by Vicki Hinze
She loved him, but tonight she thought she just might hate him, too. And if riding both sides of that well-documented fine line between love and hate wasn’t enough to send her running for raspberries, then nothing was.
What she needed was a thorough drowning of her sorrows, she thought, digging into the white paper bag and then lifting out its contents. Tossing the half gallon of chocolate fudge ice cream into the freezer, she recalled the clerk’s goofy look when she’d asked him if it came in fifty gallon drums. Hell, it’d probably take at least that much and a couple dozen batches of brownies to sweeten Jake’s sour mood over this.
And though she had serious doubts, a quart of raspberry yogurt might get her through her own stint at wallowing on the dark side. She tore open the top of the carton, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, then dug in for a bite. Today she had become a mother. Had realized a lifelong dream. She should be elated, not depressed to the gills. And she wouldn’t be—well, not nearly so much—if Jake just hadn’t doubted her. Even the raspberry yogurt couldn’t get her through that.
She stabbed the spoon into the carton. Maybe men were all intrusive jerks. Maybe they all dissected every action and deed constantly, looking for hidden agendas. Maybe they were all suspicious asses who couldn’t step across a mud puddle without a permit or proof it wasn’t a sinkhole.
Men were notorious for having to climb a mountain of proof to gather evidence that something exists before believing it, while women—far more reasonable human beings—felt quite comfortable operating on faith. They just leapt to the top of the mountain, trusting it strong enough to sustain them.
She was suspected of treason.
Treason!
Her heart wrenched. She had been so devoted to the military all of her adult life, and this was the thanks she got? She took another bite, then two, then three. She could lose Jake and Timmy. Her job. Everything.
Her head throbbing, she spiked the spoon into the yogurt again, warning herself to drown her sorrows a little slower. Without Jake and Timmy or her work, what would be left of her life?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Laura shut out the chilling thoughts, closing her eyes. She didn’t know what would be left, not really. And she feared she didn’t want to know. To the world, it appeared she had it all: a gorgeous husband who was sexy from the bone out—principled, dedicated, loyal—everything a woman looks for in a man. She had a son who would capture even the most jaded heart. A terrific career, where she had been compensated fairly and offered opportunities for advancement that were limited only by her imagination. All around—everything a woman could want. And it would be, if any of it was real.
But it wasn’t.
The back of her nose burned and her eyes stung. Refusing to cry—she had gotten herself into this situation with her eyes wide open and had no one to blame but herself—she swallowed another bite of yogurt, and let the cold sliding down her throat soothe her. Nothing stays hidden.
It was time to take a cold, hard look at the truth. Now. Just in case she ended up arrested. Potential catastrophes aside, having her integrity questioned tonight had given her a whale of a wake-up call. It was time for a major change in her life. One that would net her a life that encompassed more than Jake and Timmy, her work, and her dedication to it and to them.
In the case of Laura Taylor Logan, the facts were these: Jake loved her as a friend, and would never love her as a man loves his wife. Or he had loved her as a friend until the photo surfaced. Now he doubted her. That happened, of course, right on the heels of her realizing she’d fallen in love with the man, despite her promise to herself not to let that happen. After so many years of thinking about him as just a friend. It still amazed her that it really had happened.
Timmy loved her as a surrogate mother—only because Laura had poured so much into loving him—but he didn’t and never would love her as a mother. Not unconditionally, nor irrevocably. Hadn’t she learned that after she’d moved back to the apartment and he’d distanced himself from her? If she hadn’t pushed, he’d still be distant.
That concluded her foray into family, as otherwise she had none.
And on the career front, the facts didn’t look any less bleak. Shortly after Sean had issued his threats to ruin her career because of her friendship with Jake, Laura had been sent TDY to the Pentagon, and she’d run into Colonel James in the hallway. She hadn’t known Jake and Madeline’s former boss well, even though he managed the funding on her research. Tall and oddly handsome in a slightly rumpled way, he’d asked her about Jake and Timmy. Then he had dropped his voice a notch, low and intimate, almost seductive, and asked, “How’s your implant device coming along?”
She’d gone ice cold inside. Not at him asking about the device, but at him linking Jake and Timmy to it. She’d known then that she was standing on a foundation of sand and that it would shift, and her career would tumble. Sean Drake had gone to Colonel James, just as he’d threatened to do. Outwardly, she had shrugged at James, deliberately evasive. “Oh, still working on it.”
That had been the truth, so far as she’d gone. At that stage, the satellite-tracking device had been no sweat; its design was down pat. Getting the implant to emit bicolor signals—red to signify “alive and tracking,” and blue to signify “dead and tracking”—had been the part stumping her.
She licked the creamy yogurt from her spoon. Now she’d nailed that, too. It had been simple really, once she’d considered the change of body temperature. Just months ago, she had introduced a more complex, tricolor design, though she hadn’t yet field tested it.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Colonel James had told her, saluting a junior officer who’d walked by.
His smile had seemed sincere, but even in memory, it curdled her stomach. He’d irked her in ways she hadn’t consciously grasped, but understood at gut level. There, brilliant red signals had flashed: Warning! Warning! Warning!
And all the briefing drills she ever had received on counterintelligence had replayed in her mind.
Unsure if she’d sensed the truth, or if paranoia had set in because Sean had intimidated her, she had kept her doubts about Colonel James to herself. She hadn’t even mentioned her uneasiness to Jake—especially not to Jake. He would have gone toe to toe with Sean Drake over the threats. He had gone toe to toe with the man on several occasions before then, so it hadn’t been difficult to justify keeping silent. When push came to shove, she had no actual proof of Colonel James doing anything wrong, only a gut feeling. If those gut feelings had been discussed with Jake, then they would have had to acknowledge the possibility of wrongdoing. Jake would have been put in the position of having to decide whether to keep quiet about it, or to report it and investigate his father-in-law. Sean would have ruined two careers: hers and Jake’s. Besides, just her suspecting Sean Drake and Colonel James were corrupt was rough enough, and she’d already paid in spades. To get away from Drake and James, she’d had to deactivate in Intel, forfeit active duty, and give up communication design research and development as her primary duty. Without hard evidence, she shouldn’t have to pay any more.
That whole sordid situation, at least so far, had stayed hidden—a blessing she was grateful for. She only hoped it stayed hidden forever.
Now General Connor, her boss due to the reactivation and, in deactivated times, her boss’s boss, suspected her of treason.
“Except for having her husband’s lunatic of an ex-wife to contend with, these are the facts of the life of Laura Taylor Logan,” she whispered, stepping into the entryway and heading toward the living room. “And, boy, are they grim.”
Something crunched under her stockinged feet.
Laura looked down. Shiny slivers of glass caught the light from the kitchen and threw off a glare. The slender window beside the door had been broken.
Someone had been—or was—inside the house.
Memories of the man who had attempted to break into her apartment before she and Jake married flashed through her mind. Memories of him slashing at her with a knife, her wresting it from him, and cutting his face through his ski mask.
She still smelled him. Still saw the blade and the blood. And his scent still evoked memories of another attacker. One who’d nearly killed her. Paul Hawkins. The knife-wielding intruder had been skilled in handto-hand combat, no novice or amateur. He’d eluded Fairhope and Sacramento police, and the California Highway Patrol. Even with his DNA, he’d never been caught. He was a pro.
Had he come back in real life, as he so often did in her dreams?
The hairs on her neck lifted. Her instincts slipped into High Alert, and her muscles coiled, preparing for the unexpected. She backed into the kitchen, set down the yogurt on the edge of the bar, then retrieved the Glock from her purse. Grateful now that Jake had suggested it, she began a systematic search of the house.
Betsy’s room, laundry, kitchen, and the bath off it—all clear. Nothing appeared disturbed. No odd scents or sounds. Living room: only the ticking of the old wall clock and a pillow out of place on the sofa, as if someone had rested against it. Odd. Laura lifted the pillow and caught a whiff of perfume. It wasn’t her Ritz, though the scent did tug at something familiar to her. From where, she couldn’t recall. It was sweet, subtle . . .
She put the pillow back down, then inched her way down the hallway, through her room, and then through Jake’s. Everything appeared fine. So why did she still feel . . . invaded?
She looked into Timmy’s room, and the reason became glaringly apparent. “Oh, God.” Her heart slid up into her throat. She started to shake and broke out in a cold sweat.
It was empty.
The whole room had been stripped bare, ceiling to carpeted floor. Even the picture hangers had been removed from the walls.
What looked like a glass lay on the floor in the center of the room. Her flesh crawling, Laura entered cautiously to get a closer look at it.
It wasn’t a glass. It was a bottle. Anger rode hard on the heels of fear, and her knees gave out. Laura crumpled onto the carpet, reached for it, but then recalled the possibility of fingerprints, and jerked her hand back.
It was a half-full bottle.
Of Scotch.
Eleven
He’s safe. He’s safe. Betsy says Timmy is safe.
Laura sat on the floor in Timmy’s room, clasping her knees and rocking back and forth, letting the litany replay through her mind. Staring at the cordless phone, the Glock, and the bottle of Scotch, she prayed she’d soon believe it enough to stop shaking. She’d talked with him herself. So why couldn’t she get past feeling he was in danger?
The obvious conclusion about this was that Madeline had broken in and stolen all of Timmy’s things. But Laura couldn’t look only to the obvious, not with the ROFF possibility. Should she call the police, or military security?
The bedroom door creaked.
Laura snatched up the Glock, rolled over onto her stomach, and took aim.
“Whoa!” Jake held up his hands.
Laura let out a sigh of relief, not caring if he heard it, and lowered the gun back to the carpet, her heart still threatening to rocket out of her chest.
“What the hell happened here?” Jake walked over.
“Timmy’s fine.” Laura pointed to the bottle of Scotch. “It appears Madeline thought it was time for him to move.”
“Damn her.” Jake reached down for the phone.
Laura topped his hand on the receiver with hers, stopping him. “She’s pulled a few felonies in your absence.”
His brows shot up. “Felonies?”
She filled him in, starting with Madeline’s call to Judge Barton, which necessitated telling him the reason Judge Neal hadn’t heard the case, then related the Pizza Hut fiasco and the ramming of the Mustang incident—omitting her threatening Madeline for fear the shock would lay Jake out. He looked awfully pale. Then she finished up with arriving home and finding the window broken and Timmy’s room bare.
“Where’s Timmy?”
“They left before this. He doesn’t know.”
Jake frowned. “They who? Where’d he go?”
“To a ball game and then to Alice’s with Betsy. They’ll be back Saturday night.”
Betsy had remembered their anniversary. So had Laura. He recalled her acidic, “I’m late, but happy anniversary, Jake,” on departing from headquarters. Her tone had gotten to him, but he couldn’t complain. He’d doubted her, and she’d known it. He’d hurt her too, he thought, spotting the yogurt carton. Driven her to eating raspberries, for God’s sake. “Did you call the police about any of this?”
“No. I know you’re opposed, and she’s upset Timmy an enormous amount in the last few days.”
“I see.” Jake rubbed at the back of his neck. His muscles had knotted. “Well, she’s gone too far. We need to report it, Laura. All of it.”
“Do we?” She glanced up at him. “What if it wasn’t her? What if it was ROFF setting her up? The Scotch is rather obvious.”
“Madeline’s about as subtle as mud. Why would she suddenly become less than obvious?”
“I’ve got a feeling, Jake.”
“Okay. Okay.” Grimacing, he reached for the cordless phone. His fingertips brushed against Laura’s knee.
She jerked as if he’d burned her.
“Sorry.” He dialed Connor’s secure line and informed him of the situation. When he hung up, he told Laura, “We’re to sit tight. A security crew will be over in a few minutes.”
She didn’t acknowledge hearing him.
He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the doorknob. It was time to get all this tension between them resolved. He hadn’t thought she’d be here, but when she hadn’t been at her apartment, he’d dared to hope she’d come home. “I appreciate your staying.”
“Do you?” Sparks of uncertainty glinted in her eyes.
He nodded, then deliberately steered the conversation away from the photo and far, far away from Laura’s consultations. His feelings on that were too raw. He needed time to let them settle, to recoup. The past few days had been pure hell. “If Madeline should attempt to overturn the adoption, and you’re not here, that could complicate things.”
“More than you realize.” Laura stared at him, her eyes flat and serious, her voice dread-laced. “She’s drunk and watching soaps, Jake.”
He closed his eyes and let out a sigh that could power a substation for a year. How much more did they all have to take from her? “We don’t need another one of her major dramas. Not now.” Not with Shadowpoint, and Laura involved.
Laura lowered her gaze to the floor. “It doesn’t seem as if we’re going to have a choice.” As if by sheer will, she returned her gaze to him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He stared at her long and hard. Her eyes were dark and stormy, and tension riddled her face. “We’ve been best friends a long time.”
“Yes, we have.” Bitterness etched her tone.
She felt betrayed. Understanding that, but unable to sincerely apologize for doubting her, he frowned. “Laura, I want to ask you something. Whatever you tell me, I’ll believe you. The photo—well, it was a shock.”
“I suppose it was.” She tilted back her head and sent him a look that warned him she saw far beneath the surface of this and didn’t like what she was seeing. “But tell me, Jake. What shocked you most? You hoping I wasn’t in danger because I’m your wife, or you hoping I’d committed treason?”
Jake’s face burned hot. That she might be hurt because of him—that was the worst. A hundred times worse than her committing treason. Shameful but true, and he wouldn’t lie about it, not even to himself. Yet dwelling on it wouldn’t resolve a thing. “Ca
n we get past the anger and down to the base of the matter?”
“The base of the matter is that there is no base.” She grunted. “Even with a thirteen-year friendship, not to mention a marriage, between us, you suspect me.”
“You’re a viable suspect, Laura.” He walked over to the window and leaned an elbow against its ledge. “Do I think you’re involved with ROFF? No, I don’t. But I don’t get to operate based on what I think. I protect the interests of the United States, and, in its eyes, there’s valid reason for suspicion against you.”
He blew out a sigh and paced a short path along the far end of the room. “Personally, you’re my best friend and my wife. But my personal feelings don’t come into this, and they don’t give me a choice. I made an oath, and I have to keep it. You made that same oath. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that if our situations were reversed you’d ignore your oath?”
She glared up at him but, as the words penetrated her anger, the starch left her shoulders, and her jaw went slack. “No, I can’t. I’d like to, damn it,” she confessed on a sigh. “But I can’t.”
Honest. Thank God, Jake thought. “Then don’t condemn me for doing what you’d do yourself.”
She rubbed at her temple. “I’m not.”
Could he believe her? Unsure, he watched her closely. She lifted her chin, then quickly tucked it back to her chest, as if she wanted to look him in the eye but couldn’t make herself do it.
“I’m hurt, Jake,” she said, just above a whisper. “But I’m not condemning you.”
That he understood. He’d be hurt too, down to the core. Anyone in Ops would be. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me—aside from your sporadic reactivation in Intel, which is now a full reactivation?”
She did look at him then, and the sadness in her eyes could melt cartilage in a man’s knees. “Only that the transmission’s gone out in the Mustang,” she said. “Bill Green got backed up with work, so he’s postponed towing it to his shop until first thing in the morning.”
