Bernadette lifted her chin, giving him a good dose of haughty arrogance.
Yeah, he’d pissed her off.
A few seconds passed while she thought it through. Eventually, she stood and looked down at them. “Fine. I’ll give you whatever assistance you need. We have nothing to hide.”
* * *
Way opened his front door and Roni stepped into the living room, setting the banker’s box on the floor next to the sofa.
“Coming through,” he said from behind her.
She scooted sideways as he dropped two other boxes beside the one she’d carried in from his car. Three boxes. That’s what Bernadette had given them. Whether they’d find anything of use in those boxes remained to be seen.
“Have a seat.”
He waved her to the giant L-shaped sectional with cushions wide enough for King Kong. In terms of furnishings, he didn’t keep much in this room. Only the sectional, a coffee table, and a giant wall-mounted television. Stacked on the coffee table were three books, Fahrenheit 451, Jurassic Park, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. An interesting mix, no doubt.
Beside the books, two remotes sat by side. Everything at perfectly straight angles.
Beyond the living room, the dining room held what looked like a hand-carved table with sturdy legs and squared off chairs.
Everything in Way’s home seemed neat. Tidy.
Orderly.
Something she’d taken note of in his workshop, but a man’s business could often be different from his home. She plopped down, let her body sink deep, and nearly let out a sigh. All these routine interruptions wore on her, slowing her down.
Closing her eyes wouldn’t be a bad idea. Just a few minutes might help.
But…Jeff.
She sat up, ready to get to work.
Way pointed at the boxes. “How do you want to do this? You take a box and I’ll take one?”
“That would be the fastest. Maybe pull out anything that looks odd and we’ll review it together.”
“It’s almost dinnertime. Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“All right. Give me a half hour notice and I’ll make something.”
Neat.
Tidy.
Cooks.
She thought back to teasing Maggie about landing the perfect man at the Kingston family dinner. Well, Way would give Jayson Tucker a run for his money.
“I can’t cook,” she blurted.
Way grinned. “And you’re telling me this why?”
“Probably because I’m envious of anyone who can prepare a meal without poisoning people?”
He shrugged. “My mom poisons people. She made this eggplant bread one time that was so bad even the dog wouldn’t eat it.”
“Ew. That sounds…different.”
“It’s different all right. My father is the chef in that house. Total foodie.” He paused a second. “No. That’s not it. I don’t think it’s the food so much as the preparation. He likes to taste and figure out how to improve it. His palate is unbelievable. He’ll put something in his mouth and the minute it hits his tongue, he knows how it’s made. He wastes no time telling you, either.”
“Is it annoying?”
“It can be. Sometimes you just want to eat the goddamn food, but he has to give it a dissertation. I suppose that’s how I learned. I listened. A lot.”
“Do you do that often?”
“Listen? Hell yeah. It made me a good Marine. People are interesting. Even the assholes.”
She laughed, but there was truth there. Her life hadn’t been easy, yet every setback taught her some new survival trick.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Most guys stay away from assholes. I want to know what catastrophic thing happened to make someone that much of a douche.”
Pondering it, she rolled her bottom lip out. “Why does it have to be something catastrophic? Why can’t someone just be miserable?”
“They can. We all have shit, right? Things that make us who we are.”
We sure do. “The way you’re talking, I’d think you were the psych major.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I’m good at figuring shit out, but not at staying put. Me? Sitting in a chair all day? No chance.”
“There are plenty of psych careers that don’t involve counseling people. I don’t sit in a chair all day. I saw enough of the system to know I wanted to help people. Plus, my history—the things I’ve seen of human nature—makes me a good judge of character.” She pointed at the boxes on the floor. “Jeff was not a dirty cop. I’d have known.”
He stared at her for a long minute, clearly chewing on a response. He didn’t believe her.
We’ll see.
She sat forward and held her hands out. “Let’s get to it. The sooner we read through this stuff, the sooner we’ll eliminate Jeff from the list of potential people who sold you out.”
* * *
Hours later, after a quick dinner of grilled London broil, leftover sweet potato soufflé, and a salad with the vinaigrette he’d whipped up the other night, Way watched as Roni sat on the floor, legs crossed, with half of a box of notes in front of her.
He liked it. Dinner with her, sitting around in quiet while they pored over files. Unlike a lot of women, Roni didn’t need to fill silence. She went about her business, leaving him be.
When she leaned against the sofa and tilted her head to the ceiling, his gaze locked onto the smooth skin of her neck. He wanted his lips there. Yep. Sure did. “You find something?”
She looked back at him. “I don’t think so. All this”—she gestured to the stacks of papers, files, and notebooks to her left—“is personal. Everything else is work-related.”
The work pile didn’t look so big. Which could be a good or a bad thing. “Any bank statements?”
“No, but I found this.” She held up a checkbook. “Jeff was always paranoid about online banking. We teased him unmercifully about it because he still wrote checks to pay his bills. From what I can tell, everything is in order. When he died, he had five thousand dollars in his checkbook. I found reports from his retirement account and another mutual fund account.”
“How much?”
“Retirement had forty thousand and the mutual account had fifty-five.”
“Not unreasonable amounts,” Way said.
She gestured to the stacks in front of him. “What’d you find?”
Before he could answer, her phone buzzed. She checked it, ignored whoever it was, and brought her attention back to him.
Way toed the box in front of him. “This is all mementos. High-school yearbooks, pictures, newspaper clippings from 9/11. I was about to start on the next box.”
“We can split that box if you want.”
She peered back at him with shadowed eyes and…no way. She looked beat. “It’s almost midnight. You need a break? I can take you back to the B and B.”
“A good listener and observant. You’re a dangerous man.”
He smiled. “I like to think so.”
He stared straight into her lush brown eyes, letting her know that if she wanted a replay of that smoking kiss they’d shared, he wouldn’t chase her off.
She let out a long sigh. “Lord, you do tempt me. But no, I’m good. We still have a lot to do here.”
Way was afraid she’d say that. He stood and held his hand to her. “Come up here.”
When she obliged, he drew her to her feet and squeezed her hands. “You’re tired. How about I make you some warm milk and you take a power nap? In thirty minutes you’ll be good as new.”
“Be careful, Waylon, I may expect this from you all the time.”
“Be careful, Roni, I may want to do it all the time.”
When she smiled at him, he dipped his head, testing. She inched closer—a green light if he’d ever seen one—and he closed in, bringing his lips to hers, brushing gently. She slid her arms around his waist, resting them there while he trailed his lips over her jaw
to that spot he’d targeted on her neck.
“I’ve been eyeing this area,” he said.
She lifted her head, allowing him better access. “By all means, help yourself.”
He just might. He nibbled the spot. Dotted kisses there. Pausing, he inhaled, let the scent of her shampoo—almonds, maybe—ground him. Talk about playing with fire. She was…what? Hard, yet soft. Loyal, yet deceptive.
And for him? Total brain candy. He wanted to crawl into that mind and root around. Figure out what made her tick.
What the hell was he doing?
Depending on what they discovered on this little investigation of theirs, she could wreck him. Did he believe she would? No.
But he definitely had a problem with his dick leading the way.
He drew back, pecked her on the tip of her nose. “Warm milk and a nap coming up. Have a seat.”
Ignoring the start of a hard-on, he walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Way dumped some milk in a pot, put the burner on low, and grabbed the honey and vanilla from the cabinet. A dash of cinnamon wouldn’t hurt, so he snatched the bottle, some fresh stuff his dad had gotten at the farmer’s market last week.
Eventually, steam rose from the pot. The fragrant aroma of the vanilla couldn’t be missed. He dipped a spoon into the mixture, took a taste.
More honey. Two spoons later, he hit pay dirt.
Perfect evening beverage.
Mug in hand, he headed back to Roni and found her curled on his sofa, huddled under the blanket he’d bought on his last trip to Turkey.
Her eyes were closed, her thick lashes resting against skin that wasn’t quite olive, but far from creamy.
When awake, Roni Fenwick had an aggressiveness about her. A killer shark, ready to battle. In sleep? Right now?
Peaceful.
As a man who understood the vulnerabilities that came with sleep, particularly for a woman who’d grown up shuffled from one stranger’s house to another, he’d take it as compliment that she’d passed out in his home.
He, for damned sure, wasn’t gonna disturb her.
Quietly, he moved around to the opposite end of the sofa and set the mug on the coffee table. If she woke up, she’d see it.
Hands now free, he hefted the last box still on the floor and carried it to the kitchen to sort through it without disturbing her.
Way took one last look as she let out a heavy breath. Bang. Something kicked him straight in the chest.
Fascinated?
Hell, he was way more than fascinated.
“Well, shit.”
* * *
In the kitchen, Way moved the wooden bowl of fruit from the center of the table and flipped the top open on the box. A stack of manila envelopes greeted him. He hauled those out and found clear plastic shoe bins underneath.
All containing photos. Hundreds of photos. That’d take a while, so he went back to the envelopes, noted the dates handwritten on them. All from the last two years.
Helpful. He chose the most recent one. Dates: May–July.
As much as he wanted to feel bad about digging through a dead man’s stuff, he didn’t. Not when this guy might have a connection to how Way’s design got to the street. Was it a coincidence that Ambrose investigated members of the Street Dragons? One of whom was subsequently killed with Way’s bullet? Or at least the design?
The curiosity nut in Way didn’t think so. In fact, the curiosity nut thought Jeff Ambrose, by way of his father’s DoD contacts, introduced some people to some people who’d made a deal for Way’s design. Hell, maybe Jeff made the deal.
Except nothing they’d found in Ambrose’s finances indicated wrongdoing. No large deposits, no house in Cayman. Then again, dude was an undercover ATF agent. He’d know to cover his own ass.
Rather than rip the top off the envelope, Way undid the clasp and dumped the contents on the table.
A few photos and three thumb drives slid out. How he loved thumb drives. All kinds of interesting stuff on those. He scooped up the drives and headed to the laptop he kept on the counter in the corner nook.
Firing up the laptop, he stuck the thumb drive in, took a seat in the ladder-back chair, and waited for the pain in the ass spinning wheel to stop. A few clicks later, thumbnails of photos popped up.
Click, click, click. He scrolled photos.
A kid’s birthday party—probably a friend, since Jeff was an only child.
At least he thought the guy was an only child. He grabbed the small notepad he kept by the phone and jotted a note to check that.
Click, click, click. More photos. A boat on a lake. He studied the photo. Looked like the area where Ambrose’s mother lived.
Click.
Click
Click.
On and on it went until he got to a group photo. Five people standing on a lawn, all holding glasses up in toast.
He checked the date. Last July.
Whoa. Could this be the party? The one where Roni met her boss.
He enlarged the photo, studied the faces. No one he recognized. Next photo. A group of kayakers. Click. An old guy with a young woman in a low-cut halter top that barely covered her tits. Damn, that was a banging body, though.
He let out a soft snort and clicked. A picnic table with folks talking. Three men—one with his head turned—and two women. He clicked again and…
Wait, was that—?
He clicked back. Zoomed in. Studied the photo.
No good.
The man’s head was turned too far for Way to know. He clicked again, then again and again, searching for the man in a red golf shirt. Five clicks later, red flashed on his screen and Way’s gut dropped clear to his feet.
14
Way grabbed his phone, checked the time. Nearly eleven. Clay might—or might not—still be awake.
The sickness rolling in his stomach could be dispatched with one phone call.
Sorry, buddy. Waking your ass up.
He tapped the screen, found Clay’s number, and punched the video button. Friends or not, on video, he’d spot any facial tells.
While waiting for the line to connect, Way leaned back in his chair and peered down the hallway where he’d left Roni snoozing away.
From what he could see, still no movement. A good thing, since he didn’t necessarily want to clue her in to the Clay connection. At least until he knew what he was dealing with.
Clay’s face popped up on screen, his eyes half closed and his short hair stuck to his head on one side. Definitely sleeping. And, yow, Way tried to ignore what looked like a female head in the background.
“Dude,” Clay said, “fucking late.”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. You, um, got company?”
Clay peered over his shoulder, then back at the phone. “She’s asleep. Hang on.”
The picture jerked and then swung as Clay got out of bed.
“Christ,” Way said, “I hope you’re not naked.”
The thought alone made his eyes fry.
“It’d serve you right for calling me so late.” Clay waggled his eyebrows. “Now I may have to wake her up for round three.”
“You’re an asshole.”
Way wasn’t sure if his friend was an asshole for bragging about getting laid—something that hadn’t been on Way’s regular list of activities lately—or making comments, any comments, about the woman. In Way’s mind, that was a total douche move.
Whatever. Some guys got off on it.
“You just woke me up and I’m the asshole?”
“It’s important.”
“I assumed. What’s up?”
“I’m looking into this thing with my bullet design.”
Clay sighed. “I’m on it. I told you not to worry about it.”
“Yeah, you did. But it’s my ass on the line.”
“I hear you. But it takes a delicate touch. I can’t walk into Langley and demand answers.”
Understandable, but Way needed answers on something else. “Jeff Ambrose,” he shot.
>
Clay’s gaze narrowed as he stared straight at the screen. “Who?”
“Ambrose. The dead ATF agent?”
Clay’s eyebrows came together. “What are you talking about? I don’t know about any dead ATF agent.”
Apparently his friend was still half asleep. “Hey. Focus here. I know I woke you up, but get your shit together. This is important. Jeff Ambrose. You went to his mother’s barbecue last summer. Bernadette Ambrose. She worked for the NSA. Now retired.”
A few seconds passed while Clay continued to stare at him. “Oh. Jeff. Right. Sorry. I…wasn’t thinking. Tired. What about him?”
“There were a couple of agency guys at that party. Don Harding for sure. I saw him in photos.”
Again the stunned staring. Come on, Clay, dial in here.
“Wait,” he said. “You have photos? From Bernadette’s? Tell me what the fuck you’re doing.”
In their last conversation, Way had only told him there’d been a shooting. Of course, the guy was lost. “Sorry. When we talked the other day, I told you about the murdered gangbanger.”
“Yeah. I poked around. The ammo you sent to Langley is accounted for. No strays. It’s confirmed.”
Way let out a long breath and dropped his chin for a second while the elephant jumped from his back. At least the bullet wasn’t one of the ones he’d created.
Still, the design…
“You okay?” Clay pressed.
Way went back to the phone. “Yeah. I’m good. Something is fucked up, though. Jeff Ambrose, the now very dead Jeff Ambrose, was on an interagency task force, which, by the way, was run by my sister.”
“Shit.”
“No kidding.” He waved it off. “The shooting I told you about? The victim was being investigated by Ambrose and this task force.”
“What’s the task force?”
“Cigarette smuggling. Huge black market business. We’re talking millions.”
“And?”
His buddy was getting impatient. Clay wasn’t the only one. “A month after I sent my design to Langley, the head of science and development was at a party with Jeff Ambrose.”
Burning Ache Page 13
