She turned a little, giving him the chance to look right into her bottomless eyes and decide if this was the truth or not.
He stared back at her, hating that he was leaning to not. “Are you serious?”
“Dead. And if I don’t want to be, I’m not saying any more than that.”
“What? You have to tell me what happened. You know I won’t quit asking until I know.”
“I’m beginning to figure that out.” She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them as if she could ball herself up from what she knew she had to say. “One of my clients, my biggest, wealthiest, most profitable client, I might add, turned out to be a drug trafficker. A Bolivian drug lord, actually, living the high life in a multimillion-dollar penthouse in Miami Beach that I was redesigning for him.”
Possible. Plausible, even. He knew quite a bit from the Coast Guard about trafficking and knew that Bolivia, though landlocked, bordered some heavy hitters. Bolivia had been gaining in stature in the South American narcotics trade, and Miami was well known as a hub for US-based transnational drug rings.
But that kind of person seemed like an unlikely client for this woman who demanded a full background and history before picking a paint color. He tamped down his doubts and asked, “Okay, so what happened?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “One day I was home, in my apartment, minding my own business, and someone knocked on the door, and it was a woman who I thought was one of his many hangers-on. Rich people are surrounded by sycophants, something I’ve gotten used to in my business. I opened the door, and wham, she flashes a badge, tells me she’s undercover FBI and that they’d almost arrested my client the night before.”
“But they didn’t?” And if they hadn’t, would they really tell a civilian? Not a chance. Not a molecule of a chance.
“He got wind of what was going down—I have no idea how, who, or what they were going to do. All I know is someone in his organization told him that he’d been betrayed by a woman.”
“The one at your door. The undercover FBI agent.”
She nodded and eyed him as if she’d picked up the note of skepticism in his voice. “I’m telling the truth,” she said simply.
He didn’t answer and saw that register on her face, too. Man, she was easier to read without makeup. Her color rose and fell, and her eyes were less distracting without the paint, and far more honest.
“He decided that woman had to be me, that I was the undercover agent or mole or whatever.”
“Why? What would make him think that?”
“I didn’t ask at the time because the sense of urgency was real.” She rubbed her arms, but not against any chill since the fire warmed them both. He imagined her chill was from the memory of what happened…or knowing she was lying.
Why couldn’t he tell?
“This agent literally swooped me out of town,” she said. “She packed my bags, drove me to Miami International, stuffed a ticket to Seattle in my hand, and the whole time, she was firing instructions at me, which were basically ‘get the hell out of Dodge and fast.’ Oh, and don’t trust anyone. That was rule number one.”
He didn’t say a word for a long time, playing this through in his mind.
After a moment, her shoulders fell. “You don’t believe me.”
“I…I don’t not believe you,” he said. “But as stories go, this one is out there.”
She looked disgusted. “What’s ‘out there’ is a guy who wants me dead. So I followed her rules. When I got to Seattle, I got on a bus that was going as far as I could go while staying in Washington State, which was one of the rules.”
“Why?”
She choked. “I don’t know, Adam. Maybe proximity to an FBI office?”
“Closest one’s in Portland. In Oregon.”
“I honestly don’t know. I’m just doing what I was told to stay alive.” She notched her head in the direction of town. “I had no idea this place has an airport, because that makes it a heck of a lot less appealing to me.”
“So you wouldn’t have come?” And all this could have been avoided…or missed, depending on his point of view.
“I picked the town by looking at a departures board in a bus station. The name sounded…uplifting.”
He didn’t say anything, but poked a stick at the fire, still thinking it all through. Why would she just make up a wild-ass story like that if it wasn’t true?
Because she was on the run from the law herself? She was involved in a drug ring? Who knew? She did. She knew and wasn’t telling him.
“It should all be over in a few weeks, though,” she added. “And I can go home.”
“Are you sure? How?”
“The agent called me, and they have a new plan to get him. But he still thinks it’s me, and he thinks I took something important from his office that’s missing, so…”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know,” she said again, frustration in the words. “I am not in the inner circle of FBI undercover activities, Adam. I was his interior designer one minute and on his hit list the next.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
She closed her eyes. “I can’t tell you names.”
“Why? You worried I’ll Google him and find out you’re lying?”
She flinched a little at that. “I don’t know what you’d find if you Googled him, probably the fact that he owns a penthouse on Ocean Avenue worth four million and runs ‘multiple companies,’ if you found anything at all.”
“What were you doing for him?”
“I told you. Renovating and redecorating.”
“So if he was a drug lord, why didn’t you find that out when you tried to get into his psyche so you could be inspired to do his design?” He heard the note of cynicism in his voice, and judging by the look on her face, she heard it, too. And it hurt.
Damn it.
“He was pretty much throwing money at me.”
“Cash?” he asked, still a little too sharply.
She turned away and didn’t dignify that one with a response. “I’m not lying,” she whispered. “Is that what you think? Really?”
“I don’t know what I think,” he said softly. “Tell me more about this guy. And the FBI agent.”
“Don’t you think it’s better if you don’t know?”
“What if someone by that name comes to town and I find out because I’ve lived here most of my life and I know everyone? I could warn you if Mr. Bolivian Bad Guy checks into the Broadleaf.”
“He won’t,” she said.
“How do you know?”
She answered with a deep sigh. “I’ve told you everything I’m comfortable sharing. That’s why I didn’t want to show ID to the police. What if they put it in some file somewhere and he has access or a cop on the take who gives him the information? I don’t know how powerful this guy is.”
“Can I see your ID?”
“No.”
“Will you tell me your real name?”
“No.”
“What would you do if I contacted my friend the policeman and asked him to run a little check on FBI undercover operations on Bolivian drug lords in Miami?”
She turned to him, her eyes surprisingly welling with tears. “What if I’m telling the truth and that gets me killed? How would you feel about that, Adam?”
The question punched him right in the gut. She was right, of course. And one death on a man’s soul was enough.
Slowly, he stood and smothered the fire with some dirt. Then he brushed his hands on his jeans and reached for the pack. “We better get down the mountain before it rains.”
She squinted up at him, those tears still threatening and torturing him. “Do you believe me?”
Yes. No. Maybe. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But you’re not going to die on my watch, that’s for damn sure.”
She closed her eyes in relief, and one tear trickled down, slicing through him. “Thank you.”
“You can st
ay at my apartment.”
After a moment, she held her hand up to him. “Thanks for the rescue, Coastie.”
He lifted her easily and pulled her up to his chest. When she looked up at him, the impact of her dark eyes and sweet, vulnerable face damn near buckled his knees. They held each other’s gaze, like a silent promise, and then she closed her eyes, and he had to fight with everything he had not to kiss her.
Because that was the last damn thing he needed.
Chapter Nine
Adam’s apartment above A To Z Watersports was small, not quite a studio, but not quite a legitimate one-bedroom, either. And as apartments go, it was dull. Except for the view from every window, the open space had very little life in it.
Curious, since he seemed to have so much. At least, he did when he was outdoors.
The bed was wedged into an alcove barely big enough for a queen-size mattress, but it was under a huge window that faced the river and mountains. The living area was furnished with a couple of recliners and a love seat, adjacent to a kitchen with a small table, two chairs, and a single counter top.
With the exceptions of a few Coast Guard certificates, the space had a distinctly temporary feel.
“How long have you been here?” she asked after getting the tour that took less than a minute.
“Two years. Little more, actually.” As if he picked up on her assessment, he nodded. “I thought it would be short-term, but I put every dime into the boathouse, so Zane lets me live here basically for the cost of utilities. After I bought the boathouse from my grandfather, I’m sinking my entire savings into the renovation.”
“Oh.” She slipped into a chair at the kitchen table and reached into her bag for the drawings. “Then you want to see my ideas?”
“You’re kidding, right?” He joined her at the table. “Pretty sure I’ve been wanting to do that all day. Longer.”
She spread the papers out, trying to put them in some kind of order, but he snagged the first one, flipping it around to face him.
“That’s the loft?”
“Yes, that’s the loft, and while we were hiking, I was thinking the design of the stairs could somehow emulate the mountain. But, of course, these are really rough sketches for color, not voice.”
He looked up. “Voice? The boathouse has a voice?”
“All spaces have something to say. It’s my job to bring that voice to life.”
He grunted under his breath. “I honestly don’t want it to be that elaborate.”
“But the rooms have to say something to the people in them.”
“How about ‘welcome, keep it clean, and go to bed because we put in to raft at seven a.m.’?”
She smiled and shook her head. “You have a huge opportunity here to make the living quarters as exciting as the adventures. This town is special, and you have to know that. It’s beautiful and has a unique history. And the founders are still alive! They should be part of it.”
He didn’t answer as he studied a few more sketches.
“I’d like to put a mural on the wall there,” Jane said, her own voice rising with excitement. “I just sketched the mountains, but I want something more…historic. The geography is out the window and will be reflected in the earth tones and some simple but exciting touches, like the stairs. But the history has to be there, too. Any ideas? Did your grandfather share the history with you?”
“Sure,” he said, flipping to another page. “The history of how he got drunk and bet the good land, and John Westbrook cheated or stole his girl or…something. It was damn near seventy years ago, and not one of those old Army Air Corps coots actually remembers the details. Just that they had to hate each other.”
“I don’t want to capture some ancient feud.” No, that was the opposite of what she wanted.
“Of course not.” He looked at the kitchen design. “This is nice, Jadyn. I love the greens and browns and that sort of smattering of yellow there, if it doesn’t take too much time to paint.”
“It’s called a pop of color, and it’s supposed to capture those yellow flowers on the side of the mountain.” She rested her chin in her hand. “But what about the ridge? What about the eagle? That would make a great mural.”
“I guess.” He sounded far from convinced. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings or silence the, uh, voice of this place, but I don’t have time to commission a mural. We need to get the appliances in, finish the bathroom, and maybe paint the walls. The stairs have to be to code, too, so I’m not all hyped about something that emulates the mountain.”
He could barely hide his utter lack of enthusiasm for her plan.
“I’m hoping to finish the hard-core carpentry this weekend when my buddy Ford’s in town, although…” He exhaled. “It’s not a penthouse with a massive budget and all the time in the world, Jadyn. It’s just a dormitory for kids.”
“A dormitory for kids who are in trouble, at risk, or living in bad situations,” she added. “That’s what you said.”
“Kids who need to straighten up and fly right.”
“Exactly.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “I bet someone who was a member of the Army Air Corps would have a lot to contribute to that concept.”
“I’m sure they do, but—”
“Straighten up and fly right,” she repeated, dragging out the words as they sank into her head. “Oh yes! That can be the theme of the whole thing. That’s the voice, the message. The military influence here in this gorgeous slice of rugged land!” She clasped her hands together as the vision got more clear with every second. “Oh, I love it!”
“I…guess. Except, all I want are beds and a living area.”
“Kind of like this lovely apartment of yours?”
He gave a quick, self-deprecating laugh. “I told you, I thought it was temporary. I know it’s boring.”
“Boredom is why a lot of these kids are in trouble, Adam.”
“No, they’re in trouble because they smoke weed and get drunk and do stupid stuff.”
“Like gluing pennies to locks?”
“We weren’t drunk or high, just…kids.”
“Because you had direction and family and history and this beautiful town behind you. Am I right?”
“I guess, but…” He considered that, nodding slowly. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s exactly what…yeah, you’re right.”
“What were you going to say?” she asked.
“Nothing, not important. You totally get what I want to do for these kids.”
“Why?”
He frowned as if the question confused him. “I don’t know, but I do want them to straighten up and fly right, so if you’re hell-bent on a theme, yeah. But only if it can be done in time. The corporate tour arrives a week from Friday.”
She looked hard at him, studying his face the way he’d looked at her when she told him her story up on the mountain. Like there had to be more to this and she was trying to read it in his expression. “I meant why is it so important to you?” she asked.
He shrugged, maybe a little too casually and quickly, giving the question no thought at all. “Because I want to give them this.” He gestured toward the window and view beyond. “I want them to appreciate the beauty and power of nature, that’s all.”
Was it? “It’s personal, right?”
After a moment, he said, “It’s important to me, and you don’t need to dig any deeper than that. Stick with this geography and history, okay?”
He’d helped her out of a jam today, and then he’d been kind enough to back off when she wanted him to, so she nodded in agreement.
“We’ll give them all of that and more,” she assured him. “During the day, while they hike and raft. But at night, in that cavern of a boathouse, let them soak up the fact that these four men, comrades-in-arms, took this little piece of paradise and made it this amazing place with families and diners and thriving businesses.”
“Comrades-in-arms?” He chuckled. “That’s rich. Well, maybe at first.
Then they started fighting over land and split into two sides, which were essentially rich against poor, and put a rift in this town deeper than that river.”
“But that’s part of the history,” she argued. “And you said it was over.”
“It’ll be over when they die, which, with all of them in their nineties, won’t be long.”
“That makes it even more important that we do it now. I bet they have so much stuff we could use. Memorabilia, pictures, keepsakes and newspaper articles and medals. Does your grandpa have that?”
He winced. “Might be a sore spot. He lost almost everything but his life in a flood last month. Right now, he’s living with my dad and damned upset about it.”
“In his nineties? I wouldn’t think that would upset him.”
“He’s very independent, or at least, he was.”
She considered that. “Then he can work on the project with us. Can we get them together?”
“All in one place?” He blew out a breath. “The feud might be technically over, but I doubt John Westbrook’s going to hang with those guys. But…” He angled his head and smiled. “It’s Wednesday, right?”
“All day.”
He looked down at his chunky sports watch. “In forty-five minutes, two of them will be at No Man’s Land. Grandpa Max and his best friend, David Bennett, go every Wednesday for the WarBird Special at 4:45, rain or shine.”
She grinned and looked out at the drizzle that had finally started to dampen the town. “Perfect. We’ll meet them there.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course we will.”
* * *
What the hell was wrong with him? The question burned in Adam’s brain as they walked silently to No Man’s Land. Next to him, Jadyn tucked into a jacket he’d found in the rental room downstairs. She literally had come to Washington State without any outerwear at all. So, that much of her story rang true.
The rain was light, but steady, with steel-gray skies and a hint of winter clinging stubbornly to the April air.
Adam (7 Brides for 7 Soldiers Book 2) Page 9
