“Hey, Brendan. We’ve got a problem.”
His head came up and he straightened in his chair, but only the long finger he used to brush sweat from above his lip suggested that his mind had been on anything but work.
His underling seemed not to have noticed, but then, Kevin Brauer had never been particularly observant. He wouldn’t notice a man sweating in an air-conditioned room any more than he’d notice the black ink on a counterfeiter’s thumb. He was a technician, good for researching, chasing down leads and setting up schedules—the last of which, Brendan assumed correctly, was what had brought him around with such an aggrieved expression on his face.
“Smith doesn’t want to testify.”
Brendan flexed his sore racquetball shoulder. “That’s nothing new. He’s said so before.”
“But he’s refusing to show for the hearing. He says that he has to fly to Dallas on business and won’t be back until next Wednesday. If the hearing’s set for Tuesday—”
“He’ll have to change his plans. We’ve already postponed things twice to accommodate him. Accommodating time’s over.”
“What should I tell him?”
The set of Brendan’s jaw hinted at impatience directed more toward Kevin than Harold Smith. “Just what I said. Accommodating time’s over.”
“And if he balks?”
“Subpoena him.”
“Subpoena,” Kevin echoed with a vigorous nod as he withdrew his head from the door. “Right.”
Brendan let out a mocking snort and wondered about the Kevins of the world. They were, by and large, bright and had graduated law school with honors. But the regurgitation of book facts was one thing; creative thinking was another. Lawyers like Kevin were misplaced in the criminal division, where instincts were crucial. They’d do far better in antitrust or civil or tax.
But the Kevins of the world specifically wanted criminal. They envisioned high intrigue and action. Little did they know that the highest intrigue at this level of law enforcement was strictly intellectual and that the heart of the action was a war of wills.
Kevin Brauer did not have the personality to win a war of wills. Brendan did. A patient man, he spent a lot of time thinking, just thinking, mulling over the scores of documents he read each month, trying to identify patterns and anticipate moves. It was puzzle solving at its best, a battle of wits. Given his natural curiosity, the ability to project himself into other worlds and minds, an intricate knowledge of the law, an uncanny sense of timing and staunch determination, he had the edge.
The Smith case was a perfect example. Harold Smith owned a chemical plant similar in size and structure to two others that had been threatened with sabotage in the past year. Brendan’s instinct, aided by voluminous research and an unconfirmed source, told him that Smith’s plant was next in line. Though they all knew that the threat of chemical contamination of food sources or water supplies was a lethal weapon in the hands of terrorists, Harold Smith was resisting. He downplayed the vulnerability of his plant and the possibility that one of his employees was on the take. He didn’t want adverse publicity to result from an investigation that he believed would go nowhere.
Brendan’s job now was to quietly but firmly convince him that the publicity would be that much more adverse if he failed to cooperate.
His intercom beeped, jarring him from his thoughts. He jabbed at the button on the speaker phone. “Yes, Marge?”
“Miss Wills on line four. Are you in?”
He wished he weren’t, but he’d already put off the persistent Miss Wills twice today. “I’m in,” he said with a sigh, then switched off the speaker, pressed line four and lifted the receiver. “Hi, Jocelyn.”
“Does Marge hate me?” came the soft female voice.
Brendan had to smile. “Of course not.”
“I think I annoy her when I call.”
“Only because when I’m not here she has to make excuses, and too often I’m not here.”
“I keep missing you,” Jocelyn said with such genuine sadness that Brendan felt more than a twinge of guilt. Jocelyn Wills was a very lovely woman whom he’d dated on and off in the past few months. He liked her, but that was all, and when he’d sensed that her feelings had grown deeper than his, he’d tried to cool it.
Jocelyn wasn’t taking the hint. With the license granted the modern woman, she called him often. She even showed up at his apartment, “just to say hello.” He wouldn’t have minded the impromptu visits if it wasn’t for the fact that, when she put him on the spot that way, he felt like a heel if he didn’t ask her out. Inevitably he did. Inevitably he felt worse afterward. He knew that he should be more honest about his feelings, but he couldn’t hurt her. She was sweet and innocuous. She’d been living in the capital less than a year. Her circle of friends was small. She was lonely.
But when she said things like “I keep missing you,” the best he could do was play dumb to the double entendre.
“Things have been hectic here. We’re trying to tie up all sorts of loose ends before people start taking off for summer vacations.”
“Have you made your own plans yet?”
He squeezed his eyes shut and made a good-going-Brendan-you-jerk face. “Not yet, Jocelyn. I’m still waiting to see what the others plan to do.”
“Why? You have seniority over most of them. Tell them when you’re going away and let them plan around you.”
“It doesn’t work that way. With seniority comes greater responsibility. Besides, I can be more flexible than those who are trying to coordinate plans with their spouses and kids.”
When Jocelyn didn’t answer immediately, he knew precisely what she was thinking. She’d invited him to spend the last week of July with her at her family’s place on Martha’s Vineyard, and he’d been putting her off as tactfully as he could. No doubt she was hurt to have to play twentieth fiddle to his colleagues.
“I have to let my family know whether we want the house. My sister wants it the same week.”
“Let her have it,” Brendan said as gently as he could. “I honestly don’t think I’ll be able to get away for more than long weekends here and there.”
“But you need the time off. When was your last vacation?”
“March.”
“That doesn’t count. You went to a conference.”
He didn’t bother to say that he’d taken several days for himself when the conference was through. He hadn’t felt he’d been dating Jocelyn long enough to merit a joint vacation, or so he’d told himself at the time, but even back then he must have known that his feelings for her were finite. He wasn’t a prude. If he’d wanted her, he’d have had her join him in a minute. But as pleasant as she was, she didn’t excite him.
On the other hand, he could seriously consider kidnapping Sweet-and-Sexy and whisking her off for a month. Martha’s Vineyard, Bar Harbor, Hilton Head … hell, he could take a suite at the nearest Marriott and be happy.
“Well,” he said with a sigh that had nothing to do with vacation schedules, “conference or no, I was out of the office, so it was a break.”
“I was looking forward to the Vineyard.”
“Why don’t you go anyway? The place is swarming with people in the summer.”
“I was looking forward to going with you.”
“I can’t make it, Jocelyn.”
“I’ll hold the house for the week,” she said with sudden resolve. “My sister will just have to make other plans.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’m tired of being fair. If I have the house, maybe you’ll join me, even for a day or two.”
“Jocelyn—”
“Don’t say a word. Just know that the invitation is still open, okay?”
“It’s not okay,” he said in frustration. “Listen to me. If I take time off this summer, I’ll be going off where no one can reach me. I’ll want to be alone, isolated from everything to do with my life here.”
“Isolated from me?” she asked in a small voice.
“Isolated from everyone.”
“Oh.” She thought about that for a while; then, for whatever her reasons, she decided against arguing. “Okay. But you’ll still be welcome at the Vineyard during that last week in July.” She took a quick breath. “But the real reason I’m calling is that there’s going to be a lecture on Soviet-American relations next Thursday night at school. The Soviet ambassador will probably be there. I was planning on going and thought you might like to join me.”
“Thursday night?” he echoed, buying time to decide what to do.
“At eight. Will you be busy that night?”
There was busy and there was busy. A quick glance at his desk calendar told him that he didn’t have anything formal on the agenda. But if he didn’t have work to do at home, he might want to play raquetball or read a good book … or sit in his darkened apartment and stare across the courtyard.
“Uh…”
“If you have plans, I’ll understand.”
If only she wouldn’t understand. When she spoke so gently and sincerely, he felt badly all over again. “No, I don’t have plans.”
“Would you like to go?”
Soviet-American relations? Hell, the topic was good. He always enjoyed hearing a new slant. “Sure, Jocelyn. Should I meet you there?” She worked at American, which was how she came to be on the inside track for the university’s lectures.
“Unless you want to catch a bite to eat beforehand,” she suggested hopefully.
It occurred to him that that sounded too much like a date, while the beauty of meeting her at a lecture was its impersonality. He doubted she’d be any more attuned to the subtlety now than she’d been in the past, but he had to give it a try.
“Better let me get as much done here as I can. That way I won’t feel as guilty about taking time for the lecture.”
“Guilt will be your downfall, Brendan,” she teased.
You should only know, he thought, but rather than follow up on her jibe, he simply asked her in what room the lecture was being held, promised to meet her there at eight and signed off.
* * *
That night, Brendan sat in his living room taking a good, long look at himself and his life. Sweet-and-Sexy’s apartment was dark, but his self-examination had less to do with that fact and the possibility that he was bored than it had to do with the fantasy itself.
It frightened him a little, the depth of that fantasy. He’d always been more a doer than a dreamer. He’d always been active and busy, and he was now, but still he was dwelling on a fantasy that could prove as insubstantial as a wet tissue. He wondered why he was doing it. Was the void in his life that great?
He supposed, when he thought about it, that he was lonely. He was surrounded by people all day and by rights should be thrilled to spend his nights alone, and for the longest time that had been okay. Now, though, it seemed wrong. He wasn’t sure when the change had taken place. Life had a way of speeding by, a blurred panorama of events that came into focus only when one slowed down to make a turn. He hadn’t planned on turning. His subconscious must have stuck a hand on the wheel.
He wondered if it had something to do with his age. Women weren’t the only ones aware of biological clocks. Any man who was active in sports knew that at thirty he was a tad slower than he’d been at twenty, at thirty-eight a tad slower than he’d been five years before. Brendan had never been bothered by that; what little he’d lost in speed he’d gained in finesse.
Nor was he vain; he didn’t fear going gray or needing glasses or getting wrinkles. It was more a matter of health and strength. He wanted to be able to enjoy a wife and kids when he was in his prime, which brought him back to the biological clock. He was reaching his prime damn fast.
Sprawling lower on the sofa, he steepled his fingers against his mouth. Where was she? Her apartment was still dark as pitch, and it was nine o’clock. The thought of her on a date made him jealous. The thought of her away for the weekend left him in despair. Feeling distinctly antsy, he bolted from the chair and stalked into the bathroom. A tepid shower brought relief from the night’s heat, but it did little to settle his mind. Moments later, barely dry, he tugged on a pair of nylon running shorts, grabbed a Miller Lite from the fridge and climbed onto the fire escape. Popping the tab with his thumb, he chugged a third of the can before setting it down on his knee.
He’d be a good catch, he argued in his own defense. He was easy to look at, easy to be with. Having lived alone for so long, he was self-sufficient. Okay, so his apartment wouldn’t pass a white-glove test, but he knew the rudiments of cooking, regularly emptied the trash and, when inspiration struck, could make his bed. He came from good stock, had a solid education, a stable job in a stable profession. Granted, as a public servant he didn’t earn the big bucks that he might in the private sector, but he had lived modestly over the years and had saved. If she gave the word, he’d buy a house. He kind of liked that idea. Something out of the city. Something with lots of privacy. Something with acres of land for the kids.
She’d want kids; he knew she would. She’d even want to put her job on hold while the kids were young. He’d never ask her to do it. It would be her own decision, but it would please him. He was a modern male and all, and he’d insist on doing his share when he was home. Still, that old-fashioned part of him believed kids did best in those early years when they were with their moms, particularly with moms like her.
He took another drink, then stared grimly into the dark. So he was into the fantasy again, and the scariest part was that it seemed so real and so right picturing Sweet-and-Sexy in his future.
My man, you’re in for a fall, he told himself. She’ll turn out to be an accountant with a squeaky voice and an aversion to sex.
But all such thoughts flew from his head then, because the light in her apartment came on. Teeth against his upper lip, he watched closely while she set the mail on the counter, laid down the blazer she’d been carrying along with her briefcase, opened the French windows wide, then turned on the answering machine. As she listened, she was working at freeing the buttons of her blouse. His teeth sank deeper when the blouse flared open, and though she kept her back to him, his imagination went wild.
That was all she allowed. Skirting the bed, she passed from his line of vision.
He was aching for more, his entire body tight. Exhaling the breath he’d held, he slowly drew in another, let it out, drew in another, let it out. By the time he’d gained a modicum of self-control, she was returning to the answering machine, wearing a very large, very long, pale-yellow T-shirt. No sooner had she switched off the machine than she walked to the window.
He held his ground. His pulse quickened, but he didn’t look away.
Her shoulders were straight. Her arms hung gently by her sides. Though her face was in shadow, he knew the instant their eyes met. He felt it viscerally, that silent hello, and, counting on the force of brain waves, sent back his own.
How was your day? he asked.
Better now, she answered, And yours?
Likewise. Is your apartment very hot?
She trailed the flat of her hand down her neck. Yes. But I don’t mind. Air conditioners are noisy.
There wouldn’t be anyplace to put one here. It’d be a shame to block the windows.
I agree.
You have a ceiling fan, don’t you? I can’t quite see.
Her fingers crept up her scalp, drawing the weight of her hair from her neck. I do.
I’m glad. It helps, doesn’t it?
Yes.
Why don’t you get something to drink? I feel guilty sitting here with my beer.
In a minute. Her hand fell from her hair and came to rest lightly on her stomach. I don’t want to move just yet.
But she did move, casting an abrupt glance over her shoulder. Only when he’d pulled himself from the fantasy did he hear a faint jangle. She looked back at him.
It’s the phone. Will you excuse me for a minute?
Sure.
You won’t leave?
Nope.
He imagined he saw the faintest smile curve her lips before she turned and trotted to the phone.
* * *
“Finally!”
Caroline’s heart skipped a beat. “Karen? Is it the baby?”
“No. It’s you! You’re finally home! I tried you twice last night and then once earlier tonight.”
That explained the clicks on her answering machine. “Why didn’t you leave a message?”
“Because it didn’t work last time. You didn’t return my call.”
Caroline felt duly chastised. “I was planning to call this weekend, when I had time to sit and really talk.”
“Can you talk now?”
Could she talk with her sister? Of course she could. I mean, enough is enough. When it gets to the point that you’re imagining conversations with a man you’ve never met …
Arcing an apologetic glance toward the window, she drew out one of the kitchen chairs and sank down. “Sure, Karen. I’d love to talk. Tell me how you’re feeling.”
“Fat and heavy and hot.”
“That great?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s baby?”
Karen’s voice picked up. “Kicking up a storm. Really hardy, says the doctor.”
“That must make you feel good,” Caroline returned with a smile. “I wish I could see.”
“None of us can see.”
“I mean touch.”
“Everybody touches. It’s weird, Caro. Everybody touches. I mean, it’s my body, but everybody touches. You can touch. That’s okay. Obviously Dan can, and my friends, even the people I work with every day. But clients?”
Caroline heard the tension in her sister’s high-pitched babble. “They’re envious,” she said, but the soothing words were far more than mere platitude. She knew what she was saying. She felt that envy herself. “You have something they want.”
“I try to remember that when my back aches and my ankles swell to twice their normal size.”
“Twice?” Caroline chided.
“Well, maybe not twice, but close.”
Warm Hearts Page 6
