Ghosts That Haunt

by Adderlygirl

AU / Sequel to Forging a Life. Casey is assigned a foreign female operative to pose as his girlfriend.

11. Chapter 11

Ghosts that Haunt—11

Casey would have bet money he'd never find himself in this position. But here he was. He was pretty sure this was Adderly's way of getting back at him for Riah. Then again, Beckman could be simply punishing him for not getting the distance between him and Riah she had ordered. Regardless, six days in Ariel Taylor's company was surely enough to guarantee he would be able to skip purgatory when the time came.

Of course, he probably had his own reserved seat in Hell and most likely would not die in a state of grace, which made purgatory not an option.

To be fair, though, he had to admire Ariel for what she was doing. Not many celebrities were willing to visit soldiers in Iraq or Afghanistan, but here she was on her way to Baghdad for the USO. Even her band had balked. According to V. H., that was primarily because Ariel had been a target before, and they didn't want to fly into a war zone with a woman who drew trouble the way Ariel did. As a result, she had made arrangements to be backed by musicians from the various armed forces bands. Casey was part of her protection detail. That he had another assignment while he was there was not known by any of his companions.

He still didn't like Ariel Taylor, but he would give her the benefit of the doubt this time, if not for what she was doing then at least for Riah's sake. He stared at the woman across from him, and he had to admit she didn't look like the diva he was used to. For one thing, she was dressed in a simple white oxford shirt with a flak jacket over it and jeans and hiking boots instead of designer clothes. She had no makeup on, and her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail underneath the helmet she wore. She was three years older than he was, but she didn't look it. She could almost pass for Riah's sister rather than her mother. The only clues that she had just turned fifty were the few strands of silver in her hair and a few faint lines on her face.

She also seemed to be on her best behavior. She didn't make demands, said please and thank you, didn't brush off any of the soldiers who approached her on the base from which they had left the States or the one in Germany where they had stopped and taken on other troops. She hadn't complained about travelling by military transport, either. This woman was far more like her daughter than the woman he was used to, and he could almost like her.

After three days, he really did like this Ariel Taylor. Maybe he was unduly influenced by her obvious concern for her daughter when Riah had been shot, or maybe it was the way she had given him time with Riah while they had waited for her to recover. Whatever it was, he appreciated that she hadn't tried to ditch him or the others assigned to protect her, behavior for which she was notorious and which made drawing an assignment on her security detail a painful and sometimes career-ending experience. Mostly, it was a job given to agents whose supervisors thought they needed either punishment or humbling. This time, though, she did everything she was told to do when she was told to do it, but most of all, she mixed with the troops and seemed to take a genuine interest in them. She posed for what seemed an endless series of photographs, signed who knew how many autographs, and laughed when one of the sergeants stole a kiss. The Ariel Taylor he was used to made demands, refused to acknowledge anyone she didn't think worth cultivating, and would never have put up with that sergeant kissing her.

During her rehearsals and shows, she was easy with the musicians, some of whom were more than a little star struck. She was complimentary about their skills, polite when she needed them do something differently. Casey began to wonder if she'd undergone a personality transplant. He wondered even more, looking at her as they rode through the city in an armored vehicle back to where she was quartered. She shot him a look, and he saw amusement curve her lips. "Not what you expected, am I, Major?"

Casey snorted and looked away. No, she certainly wasn't. The last time he'd had to do this particular detail, she had tried to ditch him at every turn, verbally abused him, and been, basically, the Queen Bitch from Hell. When he thought about it, though, her attitude change had started when Riah was in the hospital in Ottawa a few months earlier. That had been the first time he'd been in her company without her sniping at him—and him sniping back. He didn't count Chicago where they had, essentially, exchanged words even though there had been no outright warfare.

When they left Iraq, he had orders to follow her to London, see that she got safely home. The real reason was that he was to check in with an agent there and hand off part of the information he had gotten from an old contact while Ariel played her last show. He would deliver the more sensitive material in person to General Beckman when he returned to the States. They moved to Ariel's private jet in Germany, and he stretched out and went to sleep during the flight. She could take that how she wished.

They deplaned, and he handed his bag to her driver. Casey was looking forward to a real shower, maybe a soak in the tub, civilian clothes, good scotch, and a fine steak dinner. He also looked forward to about ten hours of sleep before he returned to the States.

As the driver took them through traffic, Ariel said, "Thank you, Casey."

He shot her a surprised look, one brow arched. That was also out of character for Ariel. She didn't usually thank people. "Just doing my job."

She gave him a wry smile. "Not exactly. I'm well aware this isn't your usual gig. I believe this is usually your punishment." It was her turn to arch a brow. He said nothing. "What was your transgression this time?"

He grunted. "Don't make assumptions. You were a means to an end." That was more than he should have said. She had been the partner of a spy, but no matter how hard people had pried, she had never betrayed Adderly. He hoped that idea of protection would carry over to him since she seemed to like him better than she had in the past.

She nodded. "It isn't the first time," she said softly. "Listen, let me feed you tonight. It's the least I can do."

A trap yawned before him, but he couldn't quite figure out exactly what it might be. She'd been easy to get along with this time, and she was a partner in one of the best restaurants in London. Why not? He decided. Maybe she really did want to thank him and not, as he feared, grill him about Riah or harangue him over her daughter. "Alright," he said cautiously.

The car glided to a stop at his hotel, and she said, "Nigel here will pick you up. Seven alright?"

He agreed, and Nigel got out to get his bags for him.

Casey sat in the tub later with a glass of single malt. He had dropped his bags, changed, made his other drop and returned to the hotel to relax. He should have told Ariel he'd find his own way there, he realized. Then he'd know what to expect. He still wasn't certain she didn't intend to ambush him over Riah, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that.

He had a suit with him, and he put it on without the tie before going downstairs to meet Nigel. Casey didn't want to sit in the back, and Nigel didn't bat an eye when he took the front passenger seat. It was quickly clear they were headed to a residential area, which Nigel confirmed when he asked. Apparently, she was bringing him to her home. Casey didn't like that one bit, but it was a little too late to complain.

After what she'd done for the troops, he supposed he could take whatever she had to say about how she felt he'd treated her daughter. He was certain she intended to dress him down for Riah, or she would have taken him somewhere public. As he followed Nigel inside, he braced himself, and then he heard Ariel call, "In here." Nigel pointed the way before retreating. She was in the kitchen, cooking. He stood in the doorway, surprised. "Probably thought I couldn't boil water," she said with a laugh. "Kitchen liquor cabinet is there," she said, pointing at a sideboard with her wooden spoon. "Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. Help yourself."

He poured a healthy measure of single malt, pleased to see she apparently still drank the same thing he did. He asked if she wanted something, but she shook her head, picked up a glass of red wine. She told him to join her, and he slid onto one of the barstools on the other side of the counter from where she worked.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, more to break the silence than anything.

"Beef bourguignon," she said. "Noodles or rice?" He blinked at her a moment, not entirely sure what she asked. "Mariah prefers rice, but Emma always liked noodles better. Well, Emma did when she still ate meat."

Casey told her he didn't care, and she measured water and put rice on to cook. The smell of the bourguignon was incredible, and his mouth watered. It was easy to see where Riah got her love of cooking. He sipped his scotch and desperately hoped they wouldn't spend the night talking about Ariel's oldest daughter.

Ariel seemed to know what he was thinking, for she gave him a smile that was damned close to a smirk. She prepped what looked like fresh green beans, though where she found them in December he couldn't imagine, and said, "I love both my daughters. I've not been the best mother in the world, but if you think I'm going to pretend Mariah doesn't exist to spare your delicate feelings, you've got another think coming."

He made his fingers relax where he gripped his glass. He told himself not to say anything, not to do anything that might encourage her to start in. She took pity on him and began regaling him with a story about the very first USO show she had done, and he began to relax again.

She asked him to set the table for her and gestured for him to go to the kitchen table where the plates and cutlery rested, explained to him that the dining room seated eighteen, and she'd rather be in the kitchen. He helped her carry the food to the table, and she asked if he'd like a glass of wine or something else with his dinner. He agreed to the wine, and she retrieved a glass for him and poured some of the burgundy she'd used to cook with. He could hear Riah in his head, could hear what she had said to him after he had been startled by her cooking with a fine wine: If it isn't worth drinking, it isn't worth cooking with. Clearly her mother thought the same.

At first their conversation was about the food, which Casey had to acknowledge was exceptionally good. He wondered how many people knew she could cook. She once more seemed to know what he was thinking, for she told him about her Sunday dinners. He remembered, as she explained, Riah telling him this about her mother. When she was in London, Ariel told him, she cooked on Sundays for a carefully selected group of friends. She had always loved cooking, and she'd been quite pleased when Mariah had fallen in love with it as well. For a moment, her face clouded over, and she said, "I had hoped her love of cooking would keep her from following in her father's footsteps, but . . . ." She shrugged as her voice trailed off. "She would have been so much better off," she added, seemingly as an afterthought.

He was suddenly not hungry any more. He put down his fork and picked up his glass, drained the wine left in it. He agreed with her whole-heartedly. Riah's career had nearly killed her more than once. She would have been better off, and she would never have met him. As Ariel refilled his glass, he wondered if he would have been better off.

Ariel sat back and studied him. "This, by the way, is the part where we're going to talk about Mariah."

Casey shot a glare at her.

"You can look at me like that all you want, Major, but we are going to have this discussion." She was clearly determined, and he knew she was more than capable of facing him down. "As I said earlier, I love my daughter. Like any mother, I want what's best for her, and I can't say I'm very happy about how you've treated her."

He set his jaw and refused to respond.

Ariel smiled at him, but it was not a nice smile. "Ah. The strong silent type. I suppose you figure that if you sit there and say nothing, I'll give up and send you on your way." She took a sip of her wine. "You're sadly mistaken, Casey." She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward, folded her arms on the table before her. "I'm not her father, and you and I have never been friends, Major. I don't intend to pull punches here, so if you choose not to defend yourself, that's alright by me." Her brow shot up, and he received her message loud and clear.

"I think I can take it," he grunted.

"Ironically, Major, I hope so," she said. She began calmly, telling him honestly what she thought of his behavior. She began with her hopes that Mariah would settle down with Gray Laurance, but, she admitted, she had been wrong about the other man and felt she owed Casey for getting Gray to show his true colors—though she wasn't happy about how, as she put it, he had used Mariah to do it. She moved on to his trip to Chicago on Riah's birthday. "That one, I can't quite figure out," she said. "Perhaps you can explain to me why, when it wasn't necessary for your cover— " He started to protest, but she held up a pre-emptive hand, palm-forward, and explained, "V. H. told me—you actually came to Chicago, took her to dinner, and bought her something she loves for a present?"

He thought about not answering her. Then he thought about giving her an answer that would insult her, something along the lines of wanting Riah to have a nice birthday for a change, but he settled for the truth: "Because I wanted to."

Ariel sat back and studied him solemnly. "That begs the question of why."

Casey looked away, studied their reflections in the dark window. "I like Riah," he said at last. "I wanted to make her happy."

"So becoming her lover and then vanishing without a single word was supposed to do what, exactly?" There was a sharp edge to her voice, and when he looked at her, her face was set in angry lines. He remained silent. He had no answer for that, and if he was going to have to defend his actions, Ariel Taylor wasn't the one to whom he needed to do so. When she realized he wouldn't answer, she added, "Not to mention leaving her pregnant."

"I didn't know, and you know that," he snapped out before he could think better of it. She raised a brow, sat back in her chair, and crossed her arms over her chest. It was true, and he knew damned well Emma had told her so when Riah was shot in Ottawa a few months back. Still, he felt the color run up his face. "Not until it was too late," he amended tightly.

"Fair enough," she said grudgingly. "I confess, and I've had my rounds of guilt for it, I felt a little bit of relief when she miscarried. She was a complete mess when she found out she was pregnant, worse when she miscarried, and I've wondered if that contributed to the disaster when she went back to Canada for mandatory training." She sighed. "I suppose I owe you her life as well. V. H. says that if you hadn't gotten to her as quickly as you did, she would have likely bled out."

He went pale thinking of that day she'd been shot by a member of her own team during a training mission. He still woke in a cold sweat from nightmares where she was dead by the time he got to her, nightmares where she died in his arms. He could still hear her faint, breathy voice as he'd held her, tried to staunch her wounds, and pled with her to hold on, to stay with him: Miss . . . you . . . . Love . . . you. He closed his eyes and sucked in an unsteady breath.

"She thinks she hallucinated you," Ariel said in a soft, quiet voice, splashing more wine in his glass. "She thinks you weren't really there, that she somehow imagined you were."

He reached out and picked up his wineglass. It had taken a while for him to figure that out, but he'd finally realized it. "I had to be somewhere else. I couldn't stay until she was awake again."

Ariel nodded. "So V. H. told me—and I saw the MPs Diane Beckman sent after you. So what about after your assignment? You haven't seen her, you haven't called her to see how she is, you haven't, in fact, done anything."

Casey sighed. There was no easy way to say it. "It was too late."

"Excuse me?" Ariel sounded more angry than incredulous, which, given the subject, didn't particularly surprise Casey. She leaned forward and once more folded her arms on the table. "Mariah was—is—still in your apartment covering your ass, and your only answer is it's too late?"

He clamped his jaw shut. This was going nowhere, nor was it going to go anywhere. He was going to take his verbal beating from Riah's mother—God knew he deserved it—but what was done was done, and there was no way back.

"Tell me, Casey," she said after letting the silence stretch for an uncomfortably long time, "do you feel anything at all for my daughter?"

Casey swallowed, but he didn't answer. He wasn't about to hand her the information for which she fished. Yes, he did feel something for Riah, but he wasn't ready to tell her mother so.

After a long moment, she nodded and pushed back from the table. "I'll call Nigel. He'll return you to your hotel." Ariel stood and looked grimly down at him a moment. "Thank you for the last week."

He watched her go to a wall phone, listened to her tell Nigel that "Major Casey is ready to leave." When she hung up, she walked back to the table and began to gather the dirty dishes, carried them to the sink. Casey picked up his share and followed her.

The whole time they cleared the table and waited for Nigel to make his reappearance, Casey warred with himself. Finally, he set his wineglass next to the sink and quietly said, "I love her."

Ariel caught his arm before he could move away. "Then for God's sake tell her."

Nigel's return spared him having to answer. Casey thanked her for dinner, said good night, and followed the other man to the car. What he hadn't been prepared for was the man to weigh in just as they pulled up to his hotel. "Miss Mariah did not deserve what you did."

Casey had been halfway out the car when Nigel said that. He leaned down and looked in the open door. "No, she didn't."

Nigel nodded, having apparently had his say, and motioned for Casey to close the door.

Casey had trouble sleeping. It wasn't the first time in his life, and it wouldn't be the last. Around four, he finally gave up even trying. He had spent most of the night rehashing his time with Riah, dissecting and evaluating what had happened between them. The question before him was whether or not Riah would listen to him—assuming he could get up the nerve to even face her. For all he knew, she'd slam the door in his face if he went back, and he'd deserve it, too.

In the very early hours of the morning he prepared to leave England for Washington. It was nearly Christmas, and he had a meeting for the following day with General Beckman. He would be briefed on his next assignment at that time, and then he would have four days to spend with his family before shipping out. He hadn't been home for Christmas in six years, and while he had looked forward to it, he now wondered how he might dice his leave up to get in a visit to Riah. It might be weak of him, but the desire to see her was strong.

His plans changed at the last minute. He was met at the airport by an NSA agent and told he was to go to New York first. He was handed orders for a fast collection job and a new plane ticket. He would have several hours in New York to see he had the time to meet the agent who had further information for Beckman. It irritated Casey to be what V. H. had always called a mailman, but he did it, glad at least that the other agent was where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be. Having made the pickup, he strolled down Fifth Avenue rather than take a cab immediately back to the local bureau's office and then the airport. He wanted to be outside a while and kill a little time. He had stashed his bags with the local bureau before going out to the meet, and he'd have to leave enough time to swing by and get them. He finished his Christmas shopping for his family, and as he walked past Tiffany's, he paused.

A few months earlier, he had found himself briefly in Antwerp. After he'd taken the escaped Afghani warlord with Al Qaeda ties into custody and had turned him over to the local CIA bureau chief—sometimes he wished they would quit letting the CIA boys have all the interrogation fun—he had found himself at loose ends for twenty-eight hours. He'd been walking through a shopping district on his way to a restaurant he'd always liked and had seen a pair of earrings in a shop window. Despite the fact that they were diamonds, he'd bought them for Riah. The salesman had convinced him to take the matching pendant as well, and he'd carried them in his bags since. Occasionally, he would find the package and think he ought to give it to one of his sisters. Other times, he thought they would never make up for what he'd put Riah through—assuming he saw her again, that was.

Now, standing outside Tiffany's, he eyed the window display and the piece that had caught his attention: an engagement ring, platinum with an emerald cut diamond flanked by two baguettes. His lips twitched as he stood there, remembered what she had said in Banff.

Afterward, he was never really sure why he had gone inside. He was even less sure why he told the smiling saleswoman he was interested in the ring in the window. At the possibility of making that kind of sale, she was a lot more friendly than she had been when he first approached her, and as she brought him the ring, he thought this could be a very expensive way to find out Riah didn't love him. When the saleswoman handed it to him, he almost told her no thanks, told himself he should do that and leave, but then he heard himself give the woman Riah's ring size and ask if they had one that would fit her.

God must be laughing at him, he decided, when the saleswoman told him he was holding the right size. Riah had said she didn't like diamonds, and he was an idiot if he spent the kind of money what he held would probably cost for something she had already told him she wouldn't want. If he was really going to do this, he ought to look at stones he knew she liked, but he liked the ring he held. He suspected, despite her protests, Riah would as well.

Casey had never spent a lot of his pay. He paid his mortgage, but the house in Maryland was paid for as of eight months ago, not that he spent much time there anymore, and he bought the occasional car over the years. He had a moment of mourning for the Crown Vic he had let Chuck murder to save them the year before. He didn't spend a lot on clothes, especially since he had spent most of his adult life in uniform. Most of what he spent was on his personal arsenal, but even that was not that much. He could afford this, even after the dent he'd made when he bought the earrings and necklace for Riah. Before he could change his mind, he handed the ring back to the saleswoman and fished for his wallet. "I'll take it."

He felt a little faint when he saw the total on the credit card slip. He'd bought cars that cost less than this, including the murdered Crown Victoria and its replacement. He signed his name and put his credit card back in his wallet.

As he rode in the taxi to JFK, he nearly told the driver to take him back to Tiffany's so he could return the ring. He had no idea when he might see Riah again, and he had no guarantees that if he asked her she would say yes. He supposed he had more reason to expect her to shoot him on sight.

His flight to Washington was uneventful, and Beckman sent an agent to escort him. After he picked up his bags, he got in the front passenger seat of yet another dark SUV and let the other man drive him to headquarters. They talked a bit, mostly about people they knew, and when they arrived, Casey once more picked up his bags, stashed them in his office, and made his way to Beckman's.

After Casey was debriefed, he was given his orders. He stayed at his house that night. He had another series of meetings with Beckman and others who would provide support for his mission, and then he began his leave. He was due back two days after Christmas to prepare for a mission to Gaza.

He'd caught a news story about the growing unrest while he was in his London hotel, and he learned from his briefing that apparently an overture had been made by the Palestinians to the Americans through back channels. Because the U.S. supported Israel, they had been rebuffed, but an old ally had quietly gotten word to Beckman that it would be worth the NSA's time to send someone to Gaza City as soon as possible, that the Americans would find it very worthwhile to talk to them. He knew the man who had contacted them, had worked with him in the past, and, as a result, Beckman was sending him to meet the Palestinian. Casey knew it could be a trap, but if what the man hinted was true, then it would be worthwhile to hear him out.

After some debate, Casey rented a car for the nearly three-hour drive to his mother's. That way he wouldn't have to find a way to get his car home when he left for Gaza. He pulled into his mother's driveway shortly after eight p.m.

His mother was not alone. His youngest sister, Julie, was there as well. After he'd hugged both women and taken his bags upstairs, he went down to his mother's kitchen. He hadn't eaten, knowing his mother would insist on feeding him, and she sat him at the table and bustled around him. He gave his sister a hard time. She was the only one besides him who wasn't married, and he grilled her about her current boyfriend. He hadn't thought it through, though. It was just what he always did, but he had forgotten her end of it—giving back as good as she got. This time, though, he noticed she was deflecting a lot of what he said, and he suspected she'd broken up with this Dan, whoever he was, and didn't want to admit it to their mother yet.

"And what about you?" Julie asked, lifting a brow as she forked romaine out of her Caesar salad. "Been off romancing any foreign femmes fatales?"

Riah popped immediately into his head. He could feel the color run up under his skin. His voice was gruff as he stabbed at his salad and gave her a curt, "No."

Julie snorted, and he could tell she didn't believe him. "Let me guess," she taunted. "Brunette?"

He shot her a glare.

"Okay, redhead."

He amped up the glare to what Riah called his Death Glare.

Julie wasn't intimidated. "You've never really gone for blondes before, Johnny," she said with a broad grin. "This one must be different."

He turned his attention to the lasagna his mother sat in front of him and ignored her.

If he'd thought refusing to engage would dissuade his sister, he should have known better. "I'll bet she's one of those empty-headed California beach bunnies whose breast measurement is higher than her IQ. You're about the right age for a middle-aged crisis."

Casey put his fork down and said tersely, "I am not having a mid-life crisis, Julie. There's no blonde bimbo." He hadn't lied. He made it a policy not to lie to his family, even when he couldn't tell them the truth. In those cases, he simply didn't answer. As a result, they knew he had been in California, had more recently been overseas, for the job. Beyond that, they knew nothing. Riah might be blonde, but she was no bimbo. And her IQ was certainly far larger than her bra size. "Besides," he grunted, "I'm not the only one at this table old enough to be having a mid-life crisis."

"Don't know about you, Johnny," she shot back with a grin, "but I plan to be like the other women in this family and live well past eighty-two, so I think the midpoint in my life is a ways away."

Their mother decided to intervene then, "Eat. Both of you." When their mother used that tone, they knew to do as they were told.

Julie left after they finished eating, told their mother she'd be back the next day, explained to Casey that she had to work in the morning but had the afternoon off. She gave him a hug and told him it was about time he made it back for Christmas and left. He helped his mother clean the kitchen, felt a little guilty for being distracted. He couldn't help wondering what Riah was doing the next day, Christmas Eve. Was she expecting family the day after, or did she also have some time off? He hoped she'd spend Christmas day with Ellie if she was in Los Angeles alone. Ellie Bartowski generally took in strays at the holidays, as he well knew, and he knew the other woman would watch out for her.

He also wondered whether Riah would be thinking about the baby she had lost. It had been nearly four months since she miscarried. He didn't know how far along she had been when that happened since he could hardly ask without raising red flags all over the place. Her family knew she had been pregnant, but he didn't know who else had known.

"Johnny?" his mother's voice sliced sharply through his thoughts, and he realized she had said it more than once. He took the pan she held toward him and dried it, put it away, and forced himself to pay attention to his mother rather than think about a woman three thousand miles away.

Casey sat at the table a while when they had finished the dishes and policed the kitchen. His mother knew he couldn't talk about his job, but she had learned over the years what she could ask, so he told her he'd been out of the country for most of the past five months. She asked if he was going back to California, and he told her not for the foreseeable future. She frowned but said nothing. "You're different, Johnny," she said at last.

He looked up at her. His mother was different, too. She seemed to have shrunk a little since the last time he saw her. That had been a little over two years ago while he packed to leave yet again. Her snowy hair was neatly cut and styled, and she was still a good-looking woman. Like Riah, she appeared quite a bit younger than she actually was. He saw something different this time, though, saw that the years were finally beginning to catch up with her. He had noticed, too, that the iron fist was more velvet glove these days, unless she had been going easy on him because it was the first time he'd been home in a long time. He felt a little guilty for not having been around more, for not making time to visit when he had leave. "Different how?" he asked.

She tilted her head to the side. Her intelligent eyes dissected him, and for once he didn't have the urge to squirm. That look when he was younger had generally made him crack and spill everything he knew. This time, he thought, it didn't have quite the effect it used to. He wasn't sure if that was because he'd changed, as she alleged, or because she wasn't putting quite the effort into intimidating him into submission as she had before. "Just different," she said, and Casey was confused. It wasn't like her to back down from a line of inquiry, but that was what she appeared to be doing. She moved on to talk about his other two sisters and their families. She talked about his nieces and nephews, and Casey's thoughts turned again to Riah and the child she'd lost. Would it have been a boy or a girl? Would it have looked like Riah or like him—or like both of them?

He was tempted to tell his mother, tell her she might have had another grandchild to spoil rotten, but he couldn't. To tell her was to rip the scab off the wound, and he wasn't ready to do that yet. He also knew his mother well enough to know she wouldn't be satisfied until he had told her every little detail, including what he derided to Bartowski as his "lady feelings." There was nothing ladylike about what he felt for Riah, though. It was dark, deep, strong, hungry.

"Johnny?"

His mother's sharp voice called his attention back to her, and he caught the question in her gaze. He'd been in his own world again. He sat up a little straighter and vowed not to get distracted again. He pushed all thoughts of Riah and what would never be out and focused on his mother. After another hour, tiredness began to wash over him. His mother noticed and sent him off to bed.

She hadn't made many changes in his old room. His old furniture was still there, and if he opened the drawers in the dresser, he was certain he would find a few clothes from his college days, clothes he'd left when he went off to join the Marines. His bags were still on the spare twin bed. He unzipped the larger of the two and fished out pajamas. He would do what unpacking might be necessary in the morning. He unzipped the smaller one and found his shaving kit. The presents he'd brought for his family were in that bag, and he'd take them downstairs in the morning. Riah's ring was in his briefcase, and so were the earrings and necklace he'd bought months ago. He dropped the shaving kit on the pajamas and put the briefcase on his old desk. He popped the locks and opened it, lifted the ring box from inside. When he opened it, the diamonds caught the lamplight and sparkled.

He thought about what Riah had said, how they were cold, but these had fire in them, much like Riah herself. He snapped the box shut and set it on the desk. He was unlikely to have an opportunity to offer it to her. He supposed he could ship the earrings and necklace to her, maybe for her birthday. He'd think about returning the ring when he next got to New York.

Surprisingly, given how tired he was, he didn't sleep much. He couldn't get comfortable, and he kept thinking about what a mess he'd made of his personal life. He should have known better. As had been pointed out to him time and time again, men like him, men who did what he did, rarely got the opportunities other men got. Paul Patterson had tried—even Bartowski had tried—to convince him it was possible to have a woman he loved and do his job, but he couldn't. Even if he could, he had ruined his chance with the woman he wanted.

It was funny how he had only briefly thought of marrying Ilsa, but he couldn't get the idea of marrying Riah completely out of his head. Ilsa would have been better suited to him. After all, she was a hardened spy, knew what the risks were and was ruthless enough to do what needed to be done. Casey had often wondered why the softer-hearted Riah persisted in their business, especially when she had had more pain from it than joy. Not that he had found much happiness in his line of work. Satisfaction, yes, but happiness, no.

He refused to think of Kathleen.

Tomorrow—today—he'd have to see his two happily married sisters with their husbands and their children, and for the first time, he would envy them. He would be jealous that they had what he never could, what he now knew he wanted himself.

He flopped over on his other side and tried to settle in and sleep. He sometimes had holidays where he was depressed—miles from home and miles from anyone he knew and loved and unable to call and even say a quick hello—but this one was different. He ached to take his bags and get on a plane and go to her, but he couldn't disappoint his family. He hadn't seen them for a holiday in six years, after all, and Riah wasn't expecting him home as they were. Home. Los Angeles wasn't home, but Riah was. He sighed, determined to sleep. The coming day was Christmas Eve. Maybe he could call her late in the evening, wish her a merry Christmas, he thought as he finally started to drift off, but he was fairly certain he wouldn't.

Awake early, Casey rolled on his back and stared at the shadowed ceiling above him. It would be dawn soon. He should get up and go for a run, but he didn't feel like it. He lay there a while longer, thought about the things he had the night before and analyzed whether the past few hours had changed any of what he thought or felt. So much for the idea of sleeping on something, he thought in disgust. He was no clearer on what he wanted to do than he'd been the night before, and he was no closer to how—or even whether—to approach Riah.

Casey rolled out of bed. He could hear his mother downstairs, so he showered, dressed before he joined her in the kitchen. She had begun preparations for Christmas dinner the following day, and he sat and absorbed caffeine while she made pie crust. When she had two pumpkin pies ready and had put them in the oven, she poured herself more coffee and sat opposite him. She gave him a steely-eyed look and said, "Under other circumstances, I wouldn't rush you, Johnny, but there isn't much time, and I think you should tell me what's bothering you."

He grimaced. Trust his mother to figure out his distraction meant something was wrong. "Mother," he said, but before he could tell her he didn't want to talk about it, she reached across the scarred table and covered his hand.

"John, something's wrong, and you might as well tell me what it is." She gave him a grim look. "You know damn well I'll worm it out of you, so you might as well give in."

She would, too, he thought ruefully. He stared into his coffee cup, wondered if he could find a way to get a reprieve. After a moment, he decided he might as well get it over with. "There's . . . a girl—woman," he said softly.

His mother's mouth twitched. "There usually is," she said wryly.

"This one's different," he said. He knew she was thinking of how he had made a mess of virtually every romantic entanglement he'd ever had. He hadn't talked about women much, not since high school, anyway, especially not after Kathleen, although his mother had wormed out the story of him and Ilsa, too, after he'd thought the other woman was dead. He hadn't known Ilsa was a spy then, and for a brief moment he considered a bait and switch—feed her Ilsa as spy rather than Riah.

"How different?" she asked as she released his hand, cradled her coffee cup between her palms, and sat back.

He ran a finger along a scratch on the table's old, battered surface. He tried to figure out a way to tell her about Riah without telling her what he couldn't. "Very," he said at last. "I met her through the job." His mother, despite official policy, knew what he did for a living, but she knew not to ask too many questions. "She's the daughter of an old friend."

His mother looked grave. "How young is she, Johnny?"

Casey grimaced. "Honestly? Young enough to be my daughter." His mother looked shocked, so he added, "Riah's seventeen years younger than I am, Mom. She's twenty-nine."

"Not so young," she observed.

He shook his head. "We were living together before I went overseas." It took him a moment to look up at her because he knew she didn't approve of unmarried couples living together. She'd made that crystal clear when his oldest sister moved in with the man she eventually married while they were in college.

"I see," she said, and Casey could tell she was trying not to say anything that might make him angry or make him stop talking. "Do you mind if I ask why you aren't with her? Or why she isn't here with you?"

This was going to be the tricky part, and he wasn't looking forward to what his mother might say. "I don't think she wants to talk to me."

His mother frowned. "Surely you explained about your job," she said at last.

"It's not that simple," he said and registered his mother's surprise. "Riah thinks I left without telling her." She looked a bit confused by that, so he clarified: "A little more than five months ago." She said nothing to that, but the look she gave him spoke volumes. "I left a note for her, but she didn't get it." He stared once more at his cup and disliked how defensive he sounded. "I called her once, but there wasn't time to really talk to her since I was getting on a chopper. She knows what I do, and she seemed to take it pretty well."

"I'm hearing a really big 'but' there, Johnny."

It was a really big but, he knew. He decided to just get it out there and deal with his mother's wrath afterward. "She was pregnant, Mom, but she didn't tell me. She," he stopped and sucked in a ragged breath, concentrated on that scratch in the table his finger continued to trace, "she miscarried. She didn't tell me that, either. I only found out because she was nearly killed about three months ago, and her sister told me in the hospital."

"Nearly killed?" his mother squeaked faintly.

He still hadn't looked at her. He nodded, though. "Riah works for ISI." He looked up then. "That's a—"

"I know what ISI is," she said, and Casey realized he shouldn't have been surprised she had heard of the foreign agency. "So you went to see her when she was . . . ?"

"I was there when it happened," he said, and quickly explained about evaluating the training mission and how Riah had been shot by the sniper Faraday. He had to stop a minute before he could continue. "She nearly bled to death." He swallowed thickly. "I had to return to my job before she . . . . I don't think she even knew I was there. Her mother says she thinks she hallucinated me."

"Her mother."

He could tell his own mother was trying to figure out what kind of mess her son had made of his life, and he knew there were gaps in his story, knew it was coming out in a tangled mess, but there were just some things he wasn't sure he was ready to tell her. He nodded. "Her mother is Ariel Taylor."

"The singer? The one you describe—when you're trying to be polite—as a royal pain in the ass?" Casey nodded. "And you've talked to her mother but not to her?"

Nodding once more, Casey said, "They sent me as part of Ariel's protection detail when she played Iraq for the USO last week."

His mother sighed and then said, "Johnny." He reluctantly met her eyes. "Do you love this Riah?"

For a moment, he considered denying it. He'd only said it three times, none of which had been to Riah herself. It seemed wrong to keep telling other people when he hadn't told the woman herself how he felt. His mother's gaze compelled him to admit it. He nodded. "Yes. I do."

To his surprise, she snorted, smiled, and said, "Remember those words." He frowned as she stood, took his cup and poured his cold coffee down the drain before refilling his cup and hers. She set his fresh coffee in front of him and resumed her seat. "What's she like?"

This was easy, and the words poured out. He told his mother about Riah, about her intelligence, about how well she thought under pressure, about how she could be surprisingly brave, and he explained about her vulnerabilities. He found himself telling her about the darker pieces of Riah's past, about what had happened when she was seven and in vague terms about Gray Laurance and what the other man had put her through. He told his mother Riah had reasons for her fragility, but she generally won out over them. Casey didn't want his mother to think she was mentally unstable, though he had to concede that she sometimes was. He told his mother she was loyal, that when she loved, she did so unconditionally, a fact he knew from watching her relationships with her family. Suddenly self-conscious, he stopped.

His mother had an odd expression when he looked up. She gave him a small smile. "What does she look like?"

For a moment he looked for the words to describe Riah, but they failed him. He suspected his mother was trying to distract him from the things he'd just told her. He snorted. "Julie had one thing right: she's blonde." He went on to try and describe Riah, but it came out more like the sort of description he would read on an elimination order. Then he remembered the picture he'd carried with him since he left her. He told his mother he had a photograph, and she followed him upstairs. The frame had been broken the month before, but he hadn't had a chance to replace it. As a result, it was tucked between the pages of a field manual he fished out of his briefcase. He looked at it a moment, stared at Riah's face, and then handed it over to his mother.

Casey felt anxious as his mother looked at the photograph closely. She asked, "How old is this?"

He shrugged. "Six months or so."

She held the photograph out to him. "She looks very young." He nodded and took it back, slid it inside the field manual again. When he looked up, he realized his mother was reaching for the small box on the edge of the desk. He knew better than to stop her before she opened it. "Oh, Johnny." She sounded sad, and that made him even more uneasy than he'd already been over telling her about Riah. "You're serious about her, aren't you?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything.

"You need to go," she said. She looked up at him. "If you love her, you need to go and find out if she feels the same way you do, and you need to do it before it really is too late." She closed the ring box and handed it to him. "See if you can find a flight."

"This is the first Christmas I've been home—"

She cut him off. "I'm not getting any younger, and neither are you. All I've wanted is for you to be happy. I didn't raise a coward. If you love her, go. We'll survive without you." Casey started to argue, but then he realized she was giving him permission to do what he wanted to do anyway. He kissed his mother's cheek, and she hugged him tightly. "Now. See if you can still get on a plane before your leave is over."

As he waited for his laptop to boot and connect to the Internet, he tried not to think too closely about what he was doing. He'd start with commercial flights. A commercial flight meant fewer problems than pulling strings for a government transport. One thing he knew was that getting to marry Riah wasn't just a matter of his asking and her saying yes—assuming she said yes. His agency would have a few things to say, primarily because of who she was and what she did for a living. He felt a shiver race down his spine as he thought of her father and what objections he might raise. He surfed the travel sites, frowned. Finally, he found a seat on a flight leaving that night and a return flight that would get him back in time for his meeting with Beckman. He booked the seats before he could change his mind.

When he went downstairs to tell his mother, she looked over her shoulder and asked when he was leaving. He told her, and she nodded. "I called your sisters and told them you had to leave—but not why—and that we were moving Christmas up a day."

He lent her a hand in the kitchen, and when the rest of his family arrived and began asking him why he was leaving early, it was his mother who answered, told them he had an important mission. Casey refused to tell them what it was, knew he'd never hear the end of it. He didn't want to tell them because Riah could say no, and if she did, he wouldn't be able to bear it, let alone have his family do what they did best—try to make it right.

Dinner wasn't quite the leisurely affair it usually was, in part because he was leaving and in part because they were all trying to cram events that normally took a day into a handful of hours. He felt guilty for spoiling their holiday, but no one seemed to mind. Certainly the kids were happy to get to their presents earlier than they usually would. He had one bad moment not long before dinner when Julie cornered him in the hallway and demanded to know what was going on. She reminded him of Emma MacKenzie, and suddenly Casey realized he'd booked a flight to Los Angeles but Riah might not even be there. As soon as he escaped, he went up to his room and called Emma.

There was a moment after he identified himself when he was thankful Riah's sister was several hundred miles away. Once he explained why he was calling her, rapidly because he thought she might hang up on him since she sounded pissed off, Emma told him Riah was still in Los Angeles. Riah hadn't been able to get time off, she explained, and Emma didn't mince words about that. She finally thought to ask why he wanted to know. He hesitated, and that was enough for her to say, "I can't say she'll be too happy to see you because she's really, really angry about your disappearing act, so you're going to have a very hard time getting her to talk to you." She snorted. "I'm not even sure she'll let you in the door, but if she does, I think she'll forgive you if you're patient enough to let her ream you out first."

He snorted. Trust Emma to once more figure out what he was up to where her sister was concerned. "You know, Casey," she continued, "I feel like I should tell you that if you ever do anything like that to my sister again, you won't have to worry about what V. H. might do to you. You'd better worry about what I'll do to you."

"Emma," he said, "I promise I'll never willingly hurt her again."

She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a grunt. "Part of me wonders how much to trust a spy's promise, but I saw you in Ottawa, and it's Christmas, so I'll take it on faith. Just tell her good bye when you finally have to go."

"I will," he promised. "Thanks, Emma."

When he hung up and left the room, two of his sisters stood outside his door with crossed arms. Julie asked, "Who's Emma?" and Jenn, his middle sister, asked, "More importantly, who's Riah?"

His mother called them down to dinner, and from that point on, they were too busy to follow up on their questions, questions he hadn't answered. Dinner took longer than usual, or maybe it was just his imagination since he was increasingly focused on the clock, and he was getting antsy. He bore it, and he felt guilty for wishing he could just leave and go to Riah. He watched his nieces and nephews open their presents, opened his own, and wished time would move faster. His mother noticed and nodded at him at last.

He stood and told them he had to leave to catch his flight. They made noises about how unfair it was, but he managed not to say anything that confirmed or denied his mother's story. He hugged the kids, shook hands with his brothers-in-law, and kissed his sisters. His mother walked him out, and after he'd put his bags in the trunk of the rental car, she reached up and hugged him before she kissed both his cheeks. "I love you, Johnny."

"I love you, too, Mother."

She hugged him again. "Now get me a daughter-in-law for Christmas."