him a second thought until the day she walked into his training facility and found him waiting for her?
"I was broken," he said finally, each word forced from lips stiff and unwilling to move. "I am broken," he admitted.
She cast a cool gaze over him, heating his blood in a way he had no right to feel.
"You look the same to me," she said, the disinterest in her voice at odds with the strange look in her eyes.
He sighed and looked away from her. He leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed again in front of him, protecting himself from her look and words.
"One night, on my way home, I was jumped. Needle in the arm, and next thing I knew, I was in a cellar, chained to the wall. I more or less stayed there for about three weeks, they estimate."
"Estimate?" Her voice was hoarse. He raised his head and met her gaze again. Her brow creased and there was something in those dark indigo eyes that he couldn't remember seeing before. Something that caught and held him; something he could feel blanketing him in warmth and security.
"Yes," he admitted, hypnotised by the look in her eyes. "I just couldn't tell night from day." He could admit it now - here, to her - in a way he'd never been able to with Cowley, or Ross, or any of the Repton professionals who had put him back together again. "From the injuries, the state of broken bones and healing wounds, they estimate it at about three weeks. I don't really remember what they did to me; I only remember in dreams."
Pain flickered in her eyes at his admission. She knew only too well the demons that lurked in the night.
"Finally, they shot me in the stomach. Broken pelvis, both arms broken. They threw me in the bay. Somehow, I survived."
Her gaze fell to his chest as he described his injuries. She stepped forward, tightly crossed arms falling loose by her sides as she moved to stand in front of him. Without a word, she reached out and lightly placed her palm against his taut stomach. He drew a sharp breath at her touch, his eyes closing at the warmth he felt through the thin cotton.
But without sight, his other senses grew stronger. He could smell the sandalwood that seemed unique to her, the soft fragrance of wood and jasmine.
The jasmine had been blooming in Hong Kong. The garden had been heady with the scent of it. It had surrounded him, drowning his senses even as the warm body pressed against him and the soft lips on his had hypnotised and entranced him.
He opened his eyes, feeling his breathing quicken at her proximity. He had thrown her to the mat several times over the last few months. She had retaliated as many times, her speed and agility set against his strength and stamina. But he had always resisted the temptation to hold too long or too closely. He knew they moved well together, knew Towser, Cowley, other agents - even Bodie and Doyle - found something graceful in their bouts. Together, they turned killing into an art form. Yet he knew too well he was no longer capable of standing against a genuine target. He could not shoot against a target that could shoot back.
And she had made him teach her, all those years ago, when he thought it was helping her rehabilitation, and then purely for the pleasure he felt at so apt a pupil. Not to mention his growing need to keep her near.
But when she had been so near - when she had been his for the asking - he had pushed her away.
"You're fitter, stronger, sharper than any of the field agents," she said gently, bringing him back from his memories. "Why are you here, Brian?"
He felt his hands shake, felt a churning turmoil in his chest, and wondered if she could feel it through the hand still gently resting on his abdomen. For so many months, he had resisted the memories. Now, they threatened to overwhelm him.
"I can't fire on a target that can shoot back," he admitted grimly, hating the weakness as he had always hated any failure in himself.
"My nerve has gone, Maggie." He met her gaze, anguish in his blue eyes. "I'm useless."
She reached up to stroke through his short, corn silk hair. Her other hand remained on his stomach, fingers curling and uncurling in a gentle caress.
Just like that night in Hong Kong, he ached to reach out to her, to catch her in his arms and pull her close to him; to hold her and never let her go. Like then, he wanted to feel her lips against his, to taste the soft velvet heat of her mouth, to savour the inviting pale silk of her skin.
Instead, like that night in Hong Kong, he reached and took her hand from his chest, gently breaking the contact, then set his hands carefully on her shoulders to push her away. The break in contact was like a blade slicing into his flesh. Then, as now, the torture of pulling away from her almost made him cry out.
The accusation in the dark blue eyes was another knife in his heart. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and knew a stinging slap would be delivered even before he felt the blow. He didn't try to defend himself. He had no defence against her; he never had.
Macklin had lost as soon as her plane had touched down twenty years ago. He had loved her from the moment he saw her. And like everything Macklin did, he did it completely, thoroughly, without faltering.
The slap echoed around the room. "Bastard," she hissed, anger flashing amethyst in her eyes.
"Maggie -"
The second slap took him completely by surprise, but he was ready for the fist that followed it. He caught her arm, effortlessly overpowering her and trapping her arms behind her back, pulling her against his chest in a mocking imitation of how he had wanted to only seconds before.
She struggled in his arms, but his muscles locked around her. "Dammit, Maggie. Do you think I'm made of stone?" he snarled at last, her furious struggling forcing the admission from him against his will.
She stopped struggling immediately and glared up at him. He released her quickly before he gave into the temptation to hold her purely for the sake of it.
"Don't you dare pretend I'm any kind of temptation for you," she hissed. "You don't want me." The pain of rejection was now clearly seen through the veil of anger. "You never wanted me."
"That's not true," he said quickly, desperately, shocked by the sudden lurch of recognition inside him. She remembered, he realised. Whatever she had felt then still hovered in the back of those violet eyes. He didn't know what to do, what to say except the truth. He had never felt so helpless and out of control, the mask of the cool, detached professional now lost to him.
"You made it clear in Hong Kong," she snapped, anger defeating embarrassment in her sudden need to admit everything. "I could see it on your face, then and now. You don't want damaged goods." She spat the words at him, suddenly all the hurt and humiliation spilling out of her.
"Do you really think that?" he demanded. "Can you really believe I could ever think that?" He ran his fingers through his close cropped hair in desperation. "You were a child, Maggie. I was supposed to look after you."
Tears spilled from her eyes, twisting the knife in his heart.
"I wanted someone to show me it didn't have to be like that." Her voice shook, the words torn from her soul. "I wanted - I wanted you," she admitted, anguish tearing her apart in front of him. "I wanted you to show me it could be good. But you pushed me away."
He reached out and caught her before she could run. She gasped as though his touch burned her.
"Maggie, please," he begged, his clear and precise Sandhurst voice breaking with emotion, a tinge of his natural Scottish accent seeping through. "You couldn't really believe I'd take advantage of you, of your need to find out for yourself." Desperately, he tried to make her understand. He'd known what she wanted – she wanted acceptance. But he hadn't thought she'd been prepared to accept the price – hadn't thought she could possibly understand the powerful emotions she evoked in him. "It wouldn't have been fair to you," he insisted, knowing he would never have forgiven himself for betraying the trust she put in him. "It certainly wouldn't have been fair to play with my emotions like that," he added with a sigh.
"Emotions?" she snarled. She seemed oblivious to the anguish she provoked in him. "You don't have them. People accuse me of being cold-blooded, but really all I did was copy you."
He gaped at her, at her accusation and the wanton cruelty of it. "You made me teach you how to kill," he said at last, each word cold and deliberate, as though eager to prove her charge of callousness. "You tricked me. All you wanted was revenge."
She tore herself free from his grip. "All I wanted? All I wanted was you, but you made it quite clear you didn't want me. All I had left was revenge."
"That's not true. You never had to leave." His heart ached from the pain in her voice.
"I couldn't face you after that!"
"It wasn't anything we couldn't have talked through," he insisted.
"Talked through?" Her rising anger was almost hysteria. "I loved you, you heartless bastard. Could you have fixed that?"
"You were 17." He tried to explain, blocking the pain her admission caused him. She had loved him, and he had thrown it back in her face. He had misunderstood, dealt with the whole situation so badly it had made her run from him, and into the life she had led. And despite everything, he still could not find the words to say how confused he had been, how his desire for her had almost made him lose control. How he knew he never could have lived with himself if he'd allowed that to happen.
Her voice fell to a menacing hiss. "If you say 'teenage crush', Brian Macklin, I swear I will rip your head off and piss down your throat."
"And how was I supposed to know that? To know any of it?" His temper suddenly flared out of control, leaving him incapable of restraining all the pent up emotions he had blocked for so long. "Dammit, Maggie, I wanted you so much it hurt. I still want you. Have you any idea how I've felt watching you with Doyle all this time?"
She gave a short bark of laughter, completely lacking any humour. She could not believe the words he said against the memory of the look on his face when he had pushed her away. "You expect me to believe you were jealous?"
His jaw clenched reflexively, a murderous light in his steel blue eyes. "I wanted to rip his heart out," he admitted in a low growl, unable to stop the truth spilling from him now he had opened the floodgates. "I wanted to tell him he didn't deserve you. I wanted to tell you..." Self-preservation kicked in, stopping him from making the final admission.
"Tell me what?" she snarled. "Don't try telling me you loved me, Macklin. I don't believe it."
He lost all control, reaching out to catch her in his arms, twisting around so she was pressed against the wall, his tall powerful physique dwarfing her. He lifted her up effortlessly to bring them face to face, pressing her hard against the wall, using every ounce of strength he had to hold her in place.
"It's not that I loved you, Maggie," he snarled, cut glass accent hard and sharp. "It's that I love you. Always have. Always will."
Before she could speak, he claimed her mouth, bringing their lips together in a crushing kiss that grazed teeth and skin. Lost in the sensation, he forced her mouth open with his tongue, snaking inside to steal the honeyed warmth he had wanted for so long. His blood pounded in his veins, filling his ears with a rushing sound. The taste of her was like a drug, drowning his self-control, leaving him at the mercy of the instinctive ebb and flow of his rising blood.
With a start, he realised what he was doing and tried to pull away, but then he felt her arms slip around him, holding him fast against her. She took control of the kiss, following his mouth as he tried to retreat, determined to take this last chance and prove the truth to him once and for all. Brian Macklin was all she had ever wanted – everything she had ever needed. And something told her she had to show him that; she had to convince him. And this might be her only chance.
The gentle caress of her hands across his broad, powerful back fired his blood almost as much as her eager mouth opening beneath his onslaught, taking his desperate passion and matching it with her own needs and desires, hidden for so long. Her legs wrapped around him, and he almost lost himself in the press of her hips against the throbbing heat in his groin. He reached down to cup her thighs, feeling the hard muscles cradling him, moving beneath the rough cotton of her jeans.
He heard a groan and didn't know if it came from her or him, the sound swallowed up in deep, thorough kisses that intoxicated and made breathing seem unimportant. The unbelievable realisation that she wanted him as much as he yearned for her was a balm to his soul. He loved her enough to let her go if she wanted it; she loved him too much to let him try making that sacrifice.
He felt her breasts pressed against his chest through the thin cotton of their t-shirts, and cursed the fragile fabric, reaching up with one strong hand to tear the material from her waist band so his searching fingers could finally stroke the warm satin of her skin.
It was too much. It was far from enough.
He broke the kiss unwillingly, staring down into her flushed face in wonder. Her eyes were huge and dark with desire, her lips swollen and glistening.
"Maggie?" he whispered, unable to believe what his eyes and body told him.
She smiled slowly at him, almost dreamily. "Oh Brian, why do you choose to be so stupid about this?" She ran her fingers through his hair, coaxing, caressing. "Don't you know I love you?" She giggled gently at his shocked expression. "You're everything I've ever wanted," she said, surprised at how easily the words came now she let them out. She leaned towards him, brushing his lips with hers. "Now take me to bed and make up for lost time," she whispered, kissing him gently.
Unable to speak, he stepped away from the wall, carrying her against him with ease. She locked her legs around him and bent her head to his neck as he carried her from the shower block. He stopped in the corridor, unable to move when he felt her tongue slide down his neck and sharp teeth settle at the junction of his neck and collarbone.
"If you carry on like that, I swear I'll be over and done before we've even started," he growled, his voice rough with lust and need.
He heard her laugh softly, felt it echo in her chest so close to his.
"We can't have that," she whispered in his ear, making him shudder with the feathery sensations of her breath against his skin.
He didn't know how they made it to his room, wasn't even aware of the weight of her in his arms except as a warm silken bundle, teasing him with every breath. Once in his room, he locked the door without releasing her, unwilling to let her go even for a second.
Finally, his bed lay beneath her, and her legs unwound from him. He looked down at her, his face a picture of awe and passion.
"I love you," he whispered, entranced by the look of wanton happiness on her face. He needed her to know, even if giving her such power over him destroyed him. He should have felt exposed, weakened. Instead, he felt only safety and security. Her smile was soft, blinding him in its intensity, and in a way he had never seen her look at anyone else. He searched her expression for any sign of uncertainty or pity; all he could see was need and acceptance. And love.
"I've always loved you, Brian," she said, repeating her earlier declaration as though determined to convince him of the truth.
Emotion threatened to choke him, but words were irrelevant after such honesty. He kissed her again, rejoicing in having the right to do so. He felt the warm press of her beneath him, her hands tugging at his t-shirt and dragging it over his head in quick, desperate moves. It meant breaking the kiss for a split second, but the soft caress of her hands against the rippling muscles of his back was reward enough. He buried his hands in the black silken curtain of her hair to cradle her head gently in his powerful hands. Hungry for more contact, he pulled her shirt free from her jeans, pulling it up and over her head slowly, eager to savour each precious inch of satin skin he uncovered. Delicious sliding and wriggling lost both pairs of jeans, leaving the heat of skin on skin. Firm breasts came free from her bra, and he swallowed her sighs of pleasure at his touch. She reached to remove his underwear and he froze at the sudden contact when his sex slicked, hardened flesh stroked against the heated skin of her thigh. With a groan, he relaxed into the pleasure, tearing her pants from her with strong, nimble fingers and removing the final barrier between complete skin to skin contact.
She was beautiful. She was lithe and strong, agile and soft. Her body arched against his, her hands gliding over smooth muscles and scarred flesh. She didn't even notice his hands sliding over her own scars as he explored her different textures, delighting in the play of silken skin on muscles under his touch. She cried out, arching against him as his lips followed his hands, drawing every ounce of sensation from her strung out nerves.
Words were unnecessary. They had always communicated without speaking before. They knew each other's moves. He had taught her everything she knew. Now he would teach her this.
Every inch of skin was touched and tasted as he had longed to do for so long. She groaned with impatience, trying to pull him back so she could feel the glorious heat of his body against hers from head to toe. When she couldn't contain herself any longer, she wriggled and slid against him to taste his skin for herself. When her hot velvet mouth closed around his cock for the first time, he thought he would happily die from the pleasure of it.
Every kiss, every touch, chased demons away from them both. At 40 years of age, Macklin had believed his life was over, that he had nothing to do but try to prevent what happened to him happening to anyone else.
Now he felt each and every scar heal forever; felt every crack inside, where Repton had never managed to infiltrate, mend and repair seamlessly. She had taken him apart, and now she was putting him back together again.
She slid back up the bed to face him again. They moved instinctively, perfectly matched in this as in everything. He looked deep into her eyes, needing the connection to convince himself this was really happening as he slid inch by slow inch inside her, feeling her heat surround and envelop him. Her eyes closed briefly, but when they reopened, he saw her own nightmares disappearing as he brought their bodies to the ultimate connection. He saw her come apart in his arms, and knew he could repair her as she had him.
He held himself inside her, desperate to notice every last detail, to burn it on his memory forever. When he started to move, he heard her gasp even as he sobbed his own relief. He moved slowly, rhythmically, hips sliding into hips, hands stroking and reassuring when he felt her shudder beneath him, felt her hands gripping him tightly as though she was afraid he would leave.
He would never leave. This was the second chance he knew he didn't deserve. But it had happened, and he would do whatever it took to keep her.
He felt the muscles inside her grip and ripple down his length, felt the wet heat of her increase in temperature, heard the desperation in her cries and sighs. His own groans echoed back to him, not knowing he had made a sound until the low, shuddering moans reached his ears. He felt his own climax build in response to hers, craving the completion but unwilling to let it end.
Then, blinding orgasm hit them both, and he buried himself, his fears and weaknesses, his hopes and dreams, deep inside her, welcoming her own angels and demons in return.
He felt 26 again. In her arms, he knew he always would.