by Irene Hannon
“She might have a date.” He adjusted the water temperature.
“Nah. Not with all that electricity pinging between you two. She’ll be going solo too.”
“Since when did you develop psychic powers?”
“Doesn’t take a psychic to detect flying bolts of electricity. I was almost afraid to stand between the two of you. Even Finn noticed, and you know how oblivious he can be to that kind of stuff.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Touchy, touchy. Fine, I’ll let you go.”
Mac propped a shoulder against the cool tile. “Listen . . . now that you’re home, don’t be a stranger, okay?”
“I’ll keep in touch.”
“You better. And I’m really glad you’re back on US soil.” His voice rasped.
“You want the truth? It’s nice to be back. Delta was a great gig, but it’s time to move on. Speaking of that, how long did it take you to decompress?”
“You mean before I stopped waking up with an adrenaline rush and scrambling for my weapon whenever a car backfired at night?”
“Yeah.”
“A year, maybe. Still happens once in a while, in fact—but less often. You okay on that front?” His hand tightened on the phone as he asked the question. One of his best SEAL buddies had been slammed with PTSD, and it hadn’t been pretty.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just the normal stuff all soldiers deal with after a few tours. I’m planning on sleeping real fine sooner rather than later.”
“You’ll get help if you need it, right?” That had been the trouble with his buddy. He’d never admitted he had a problem. SEALs were too strong to get PTSD.
Not.
“Hey, bro, chill. I’m perfectly sane—or as sane as I’ve ever been. It was a simple question. You need to get that worry gene of yours under control.”
“Hard to do when you have kid brothers who tried to rappel from a third-floor apartment and almost broke their necks.”
“That was more than twenty years ago. But you’re never going to let us forget it, are you?”
He grinned. “Probably not. As I recall, Dad had to do some fast-talking to keep us from being evicted. At least you tried that stunt while he was assigned to London. Authorities in Qatar might have shot first and asked questions later.”
“Very funny. In any case, you can stop worrying about me now. If you need a distraction, call the hottie.”
“Good-bye, Lance.”
Once again, his brother chuckled. “See ya.”
The line went dead, and Mac set the cell on the vanity. Lance was a piece of work—but he had great intuition. A handy professional asset, even if it could be annoying on a personal level.
He pulled off his watch. Not yet nine-thirty, and no real plans for the day—or evening.
Maybe he’d follow his brother’s advice and give Lisa a call later. It wouldn’t be as satisfying as a date, but it was better than spending a mindless evening watching TV. He could use the case as an excuse, then work his way into more personal territory. It couldn’t hurt to lay some more groundwork for their less-official relationship.
A relationship he intended to pursue the instant the Alena Komisky case was put to rest.
Jessica slid open the door to her terrace and stepped out.
Still hot, even with the sun dipping low in the west. But after being shuttered all day in the condo making plans, she needed a break before she placed the call that would set everything in motion.
In the dusky light, she strolled over to the railing. What she was about to undertake was ambitious—and there’d be no turning back once she started down this road.
But what choice did she have? Everything she’d worked for all these years was a whisper away. As long as there were no glitches, the board would rubber-stamp Robert’s recommendation—and in a few months she’d be sitting in the corner office, running the show. Filling the role she’d been born to play.
Jessica Lee—CEO.
See, Dad. I did amount to something after all.
She wrapped her fingers around the railing, frowning.
Where had that come from?
Who cared about Ned Lee’s opinion, wherever he was . . . if he was even still alive. His liver had probably given out long ago. A father who drank his family into ruin, heaped verbal abuse on his wife and children, then abandoned his daughter when things got too tough, didn’t deserve a millisecond of thought. Good riddance to him. She’d done fine on her own. Far better than he had, despite his grandiose dreams and plans.
Streetlights began to blink on far below, and the muted sound of traffic filtered up to her terrace, close enough for her to feel part of the city, but far enough away to give her absolute privacy and solitude.
Just the way she liked it.
People were messy.
But she was about to clean up one particular mess.
She moved over to the lounge chair, sat on the edge, and pulled the disposable cell out of her pocket.
Strange that Erika hadn’t called all day. Patience had never been her strong suit. But perhaps she’d had second thoughts about her blackmail plan. Recognized she’d made a mistake.
Too late.
If she’d done it once, she could do it again—and that kind of hovering threat wasn’t tolerable. Erika had started this game, and they were going to play it out to the finish.
Finger poised over her number, she paused.
Last chance to change her mind.
But her plan was sound. She could pull it off. Her talent for damage control was one of the reasons she excelled at PR. That, and her ability to read people, to know which buttons to push to win their trust without ever tipping them off they’d been manipulated. Her excellent research and planning skills had also helped propel her to the top. All those abilities would serve her well as she implemented her plan.
There was no reason to hesitate. This was the best solution to the problem. The risk was minimal.
To her, anyway.
Smiling, she swung her legs onto the lounge chair, leaned back, and tapped in Erika’s number.
“One, two, three, awesome! Keep going . . . arms—one, two, three, four . . . again—one, two, three, four . . . skip, skip, skip, skip . . . shoulders—push, push, push, push . . . Repeat . . . jazz square—one, two, three, four. Repeat. Keep it moving . . . one, two . . .”
Without missing a beat of her routine, Lisa cocked her ear. Was that her cell ringing?
She ran over to it, staying in rhythm.
Yep. It was ringing.
She paused the DVD and read the digital display. Mac.
All at once her day got brighter.
She snagged her towel from the back of the chair in her exercise room and mopped her forehead. “Hi, Mac. What’s up?”
“Nothing much, but I haven’t talked to you in a couple of days and thought I’d check in.”
“Nothing new on my end, either.” Tally poked his nose in the door, as if to reassure himself the loud music had been extinguished, and trotted over. “Thanks again for being the FBI liaison with Alena’s mother. They got the job done fast.”
“The FBI is nothing if not efficient. They’re experts at maneuvering through protocols and red tape. With the lab backlog here, things will be a bit slower on our end, I’m afraid. It usually takes about two weeks to get DNA results, but I’m going to ask one of my colleagues with longer tenure to lean on them. So how come you’re out of breath?”
“You interrupted my jazzercise routine.”
“Sounds like an exciting Saturday night.”
“Not—but I didn’t have any better offers.” Her eyes widened at her flirty response. That wasn’t her usual style.
But a lot of things were different with Mac.
“Hmm. Lonesome?”
Yeah, strangely enough she was. In general, Tally provided plenty of companionship.
Admitting that, though, might prompt an offer she wouldn’t be able to refuse—and they needed to stay the cour
se until Alena’s case was put to rest.
“I have Tally.” She ruffled his ears, evading the question.
“Nice to know who the competition is.”
“Cute. What are you doing tonight?”
“Thinking about you.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
“Not when I’m on a mission.”
She fanned herself with her free hand. “Are all SEALs so . . . focused?”
“I can’t vouch for all SEALs—but it’s a definitive McGregor trait.”
She could buy that . . . at least socially. Lance and Finn hadn’t made any secret of their interest in her the day they’d met.
“You make it sound like a tactical exercise.”
He chuckled. “There are some similarities. And I’ll let you in on my next tactic. The minute this case wraps, I’m inviting you to dinner.”
A quiver of anticipation thrummed through her. “I’ll pencil it in.”
“Use indelible ink. So what can we do to speed things along . . . other than light a fire under the County lab people to get the DNA sample tested?”
She wiped her face again and draped the towel around her neck. “I want to pay Erika another visit later next week. She’s a lot less smooth and in control than Jessica. If we keep rattling her cage, we might shake a few pieces of information loose.”
“Want some company?”
“That would be great, if you can fit it in.”
“I can fit it in.” No hesitation.
“He’s not too busy to make time for you, I bet.”
As her mother’s words echoed in her mind, she grinned. Chalk one up for Mom.
“I’m also thinking there are some interesting dynamics in her relationship with Jessica that could work to our advantage.” She walked back and forth, keeping her muscles warmed up. “Those two don’t seem at all simpatico.”
“I agree. Crime can create strange bedfellows. If nothing pans out here, though, it might be worth a trip to Paducah to talk with Joe Andrews.”
“You’re reading my mind.” She patted Tally’s head as he trotted along beside her. “But if none of them slip, we’re sunk. Stan Breton did a thorough job twenty-four years ago. Despite his suspicions and diligent digging, he didn’t find one piece of hard evidence to tie the three of them to Alena’s disappearance. I agree with him that they know a whole lot more than they’re telling, but to move this along, one of them has to make a mistake.”
“I have a feeling Erika’s our best hope on that score.”
“Me too. Any time work best for you later next week to pay her a visit?”
“No. I have no idea what will be on my schedule. I’ll try to shift things around if they conflict with your interview.”
“Are you this accommodating with everybody?”
“No.”
His firm, single-word response sent a rush of warmth to her heart. “I’ll call you.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Now I guess I better let you get back to your jazzercise.”
“Somehow it’s lost its allure. Talking to you is a whole lot more fun.”
A chuckle came over the line. “If you think this was fun, wait for the dinner date I have planned.”
“That’s a big promise to live up to.”
“Worried I’ll fall short?”
“Nope. I have every confidence you’ll deliver.”
“Count on it.”
The conversational ball was back in her court, and she tried to think of something—anything—to extend their banter. “So have you heard anything from your brothers?”
She listened as he recounted his phone conversation with Lance earlier in the day and mentioned Finn’s redeployment.
“You know, you all have interesting names—but I assume Mac is a nickname, right? Your parents didn’t actually name you Mac McGregor.”
There was a long pause before he responded. “No.”
She waited.
Nothing.
“That’s it? You’re not going to tell me your real name?”
“I’ve gone by Mac for as long as I can remember. My given name is very . . . Scottish.”
“It’s not Angus, is it?”
“Worse.” He sighed. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay. I’ve shared this with only a few people. Consider it a sacred trust. Brace yourself—it’s Archibald.”
A giggle bubbled up, but she managed to contain it. Thank goodness they were on the phone and not talking in person. Mac was so not an Archibald.
“You still there, or did I scare you off?”
“Still here.” She swallowed past her chortle. “I have to say I prefer Mac.”
“You and me both. And now I’ll hang up so you can let out that laugh you’re holding in.”
“Why do you think I’m trying not to laugh?”
“Because if I were you, that’s what I’d be trying to do. Have fun with your jazzercise, and give Tally a pat for me.”
She reached down. “Doing the latter as we speak. Talk to you soon.”
“Can’t be soon enough for me. Sleep well.”
The line disconnected, and she slowly set the phone down. Not much chance of a restful night with Mac—and his mission—occupying her thoughts.
Maybe she could wear herself out with a double dose of exercise.
After dispensing one final pat to Tally, she aimed the DVD remote toward the TV. Her canine companion took one look and galloped away.
Two seconds later, the instructional video reappeared on the screen. She cranked up the sound and dove back in.
But no matter how many jazz squares or stretches or grapevines or kick-ball-changes she did, she couldn’t stop thinking about what role a handsome—and determined—ex-SEAL might play in her future.
17
Sorry again about having to ask you to come to my rescue.” Jessica balanced the tote bag on her lap and adjusted her sunglasses. “I just had the BMW checked out. You’d think the mechanics would have been more thorough.”
“I don’t mind. That shopping center isn’t far from the house.” Erika swung her car into the entrance of the upscale residential area she called home—for now. “I like your hair in that upswept do, by the way. It gives you a different look.”
Exactly the reason she’d chosen this style.
Plus, with all the spray she’d used to cement it in place, there wasn’t much chance she’d lose any stray—and potentially incriminating—hairs.
“Thanks.” As Erika turned down her street, Jessica tipped her bag, spilling some of the contents onto the floor.
“Oops. Sorry about that.” Erika eased back on the accelerator. “Jack always said I drove too fast.”
“No problem.” Jessica bent down and began gathering up the items that had fallen out, keeping her face hidden from anyone who might happen to be out and about on this warm Tuesday evening walking a dog . . . watering a planter . . . keeping an eye on the neighbors. The light was growing dim—as she’d planned—but it never hurt to take extra precautions.
She didn’t finish collecting the items and straighten up until Erika swung into her driveway and rolled toward the attached rear-entry garage.
Once the car was hidden from view and the engine went silent, Jessica opened her door, keeping a mental inventory of everything she touched. So far, just the outer and inner door handles of the Audi.
She followed Erika into the house, through the mudroom, across a kitchen filled with high-end appliances and expensive finishes. Jack had spent some big bucks on this place.
Other people’s bucks.
She tightened her grip on the tote bag. Stealing was despicable—and deserved to be punished.
“Do you want to talk in the living room or the study?” Erika paused on the far side of the kitchen.
“You choose.”
“The bar’s in the study, if you’d like a drink. It’s fully stocked—soft drink
s too, if that’s your preference.”
“Fine by me.”
Jessica continued to catalogue Jack’s trappings of success as she crossed the polished marble floor and passed a glass case displaying what appeared to be a Boehm sculpture. And was that a Schonbek chandelier above her head? Only Swarovski crystal had that kind of sparkle. Too fussy and ostentatious for her taste, but a piece like that could easily have set him back twenty-five grand.
Maybe some of those people he’d bilked out of their hard-earned cash would get a chunk of their money back after all, once the court swooped in and cleaned the place out.
As she entered the study, Erika motioned toward two burgundy, brass-studded leather chairs angled in front of the fireplace. “What would you like?”
“Chardonnay, if you have it.”
“Jack has everything.”
Not for long.
“I brought you a present.” She chose a chair and pulled a gift bag out of her tote. “This is what I was buying when my car died. I’m not an aficionado, but the clerk told me it’s an excellent brand.”
Erika finished pouring the wine and circled around the bar to join her. “You bought me a present?”
“Consider it a peace offering.” She held up the bag with both hands, forcing Erika to set the wine on the table between the chairs. The other woman’s eyes were actually misty.
Sentiment was such a pathetic emotion.
“I was afraid you’d be mad at me after my . . . proposal.” She took the bag.
“I’ll admit I was taken aback, but I understand your motivations. And what point is there in getting angry?”
“Does this mean you’re going to give me the money?”
“Why else would I be bringing you a present?”
Relief washed over Erika’s face—but it morphed to puzzlement when she pulled out the bottle of Glenfiddich. “You got me scotch? I thought you didn’t want me to touch alcohol until this thing was over?”
“Sharing a few drinks with an old friend won’t hurt. I doubt those detectives are going to bother you tonight.”
Or ever again.
“That’s true. But they haven’t given up. That lady police chief called and left a message yesterday. She wants to come talk to me again. I haven’t responded, because I wanted to see if our . . . business deal . . . was a go or not. I’m glad you came through.”
