DADDY WITH A BADGE

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  Beneath the well-fitting shirt, his chest was a massive wedge of hard-packed muscle, his torso long and lean, his hips narrow. Tucked into a leather holster clipped to his belt was an ugly black gun that seemed far too enormous to be a simple handgun.

  His partner still wore his suitcoat, a nifty double-breasted pinstripe. Standing with his back toward the door, he was stowing canned goods in the cupboard pantry, shoving them with a haphazard carelessness that had her teeth grinding.

  "I hope you do windows," she said, glaring at them both in turn.

  Rafe simply flicked her an impatient gaze. In contrast, Gresham turned to offer a friendly grin. "Only under extreme duress, ma'am."

  He had dimples, too, she noticed, and beautiful manners. His hair, neatly styled and cut to mold a head that was definitely patrician, was the color of semi-sweet chocolate. He had a straight nose, an angular face and a perfect tan. He was—in a word—gorgeous.

  "Feeling better?" Rafe asked, looking at her directly now.

  "Much better, thank you," she said coolly.

  "Coffee's ready." He closed the refrigerator door with a hard thump before tossing the empty egg carton into the trash can under the sink. "Made it strong. Figured it'd help drive away the chill."

  His thoughtfulness made her feel petty. She bit off a sigh. What was wrong with her that he could cause her to regress to the level of an insecure teenager? "Unfortunately, I'm on restricted caffeine intake for the duration. Doctor's orders." She patted the bulge beneath Mark's old USC sweat shirt. "I'll just put on some water for tea."

  He shrugged. "It's your kitchen."

  "Exactly." For as long as she could swing the rent, anyway, she thought as she carried the kettle from the stove to the sink. As she turned on the water, she was aware that Rafe was looking at her belly.

  "How far along are you?"

  "Five months." She shut off the water, then carried the kettle to the stove and turned on the burner. She turned then, and deliberately met his speculative gaze. "I got pregnant shortly after Jonathan and I married. He said he didn't want to wait, and at the time…" She took a shaky breath. "At the time neither did I."

  She caught the look Gresham sent Rafe and frowned. "Before I say another word, I want to know what right you have to ask me these questions."

  In response he retrieved a slim black leather wallet from the back pocket of his perfectly tailored trousers and flipped it open. Frowning, she stepped close enough to read the small print.

  One side was a laminated card identifying the bearer, Rafael Martin Cardoza as a Special Agent of the Investigative Branch of the United States Secret Service. Attached to a removable black leather insert on the opposite side was a gold badge in the shape of a five-pointed star.

  Surprised and a little awed, she lifted her gaze to his. "I thought Secret Service agents guarded VIPs."

  "Some do. In fact it's the first billet a new agent receives when he leaves the academy." He indicated his partner with a quick look. "Until a few months ago Gresham was assigned to the Vice President's wife."

  "What happened two months ago?"

  "He got promoted."

  "To what?"

  "Major cases like yours."

  She frowned. "Mine? I don't understand."

  "When the man you know as Jonathan Sommerset used your credit card, he committed fraud. Since the issuing institutions are in differing states, that makes it a federal crime."

  "The man I know? You mean that's not his real name?"

  Instead of answering, he returned his ID to his pocket, then drew out what looked like a photograph. "Do you recognize this man?"

  It was a mug shot, one of those frontal and profile views she was always seeing on crime-stopper shows on TV. The face above the numbers and the name Jacob Folsom was Jonathan's. Her stomach roiled. "This is Jonathan Sommerset, my husband."

  "His real name is Jacob Peter Folsom," he said without inflection.

  She blew out air. "I need to call Case. He should know that."

  "Case?"

  "Detective Sergeant Case Randolph. He's the one trying to find Jonathan. He also happens to live next door, in the house with the fuchsia door. He's put out an APR or whatever you call an arrest warrant."

  "I've read his notes. So far nothing of substance has turned up."

  "Substance meaning what?"

  Impatience tightened his mouth. She suspected he was far more accustomed to asking questions than answering them. "Meaning Folsom has gone to ground and no one has picked up his tracks."

  Case had repeatedly warned her the more time that passed, the more likely they wouldn't be able to recover her assets, even if they found him. Even so, disappointment crashed through her. "Why is it with all the electronic gizmos and spy satellites and lightning-fast communications equipment you law enforcement people insist you need, no one has been able to find one middle-age swindler?"

  Rafe turned his sleeves back another turn. "Miss him, do you?"

  Her temper flared. "That's a stupid question, Rafe. The man cheated me! All I want from him now is a divorce—and my money."

  Beneath the hood of dusty blond eyebrows his eyes crinkled with a sardonic amusement. "In that order?"

  "In any order!"

  After she rid herself of all ties to the man she now abhorred with every fiber of her being, she intended to devote herself to her children and her career, period. No more whirlwind romances for her. No more "Isn't it wonderful to be so gloriously in love?" fantasies.

  As for her husband of less than six months, she only wanted him back in her life long enough to sign the divorce papers waiting for him on her attorney's desk and pay her back what he stole before they shipped him off to jail. Forever, if there was any justice left in this world.

  "Where do you keep your mugs?" Rafe asked, lifting the coffeepot from the burner.

  "Second cupboard. The ones with violets are for coffee, the daisies are for tea."

  He shot her a measuring look before retrieving two violets and a daisy. "A little obsessive about your mugs, aren't you?"

  "Needing to impose order on chaos is a perfectly healthy coping tool," she said with a shrug. "Besides, as you pointed out, it's my house."

  He poured coffee in the two mugs, left one on the counter for Gresham, then lifted his own to his mouth for a quick sip. "Your house until the Paxtons return from London, anyway," he said, watching her over the steam.

  Surprise sifted through her. "Was that in the file, too?"

  He lifted an eyebrow, his expression mocking. "No, I got that from one of those electronic gizmos."

  She jerked the top off a cloisonné tin containing a selection of herbal teas. "My life is a train wreck and the man is playing 'Can you top this'?" she muttered, ripping the bag from its neat paper envelope.

  "Oh no, ma'am, us G-men aren't authorized to indulge in games on duty." He slid the daisy cup down the counter toward her. As she caught it, she saw surprise cross Gresham's perfect features. Interesting, she thought, tucking it away for further study. Understanding and predicting human behavior was a passion as well as a profession. It made her feel secure to know within several plus or minus percentage points how someone would react to stimulus.

  Rafe made her feel anything but secure.

  "Nice house," Gresham said as he picked up his mug. "Reminds me of the place I lived as a kid."

  His voice was part F.D.R., part J.F.K. Harvard, maybe? Definitely Ivy League at any rate. She suspected it hadn't been all that long ago since he'd graduated. Maybe four or five years.

  "My daughter likes it." She would like Seth Gresham, too, she thought, hiding a smile. Lyssa had recently discovered boys. Later than most in today's times, but that was partly due to lingering trauma. Knowing her daughter, she would rapidly make up for lost time. She wasn't looking forward to the mood swings and separation struggles that were part and parcel of navigating one's way through puberty, however.

  Finished with the tea bag, she started to dump it into the
trash, then thought better of it. Use it up, wear it out and never buy anything that's not been marked down at least twice—that was her motto now.

  She could get one more cup from this sucker, even though it would be weaker than she liked. Conscious that both men were watching, she plunked the soggy dripping bag onto a saucer from the cupboard overhead. She'd become an expert at detecting pity. She saw only a flicker in Gresham's eyes, but not Rafe's. His were cool and watching, physically familiar, but otherwise the eyes of a stranger.

  "Would you mind if we go into the living room?" she asked after fortifying her tea with two spoons of sugar. "If I'm going to be subjected to the third degree, I'd like to do it sitting down."

  Without waiting for an answer, she led the way to the living room, more self-conscious about her altered body contours than reason dictated. It was instinctive, this awareness of the reaction she aroused in the male of the species, hard-wired into her psyche by eons of evolution like the fierce need to protect her offspring.

  Not that she cared whether she ever attracted another man again in her entire life, she reminded herself firmly. Especially not one who looked at her with a stranger's coolness, even as her blood swam with the memory of his mouth hot on hers.

  The Paxtons' living room was a mixture of tasteful antiques, comfortable modern pieces and accent pieces that ranged from priceless to endearingly homey, like the elaborate dollhouse Morgan had made for their daughter Morgana.

  In the abstract, if not the literal, it had reminded her of the house she'd shared with Mark and Lyssa during what she'd come to consider the magic years. It had taken all of her control to keep from dissolving into a puddle of self-pity the first time she'd seen the exquisite little house.

  "I sublet the place furnished," she said when she noticed Gresham looking at the array of ceremonial masks Morgan Paxton had brought back from South Africa after covering Nelson Mandela's release for his network.

  "Interesting," was all that Gresham said. "Especially that guy with the yellow eyes."

  Danni grimaced at the devil figure with its malicious grin. She preferred the benign face next to it, the one with the quizzical eyebrows and fuzzy yellow hair. The tribal equivalent of the archetypal jokester of Western mythology.

  "The Paxtons' twin sons start kindergarten next year, and Morgan is taking a year's sabbatical in order to show his wife Raine and their kids Europe."

  Gresham looked impressed. "Used to watch him reporting from Baghdad during Desert Storm. Man has more grit than sense."

  "The Emmy he won is in the den."

  Gresham lifted both brows. "What's he like in person?"

  Her face softened as she recalled the generosity of both Paxtons. "Even more impressive than he appears on screen. And very kindhearted."

  "How'd you end up renting his place?"

  Danni recognized the attempt to establish rapport and wondered if Seth was the designated good cop. Rafe, on the other hand, had made little attempt to be more than marginally friendly. A professional decision or a personal one? she wondered as she forced a smile from her tired facial muscles for Gresham's benefit.

  "You mean you don't already know every tiny detail of my life?" she teased, playing along.

  His grin flashed again, revealing perfectly aligned, blazing white teeth. "That particular fact must have slipped by."

  "My obstetrician, Luke Jarrod, lives on the corner across the street. He's also a colleague and a friend. When he found out I was essentially penniless and homeless, he talked the Paxtons into hiring a housesitter." She managed a smile. "Me, of course!" Her smile faded. Her facial muscles felt stiff. Sometimes she felt as though she were strangling on her pride. "The house wasn't available for a month so Luke and his wife Maddy let Lyssa and me stay with them until then."

  Though her budget was as thin as paper, she'd insisted on paying rent, both to Luke and now to the Paxtons—but at a far lower rate than a house like this would ordinarily command. Because she worked hard to keep the house and contents in perfect condition, she'd managed to convince herself that it wasn't really charity.

  "Sounds like you have great friends." Gresham looked genuinely interested in her well-being.

  "I do. And I'm very grateful."

  "Guess I envy you. This job being what it is I'm never home long enough in any one stretch to do more than nod at my neighbors in my place in Alexandria." Holding his mug in front of him, he wandered around the room, inspecting the eclectic memorabilia.

  Holding his own mug, sipping occasionally, Rafe waited politely until she settled into the corner of the plush sofa with its heavenly eiderdown cushions before taking the chair opposite. Face impassive, he watched her steadily. The body language was classic, the dominant male of the pride sizing up his prey—or his next mate. Her skin warmed, then grew tight and itchy. She refused to squirm.

  Cupping both hands around her mug, she lifted it to her lips. She inhaled the steam, then took a sip. It was an old habit of hers, stimulating both senses simultaneously.

  "What are those, toys?" Gresham asked, pausing in front of a curio case.

  Some toys, Danni thought with a private moment of amusement. According to Raine, several of the small carved figures inside were worth more than the Lexus she still mourned.

  "Those are Chinese chop marks. Mandarin warlords used them to make their marks on correspondence and military orders. Jade is relatively soft, so that it can be carved with the mandarin's name, like a stamp."

  "Clever."

  Rafe lifted one sun-bleached brow and tilted his head slightly. As a signal it was so subtle it would have eluded anyone but a trained observer. She herself wasn't completely certain until Gresham ambled over to another easy chair and settled comfortably.

  Apparently Rafe had decided they'd succeeded in putting her at ease.

  Looking deceptively relaxed, Seth took a couple of quick sips of coffee, then set the mug on a beaten silver coaster he took from the ornate holder on the table at his elbow. After producing a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his suit coat, he flipped to a clean page, then glanced up. Not at her, she noted, but at Rafe.

  On the other hand Rafe was looking at her, a level, steady gaze that seemed to peel away the confident facade that had been her only protection in recent weeks. She felt a flare of resentment, and then humor surfaced. What difference did it make if he saw through her to the scared, humiliated woman beneath? she thought. Once a man had seen a woman naked, there wasn't much left to hide.

  "I'll tell you all we know, and then I'd like to ask you some questions," Rafe said, his mouth curving slightly, but not far enough to engage the comma shaped creases that she knew bracketed his mouth when he truly grinned. "Fair enough?"

  "Fair enough." Feeling a little chilled in spite of the warm tights and fleece sweatshirt that reached nearly to her knees, she curled herself a little deeper into the cushions, then rested her mug on her thigh.

  Rafe took a sip, then leaned forward to rest both forearms on his splayed thighs, his coffee mug held between both large, callused palms. It was a masterful use of body language, an optical illusion of sorts that made him look smaller and less intimidating as well as encouraging her to think of him as a friend instead of an adversary. She had to admire his savvy, but then, he had undoubtedly undergone expert training in one of those ultrasecret facilities outside Washington.

  In this case, his attempt to manipulate her only put her more on guard. She took a sip of her too-sweet tea and contrived not to grimace at the syrupy taste.

  "Folsom was born in L.A. in 1952 and grew up in Las Vegas, The details of his early years are sketchy, but we know his mother was a part-time blackjack dealer and full-time prostitute. Folsom's first brush with law enforcement came at the age of eleven when he was picked up for trying to use a credit card he'd boosted from one of his mother's johns."

  She realized he was waiting for her to comment and roused herself to admit, "He told me he grew up in a house on Philadelphia's Main
Line and that his parents were killed when their yacht capsized in a storm off St. Thomas when he was a senior at Andover."

  Gresham glanced her way. "That's one of his favorite scams."

  "One of his favorite scams? That implies there are more."

  Rafe flicked a look toward his partner. Gresham's face turned red. Clearly a blunder on the young agent's part. The mom in her wanted to pat his head and tell him this lion's roar was worse than his bite, but she wasn't all that certain she would be telling him the truth.

  "Folsom's wanted for a long list of similar felonies," Rafe said without changing his tone.

  "How long a list?"

  The hesitation was little more than a flicker of the thick curly lashes framing those sage green eyes. "Fourteen that we've definitely traced back to him. Possibly more."

  "He's swindled fourteen other women before me, and he's still running around free?" she asked, both incredulous and outraged.

  Perhaps a less self-assured man would respond defensively. Rafe merely nodded. "He's been arrested five times. Only three of those arrests resulted in prosecution. Twice he was acquitted when the victim recanted her accusation under oath."

  "And the third trial? Was he convicted?"

  "He never went to trial." Something shifted deep in his eyes, and she felt her own narrow.

  "Why not?"

  His mouth flattened, and his eyes were suddenly haunted by some dark emotion. "The complainant was shot and killed before she could testify."

  Danni's lungs seemed incapable of inflating, and then suddenly, they drew in air in a violent rush. "Are you saying Jonathan murdered her?" she cried after forcing the air out again.

  "We don't know that for sure." It was the literal truth, no more, no less. The man who'd pumped nine bullets into Alice—and four into him—had matched Folsom's general height and weight, but so did half the adult males on the planet. The shooter's hair and face had been covered by a ski mask, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. In Rafe's gut, however, he knew Folsom had either pulled the trigger or hired it out. Either way, the bastard was directly responsible for Alice's murder.

  Danni's face was still too pale, and her eyes told him she was still grappling with another shock. "But … but you, personally, think he … Folsom did it." It wasn't a question. Even though he hadn't moved, he suddenly felt his back smash up against a solid wall.