No. This was something he needed to take care of himself, and there was no better time then the present.
He lifted his arm, catching the waitress’s attention. “Check, please.”
ELEVEN
Ben walked Libby back to the bed-and-breakfast. It was a gorgeous night—low sixties, gentle breeze riffling through the summer leaves.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. “You’ve been quiet since I asked about the kiss.”
“I’m fine, really.”
He lifted his brows, not buying it.
She exhaled. “It’s just. Traveling for my job . . . my life . . . It makes attachments difficult.”
“You said it wasn’t easy to maintain relationships.”
“It’s nearly impossible and makes it all the harder when I say good-bye.”
He scuffed his boot on the concrete landing of Milli’s front walk as they reached the Yancey Bed-and-Breakfast. “You always say good-bye?” he asked.
Her heart ached at the disappointment radiating in his deep voice. “I don’t have a choice.”
He tucked his chin in. “We all have a choice.”
“Not if I want to compete professionally.”
“But surely the other competitors have people in their lives—family, friends . . .” He lifted her hand, tracing her palm with his thumb. “More than friends . . . ?”
“For a time and at a distance.”
He frowned. “For a time?”
“I’ve seen more relationships fizzle, fade . . . implode than I can count.”
He nodded. “You sound pretty firm on that.”
“I have to be.” The sooner she cut off these emotions, her feelings for Ben, the better. She’d already let it go too far. She needed to pull back before the pain stabbed too deep.
He pulled his hand back and slid it into his jean jacket pocket. “If that’s where you are, that’s where you are.”
“It’s not where I am. It’s who I am.”
He cocked his head. How did he see right through her? “You sure about that?”
Seriously? One kiss and he was questioning her? The fact that he was right was beside the point.
“Hey, Libby. Still with your friend, I see.” Ashley winked, passing them on the walk wearing a long blue T-shirt over a pair of black leggings and black ballet-style flats. It was the new trend among the younger competitors.
Libby shoved her hands in her pockets, still more comfortable wearing jeans.
“Hey, you two.” Sylvia waggled two fingers as she climbed up the steps past them, also wearing leggings, but in a black-and-white abstract pattern.
Great. Libby sighed. Everyone’s gawking would only get worse if Ben escorted her inside. “You should probably go,” she said.
“After I see you in.”
“I’m a big girl.”
“And there’s a killer on the loose. Humor me.”
She shook her head, Jim’s words echoing in her mind. “When a McKenna sets his mind to something . . .”
Ben flashed his adorable, addictive smile. How she wished things were different—that she was definitely ready for more, brave enough to try—but the circuit made such an easy excuse, and it was the only life she knew.
Ben walked her down the west hall to her room—the last one on the bottom floor.
She exhaled a stream of pent-up frustration, yearning to be back in his arms, his warm lips against hers. Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours easy had gone out the window. All that was left was painful, and she hated it.
“Good night, Libby Jennings.” He offered her his hand.
She smiled despite herself. It was his way of saying good-bye. “Good night, Ben McKenna.” She shook his hand, ignoring the giggling of girls peeking their heads into the hall to watch. What was this? High school?
“It’s been a pleasure,” he said.
“You’ll still keep me updated on the case?” She was committed to seeing it solved, but for her heart’s sake, just not at Ben McKenna’s side.
“Yep. As Jim keeps me updated.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She should go now, but she desperately wanted to remain in his company. She pulled the room key from her pocket, the red plastic key fob clammy in her hand. Unlocking her door, she turned and leaned against the frame. One last good-bye. “See ya.”
Tomorrow she’d go back to regular tournament training and he’d go back to his life—their short, intense time together a passionate, pleasurable memory. The sheriff was on the case, and Ben promised to keep her updated, but their time of partnering up was over.
Ben nodded and stepped back. “See you.”
Before she did something stupid, she quickly turned, entered her room, shut the door, and fell against it.
She squinted in the darkness, taking a moment for her eyes to adjust.
Her throat constricted.
Had someone been in her room?
Fear danced up her spine.
Was someone in her room?
Chills skittered along her skin, raising gooseflesh.
“Ben,” she hollered, reaching for the doorknob.
Libby’s scream vibrated in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest as he raced back to her, pulling his .44.
She opened the door as he pushed in.
He took in the disarray and pushed her into the hall and toward safety. “Wait here.” He moved through the ransacked room, clearing the space. Once done, he yanked Libby back inside, shut the door, and locked it behind them.
Her gaze fixed on his hand. “Is that a gun?” She shook her head, clearly flustered. “Of course it’s a gun. Why do you have a gun?”
He put it back in his holster, the threat of danger gone, at least in her room for the moment. “I live in Alaska.”
“So, what? Everyone in Alaska owns a gun?”
“In Yancey. Yeah, pretty much.”
“Okay then . . . Bypassing that.” She knelt, gathering her garments strewn across the navy-and-rose floral carpet. “You don’t think . . . ?”
She didn’t need to finish the thought.
“Yeah, I do.” Kat’s belongings. Crazy how he could already follow her thoughts. “Are they gone?”
“No.” Libby shook her head, shoving her clothes back into the antique bureau drawers. “I still have them in my pack.”
“That quote or those items clearly hold some importance. Something we’re missing.”
“So what do we do?”
“Figure out the secret they hold.”
“How?”
He extended a hand. “Come with me.”
She frowned. “Where are we going?”
“To visit a friend.”
“What sort of friend?”
“One who specializes in Russian-Alaskan history.”
“But how will that help? This isn’t history. It’s present day.”
“Trust me.”
She did, placing her hand in his and loving the enveloping warmth that tracked through her.
They headed back out of the B&B hand in hand, much to the amused expressions of her fellow swimmers. It’s not like she’d never had a guy around, though it had been a long while and most of the girls were much younger than she was—newer to the circuit.
With Kat’s planned retirement this year, Libby had already started considering making next season her last, but giving up something she’d worked for practically her whole life and needed so badly . . .
She wasn’t sure she could let go, but thankfully, she didn’t need to ponder that right now. She had plenty of other things to worry about—like who killed Kat, who had ransacked her room, and what somebody would possibly want with what appeared to be Kat’s innocuous belongings.
“Where does your friend live?” she asked, following Ben across Main Street. She glanced up at the library, which Ben explained was housed in a historic refurbished Russian farmhouse. The building was exquisite. A park bench and a freshly planted sapling sat out front.
“Above
the shop she just opened last year,” he answered.
“Shop?” There were only a few lining Main Street—Gus’s Diner, Baranov Books, a hardware store, flower shop, and . . .
“The Russian-American Trading Post,” he said, pointing at the two-story white-paneled building. “She’s still waiting to get the sign up. Something about the color not being right.”
Russian-American shop? She frowned. “Why, exactly, do you think this friend will be helpful?”
He held the shop door for her, and she stepped inside, a bell announcing their arrival.
“Either our questions ticked someone off and they wanted to scare you, or much more likely someone figured out you have Kat’s belongings.”
“But what would anyone want with a cap or a broken watch?”
“Maybe it’s neither of those.”
She frowned. “The quote?”
He nodded.
“But why would anyone care about a quote scribbled on a slip of material?”
“Maybe it’s more than it seems.”
Still a bit confused as to how helpful this visit would be, Libby couldn’t help but admire the amazing collection of antiques surrounding her. While her knowledge of antiques wasn’t vast, she certainly recognized a Fabergé egg when she saw one. “Is that real?” she sputtered.
“Oh yes,” a woman said, entering the gallery behind her. “It’s the pride of my collection.” The woman was her age or a bit younger. Petite in height and stature. Dark brown hair cut and styled in Audrey Hepburn fashion. A classic look, but out of date. With almond-shaped brown eyes and soft pink, pouty lips the woman had quite the striking yet soft appearance.
“Agnes Grey, this is Libby Jennings. She’s one of the open-water competitors.”
“Is that so? I can’t imagine the endurance you must possess.”
“It takes a lot of practice and hard work.” And aching muscles and burning lungs.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. What brings you and Benjamin into my shop?”
Benjamin? Libby bit back a smirk. It seemed too formal for the rugged, outdoor man she was getting to know surprisingly well.
“We have something we’d appreciate you taking a look at,” Ben said.
“Oh?”
Ben dipped his head, and Libby pulled the quote from her pocket, handing it over, with a bit of hesitation, to Agnes.
Agnes took it, moving to what looked like a drafting table. “What do we have here?” She clicked on the overhead lamp, swiveling its metal arm to position it where she wanted it.
“I figured if it was important enough for someone to ransack your room over, there was more to it than you or I are seeing,” he whispered to Libby, his breath tickling her ear.
“Come,” Agnes said with a waggle of her fingers, not bothering to look up from the light, which was probably a very good thing since Libby couldn’t manage to smother her smile. All Ben had to do was whisper in her ear and she was a bouncy frenzy of pleasurable emotions—a giddy teenager when she was typically anything but giddy.
They hovered behind Agnes, glancing over her shoulder at the quote.
“The material is silk,” Agnes said, splashing water from her cup on it, nearly stealing Libby’s breath in horror.
“Waterproof.” Agnes smiled. “An old sailor’s trick.”
“Well, it makes sense that Kat would want it waterproof in case the seal in her cap ever ripped,” Libby said.
“Yes, but that doesn’t explain why someone would break into your room to find it,” Ben added.
“Someone broke into your room for this?” Agnes asked, taken aback.
Libby nodded.
“I was hoping you might have some idea why,” Ben said.
Agnes studied it under a magnifying glass. “I’m afraid beyond the material it’s made from and the type of ink used, you’ve come to the wrong person. I’m sorry I’m not of much use, but I know who might be.”
Ben raked a hand through his hair. “I was really hoping to avoid that.”
“If you want to see if this holds any secrets, he’s your man,” Agnes said.
Why were they talking in code? “He who?” Libby asked.
“Elliot,” they both said with a sigh.
Libby frowned. “Who’s Elliot?”
“A crazy old kook who lives out in the woods and also happens to be a friend of mine,” Ben explained.
“And this kook is supposed to help us?”
“You’d be surprised,” Agnes said with a smile.
Ben moved for the door. “We’ll have to get a message to him.”
“Message? Why don’t you just call him?”
“He doesn’t have a phone.”
“It’s 1979. Who doesn’t have a phone?”
“Elliot.” Ben held the door for Libby. “Thanks, Agnes.” He waved.
“My pleasure. Nice to meet you, Libby.”
“You too,” she said before stepping outside and turning to look up at Ben. “So how do we get a message to this Elliot?”
“You’ll see.” He winked.
TWELVE
Libby settled in by the campfire Ben had made somewhere in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness. She felt as if she were in an extreme Alaskan cloak-and-dagger documentary. They’d actually left a chalk X on a mailbox in town to get Elliot Hargrove’s attention. Seriously? How crazy was this guy?
The crackling wood, dancing flames, and warmth of the fire on her face was soothing. The pine scent of the trees surrounding them and the vast number of stars shining down made it a magical setting for a date, but it wasn’t a date. She had to keep reminding herself of that, despite the fact she was in the company of a man she was coming to believe was perfect—handsome, intelligent, resourceful, honest . . .
She exhaled in frustration, needing to distract her thoughts from Ben. “Okay, so what’s the deal with super spy guy?”
“Elliot?” Ben smiled. “He’s paranoid, but given his background, he has reason to be.”
“His background?”
“Let’s just say he’s witnessed backstabbing firsthand.”
“As in literal or figurative?” Apparently everyone in Yancey owned a gun, and most she’d seen carrying a knife as well.
Ben chuckled, but there was heartache in it. “Figurative, but, trust me, it’s no less painful.”
She eyed him curiously. What weight was he carrying? “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”
“That’s for Elliot to say, if he chooses.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I meant with you.”
He stopped stoking the fire. “That obvious, huh?”
“Apparently I’m not the only one who’s easy to read.” She smiled softly wanting to know more about what made the man who’d hijacked her heart tick. What was at the center of Ben McKenna’s soul, bumps, bruises, and all?
He sat back, rubbing his hands together—sturdy yet gentle hands she loved holding hers. “Remember you asked why I run fishing excursions?” he said.
“Yeah, you said because you love doing it.”
“Yeah. And that’s true . . .”
“But . . . ?”
“There’s another reason. After receiving my doctorate in Atomic Physics I started at Los Alamos labs.”
Her brow pinched. “In New Mexico? The crazy one the atomic bomb guys used to fly in and out of secretly?”
Curiosity danced across his brow. “Don’t tell me you’re a conspiracy theorist?”
“No. I just read a lot of newspapers while traveling. Some more scandalous in nature than others.”
“No . . .” He drew out the word as amusement tinged his lips. Lips that she ached to have pressed again to hers. “Don’t tell me.”
She leaned back with a bashful shrug. “Enquiring minds.”
He laughed, hard.
“All right, Chuckles,” she said. “Back to Los Alamos.”
“Right.” He moved to sit closer to her. His strong, broad shoulder nestled against her
s. She certainly wasn’t complaining as she leaned into his strength.
“I worked there two years,” he continued. “On a team under the tutelage of a man whom I greatly admired, Randolph Hess. He was a father figure to me, especially after my own father passed.”
“I sense a but coming. . . .”
Ben swiped his nose with a sigh. “One day he stole our team’s work and disappeared.”
“What?” Her eyes widened.
Ben shook his head, pain etched on his brow. “Rumor was he sold the Soviets our designs and defected to Russia.”
“What work? What designs?”
“I specialized in particle physics and worked with the team on a magnetically confined fusion weapon. It had never been done. We were so close to succeeding, but couldn’t quite get it to work. The government viewed it as a side project and never gave us the funding we required. If we’d had more time, more resources, maybe, just maybe . . .”
Libby shifted sideways, her knee brushing his muscular thighs. “I don’t understand. If your team didn’t succeed, then why did he bother stealing the work?”
Ben exhaled. “Randolph once told me it was the closest he’d ever seen a team come. I think when he realized our funding and program was being shut down to shift full focus on nuclear weapons he decided to find someplace else where they’d let him continue with the work.”
“And did he?”
“I have no idea, but I’ve had to live with the fear that he or whomever he sold our designs to in Russia put the funding into it and one day they—if they haven’t already—will succeed in making a compact fusion weapon.”
“What exactly is the threat of a fusion weapon versus a nuclear one?” Having grown up in the midst of the Cold War, she knew all about the nuclear threat. Air-raid drills during school when they had to climb under their desks and brace for impact. As if a three-by-three desk would provide any protection from a nuclear attack.
“Fusion weapons would be undetectable to our surveillance systems. That’s what makes them so dangerous.” Ben swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the firelight. “I believed our team was working on something that would help protect our country. Just the threat of a functional fusion weapon would instill a gigantic layer of protection, but after Randolph stole our work . . .”
Sins of the Past Page 17
