Moonrise

by Anne Stuart

  He didn’t meet her eyes, simply busied himself with his breakfast. “I’m afraid you caught me at a bad time last night, Annie. You’re probably not aware of this, but I have a drinking problem. I’m pretty damned good at covering it up, but there are times it gets the better of me. You happened to show up just as I was coming off a binge.”

  She stared at him. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “No, I’m pretty good at compensating,” he said easily. “I’ve tried everything in the last twenty years, and I thought I’d gotten it pretty much under control, but Win’s death hit me pretty hard.”

  “You’ve been an alcoholic for twenty years?” she asked, suddenly wary.

  “For want of a better term,” he said. “Your father tried to help me. He was a good man, Annie. One of the best. But there’s nothing we can do to bring him back.”

  She stared at him, blinking for a moment, wondering what it was she was seeing. His skin was tanned, taut across the sharp bones of his face. There was no pouchiness, no sign of dissipation. “You don’t think he was murdered?” she said carefully.

  “No, I don’t. Why would anyone want to kill Win? Everyone loved him. It was a freak accident, Annie. You know it as well as I do.”

  He made the mistake of meeting her gaze then. His eyes were clear. And they were the eyes of the dangerous stranger she had met last night.

  What little appetite Annie possessed vanished. She’d wanted to believe last night had been an aberration, a combination of her exhausted paranoia and his unexpected drunkenness. She’d wanted him to tell her everything was all right, she’d imagined everything.

  Doubtless that was exactly what he would tell her. The only problem was, she wouldn’t believe him. Not after looking into his hollow eyes.

  “Why aren’t you working, James?” she asked quietly.

  “I took a leave of absence. Mid-life crisis and all that,” he said, his eyes not matching his self-deprecating voice.

  “Then why couldn’t I find any trace of you when I tried to get your phone number? What happened to Win’s tiny little sub-section of the State Department? Why was it disbanded when he died? Why isn’t your name anywhere in the personnel records of the federal government when you’ve been working for them for as long as I’ve known you? What’s going on, James? Why are you lying to me?”

  He sat back, one large hand cradling his mug of coffee, his movements relaxed, measured. “You sure ask a lot of questions, Annie,” he said finally. “I would have thought your daddy taught you the benefits of not being too damned curious.”

  “My father is dead,” she shot back. “And I’m going to keep on asking questions, of anybody and everybody, until I find out some answers.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” he said gently. And from beneath the table he pulled out a gun.

  She stared at it. It was large, blue-black, long-barreled, and fit comfortably in his hand. She looked at him, at the implacable expression on his face. The dangerous creature from the night before had vanished, but so had the gray-flannel bureaucrat she’d thought was James McKinley. This was someone else again. Someone who could kill her.

  And then she laughed, a nervous reaction. “God, James, what are you trying to do, scare me? I almost believed you for a moment. Why do you have a gun?”

  He set the gun down on the table between them, carefully. “This is a dangerous part of the world, Annie.”

  “You probably don’t even know how to use that thing.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  She bit her lip, frustrated. “You aren’t going to answer my questions, are you?”

  “I don’t think you’d like the answers,” he said.

  “I’ll get them from someone, sooner or later.”

  “Are you threatening me, Annie?” There was an undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

  She lifted her head, meeting those strange eyes. “Maybe.”

  He sighed. “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, ask me what you want,” he said.

  “Why couldn’t I find any trace of you through the State Department? Why don’t they have any record of your employment?”

  “Maybe because I didn’t work for the State Department.”

  “You worked with my father.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you telling me my father didn’t work for the State Department?”

  “I’m not telling you anything. I’m just answering your questions.”

  “Who did you work for?”

  “Ah, now that gets a little tricky. You’re an intelligent woman, why don’t you figure it out?” he suggested affably.

  “CIA,” she said, voicing her worst fear.

  “Got it the first try.”

  “And my father?”

  “He’s the one who recruited me.”

  She just stared at him, sick. “You mean my father lied to me my entire life?”

  “It’s called need to know, Annie. It’s not company policy to inform anyone unnecessary about our work.”

  “Anyone unnecessary?” she repeated as the slow tendrils of fury began to burn deep inside her. “Don’t you think I had a right to know?”

  “No.”

  “So what did the two of you do? Wander around the world like junior James Bonds?”

  “You read too much, Annie. We were bureaucrats, plain and simple. The CIA has just as much paperwork as any other branch of the government—they just keep it more private. Your father was a policy maker, I was an accountant.”

  “An accountant,” she said, looking at him more clearly now. “Now, why do I have trouble believing that?”

  “Maybe because you’re in such a paranoid state you’re imagining secrets everywhere.”

  “I’m finding secrets everywhere,” she shot back. “I find that my father was a spook for the CIA, and his unremarkable best friend was a spy as well. How old are you? I asked you last night, and you refused to answer.”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “Jesus,” Annie said, staring at him. “How’d you get into this in the first place?”

  “You mean, what’s a nice guy like me doing in a job like this?” he countered blandly. “You know the details. Grew up in Texas, went to Harvard, got married, had a baby, and then my wife and child were killed in a car accident. I was at loose ends, and I didn’t care much whether I lived or died. Your father brought me back. Gave me something to believe in.”

  “The Cold War,” Annie supplied.

  “For want of a better word. I’m not going to bother to explain it to you, or justify it. Things have changed in the last few years. Your father thought he was doing what was best for the world. Why don’t you leave it at that? Leave him to rest in peace?”

  “Was he murdered?”

  For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer. “Maybe,” he said finally. “It’s possible.”

  “And you haven’t done anything about it?”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Something a little better than running away and drinking yourself into a stupor,” she snapped. And then she looked down at the gun, lying between them. “You really do know how to use that thing, don’t you?”

  “Everybody in the CIA gets some weapons training, even the clerical workers.”

  She had no idea whether he was telling the truth or not, but it seemed reasonable. “Why did you finally decide to tell me all this?”

  “Because it’s perfectly clear you’re not going to go away and forget about it. And I’m sick and tired of lying. I suppose you have as much right as anyone to know about your father.”

  “Big of you,” she said. “Does Martin know the truth?” She couldn’t keep the faint hurt note from her voice. She’d trusted Martin wholeheartedly. She’d been married to him for three years, had even considered going back to him. Somehow the thought that he’d been keeping secrets, even when they’d slept together, was a final betrayal.

&nbs
p; “Your father recruited him as well.”

  She took the blow, hiding her reaction from the surprisingly observant eyes across from her. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “About what?”

  “About my father’s murder?”

  “You don’t even know for sure that he was murdered.”

  “I know,” she said fiercely. She thumped her chest beneath the thin cotton shirt. “I know in my heart, and my brain. And you know it too, no matter how much you’re trying to deny it.”

  “I’m not denying it.”

  “Will you help me find out the truth?”

  He leaned back, and there was resignation and regret in his eyes. “You don’t leave me much choice, do you, Annie?” And he picked up the gun.

  Chapter Three

  Annie stared at him for a long moment as he held the gun in one large, capable hand. She held her breath, feeling oddly disoriented. As if she had jet lag, when she hadn’t crossed any time zones coming after James McKinley.

  He knew how to use that gun. Beneath his newly reacquired businesslike demeanor was a man who was far more dangerous than she’d ever expected.

  She forced herself to turn away from him, pouring another cup of the wickedly strong coffee, and when she looked back the gun was gone. She didn’t know whether he carried it or he’d stashed it someplace, and she didn’t want to find out. It was gone, and that was enough. The sight of a gun in James McKinley’s hands unnerved her.

  The silence was heavy and uncomfortable between them, and she forced herself to break it. “What are we going to do next?”

  His lids drooped over those disconcerting eyes, and she could almost tell herself he was the old, safe, reliable James. “Let me think about it for a while,” he said finally. “It’s safe enough here for the time being, if no one but Martin knows you’re here. We’ll take it a day at a time. You can tell me what you know, what you suspect, every tiny, seemingly meaningless detail. About the missing print, about anything he might have said, done. Anything that seemed different, strange to you. And then I’ll decide what we can do about it. Whether I think there’s anything that can be accomplished.”

  “And if you decide that there isn’t?” she asked in a sharp voice, not bothering to hide her irritation with his high-handed ways.

  “Then you can go back home with your mind at ease.”

  “It’s not that simple. What if I’m not willing to take your word for it? What if you decide he wasn’t murdered, that nothing was going on?”

  He leaned back, his expression still carefully bland. “That leaves us with a little problem, doesn’t it?” he drawled. “Tell me something, Annie. Why did you come after me? Why didn’t you get Martin to help you? The two of you have shared a lot more than we ever had.”

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked in a wary voice.

  “Just what I asked. Why didn’t you go to Martin for help?”

  “I did.”

  “You asked him for help in finding who killed your father?”

  “Not exactly.” That was another change since Win had died, Annie thought. She was no longer adept with the polite, social lies. “I asked him to help me find you.”

  “Don’t you think he would have helped you?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Win always said that if something went wrong, I should come to you. That you would know the answers.”

  “Did he?” There was no way she could read the expression on his face. “And you still do what your father tells you, don’t you, Annie.”

  It wasn’t a question, and she wanted to lash out, to deny it. She glanced down at her rumpled T-shirt, shoved her tangled hair away from her makeup-free face, and met his gaze quite calmly. “You tell me, James,” she said.

  It was a mistake. As long as he kept his lids half-lowered, she could lull herself into thinking he was the safe, protective presence she was looking for. When his gaze met hers, all bets were off.

  “Point well taken,” he said after a moment’s perusal. “I presume you’re not sleeping with Martin anymore.”

  She spilled her coffee. The cup was almost empty, but the black liquid spread across the spotless table like oil. Or blood. “What business is it of yours?”

  “Everything connected to Win is my business if you expect me to find out why he was killed. When you sleep with your father’s protégé, then it might have a bearing, even if he is your ex-husband.”

  “I thought you were my father’s protégé.”

  “And you haven’t slept with me.”

  Yet. The word, unspoken, danced through her mind. She wondered whether it went through his as well. “I want to know more than why my father was killed. I want to know who did it.”

  “And what will you do then?”

  “Kill him.”

  James’s smile was brief and cool. “You could try.”

  “Or you could.”

  “We need to make sure it wasn’t an accident first.”

  “We both know it wasn’t.” She set her coffee cup back upright with meticulous care, mopping up the spilled liquid with a paper napkin. “You still haven’t told me how you knew I was back with Martin.”

  She’d manage to startle him at last. “I didn’t realize it was still going on.”

  “It isn’t. How did you know?”

  “I searched your purse,” he said dispassionately. “I read the letters.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Both of them. Win wrote that if anything happened you should come to me. Why did it take you so long?”

  “I don’t believe in precognition. And I didn’t want to deal with it.”

  “But now you’re ready to?”

  “I want to know who killed him.”

  James stared at her for a long moment. “Are you willing to take the chance that that knowledge might kill you? Why don’t you go back home and get married again? Have babies and spend the money Win left you and not think about the past?”

  “Who do you suggest I marry? Martin? It didn’t work the first time.”

  “Still looking for someone to arrange your life for you?” he said. “I don’t give a shit who you marry. I’m just suggesting you’re better off forgetting your holy crusade.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It never is,” he said. “Are you willing to take the risk?”

  “Yes,” she said, not even hesitating. “What about you?”

  His smile was far from warming. “I’ve already gone way past that, Annie.” He leaned across the table, and she knew with sudden certainty that he was going to touch her. And she didn’t want him to. She wasn’t sure why, she was just positive she didn’t want those hands on her.

  She left the chair, knocking it over as she backed away from him, and then she realized he hadn’t moved. He was simply watching her, as if he could read her mind, her senseless panic, and for some reason it amused him. “He’s not worth dying for, Annie,” he said with unexpected gentleness. “Let him go. Forget him.”

  “He was my father. I can’t,” she said, and the ache in her voice was close to tears.

  “Then God help you,” he said.

  He didn’t think he was going to be able to do it. He’d managed to sober himself up, shave and shower and pull on the last remnants of anonymity along with the neat khaki stashed in the back of his closet. He’d woken up full of plans to lull Annie Sutherland into a false security and then send her back to Martin. She wasn’t his responsibility, and hadn’t been in years. Martin could sleep with her again, protect her, and manage to convince her that this was all a delusion caused by strain and grief. That Win’s last, cryptic letter full of unlikely fatherly admonitions had nothing to do with a knowledge of impending death.

  He still couldn’t figure out why the hell Martin had let her come after him. He’d never known Martin to do a thing that he didn’t want to, and that wouldn’t benefit him in the long run. Maybe he thought the sight of McKinley in all his alcoholic r
uin would send Annie back into his arms, into his bed, where he could take proper care of her.

  Or maybe not. Martin was still there, in the center of everything, and he had to know more than James could at this point. Maybe Martin needed him to protect her. Or to effect a flawless cover-up, as he had so many times over the years. He’d sent no message with Annie, and there was no way he could come right out and ask him. Not without risking too damned many people finding out.

  He was on his own, at least for now. With an albatross around his neck, an albatross with too many questions. If only he could manage to convince her there was absolutely nothing to her suspicions.

  But he couldn’t bring it off. He’d already told Annie too damned much, and he couldn’t use the excuse of too much tequila. He’d never let alcohol loosen his tongue before. Something had snapped inside him when Win had died, and all his years of training had gone south. He looked at Annie Sutherland’s angry eyes, and he wanted to tell her the truth.

  He wasn’t that far gone yet. He wouldn’t tell her the truth, ever. Not even if it came time to kill her.

  She was standing with her back against the wall, looking at him as if he were her worst nightmare. She had enough sense to realize that much, he thought grimly.

  He’d been about to touch her, and that would have been a mistake for both of them. He wasn’t quite sure what he would have done. Whether he would have hurt her. Closed forever those blue eyes that saw him far too clearly, whether she realized it or not.

  Or whether he would have kissed her.

  He couldn’t remember when he’d last kissed anyone. It wasn’t a usual part of his sexual repertoire, and he couldn’t even remember wanting to. He wanted to kiss Annie Sutherland. Christ, he always had.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk,” she said in that same breathless voice that couldn’t quite hide her nervousness. She didn’t want him to see it, and for some reason he was willing to let her think he didn’t know how much he frightened her. “I need some fresh air.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she shot back instantly. “I’m not going to stay cooped up in this cottage while you decide whether I’m having paranoid delusions …”