by Dee Davis
“Yet.” Jason raised an eyebrow, the single word telling.
“So give us the worst-case scenario.” John dropped the pencil, fighting fatigue. All in all it had turned into a hell of a day.
“In the wake of Jonathan’s injuries, Miller’s disappearance may have been pushed aside, but his death will certainly raise questions.” Jason stood up, clearly in his element. “The police will ask if we knew he had problems. If we know of anyone who might have wanted him dead.”
“Great, we’ve dropped into the middle of a Law & Order episode.” Valerie didn’t even try to contain her sarcasm.
“The point is,” Jason continued, ignoring Valerie’s outburst, “that it’s all routine. And assuming none of you know anything,” he paused, eyeing each person in turn, “then that should be the end of it. We’ll all profess our sorrow at Miller’s death, but business will go on.”
“That’s worst case?” Frank asked.
“No. Worst case is if the police don’t find the killer, and this thing drags out. That’s when the press will start to get interested. And even if there’s nothing to connect Miller’s death to Guardian, our clients may start to get edgy.”
“So what do we do?” Valerie sat down at the table, her attention on Jason.
“We strike first. Make sure our clients know that while Miller’s death is regrettable, it has nothing to do with us or with the company. We make it clear that although we were supportive of his efforts at recovery, had we known he was still involved with drugs, he would have been fired.”
John dropped the pencil, trying to keep his focus, voices blending together into a cacophony of sound, each indistinguishable from the other. The doctors assured him the effect would fade with time, but so far it hadn’t, and every time it happened he had to fight his own fear to maintain control.
“John, are you all right?” His brother’s voice filtered through the haze.
He shook his head, struggling for clarity, relieved when the voices separated. “I’m fine.” He opened his eyes, dismayed to find everyone staring at him. “I’m just a little tired.”
“Why don’t we wrap this up and let John get out of here.” Danny’s eyes conveyed his concern, and John found himself torn between anger and gratitude. Anger won. Still another sign that he wasn’t in full control of his emotions.
“I just said I’m fine.” All things considered, he was fine. Everything was relative, after all. The mere fact that he was sitting here in the boardroom spoke volumes about his recovery. If sheer willpower could make him whole again, then he was on the right track. “Val, you draft a letter and have it on my desk in the morning. We’ll send it to all our clients.” He struggled to his feet, pushing away Danny’s helping hands. “In the meantime, Jason will come up with guidelines on how to handle the police.”
“What about the press?” Frank stood, too, still fidgeting with the papers.
“Hopefully, they won’t be overly interested. But if they start nosing around, send them to Jason.” He frowned at the PR man. “Why don’t you come up with a nonstatement. Some sort of one-liner that expresses our regret over Miller’s death. That way, if any of us are caught off guard we’ll have something prepared.”
“That it?”
“For now. We can talk again tomorrow.”
Valerie exchanged a glance with Frank, and stood up. “Jona . . . John, I know I speak for everyone when I welcome you back. But we’re all concerned that you’re pushing things too fast, and in light of everything that’s happened, don’t you think it might be better to let us continue handling things?” She paused, glancing over at his brother for support. “With D.E.S. on board, we can’t afford any mistakes.”
John fought another wave of anger. They were treating him like an invalid. “Wilson Harris brought his company to Guardian because of me, Valerie. And I can’t help but think that my resuming control of my company will only serve to reassure him, as well as our other clients.”
Frank stood up, holding out his hands. “We’re well aware that most of Guardian’s clients wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. That’s not the point.”
“No. The point is that you all believe I’m incapable of running my company. But you’re wrong. It’s just that simple. I’m back. And I’m staying. So if anyone has a problem with that, then you can take it up with the unemployment office.”
He would have loved to spin around and storm from the office, but spinning wasn’t on his menu these days. Instead, he garnered all his strength and walked slowly toward the door, the silence behind him telling in more ways than he wanted to examine.
He was back, all right.
But at what cost?
John sank down on the sofa, grateful for the peace and quiet. As if things weren’t bad enough, now he had to contend with the fallout from Miller’s death. He leaned back, eyes closed, trying to force himself to relax. He’d had a little biofeedback in rehab, but he’d never really gotten the hang of it. All that visualization left him more tense than when he’d begun.
Which left him with a pounding headache and a racing brain. Not exactly the stuff relaxation was made of. What he needed was a miracle.
“You don’t look so good.”
Then again, a man should be careful what he prayed for. Kathleen stood in the doorway, clad in shorts and a T-shirt. Every curve outlined in cotton-hugging clarity. He swallowed reflexively, his heart rate ratcheting up to match the tempo in his head.
“If this is a bad time, I can come back later. Flo sent me up here.” She held up a duffel bag. “I thought I’d settle in.”
Just at the moment, settling in forever wouldn’t have disturbed him in the slightest. Whatever his worries, they seemed to disappear in the wake of her presence. Even his head seemed to throb less ardently.
“It’s fine. Come on in. I could use some company actually.”
She crossed the room to settle on the arm of the sofa, her expression full of concern. “Flo said you’d been in a meeting. Looks to me like you overdid it.”
“Miller’s death has hit everybody pretty hard.”
“Yeah, but everybody didn’t spend the last six months recovering from a near-fatal shooting. You can’t expect to hit the ground at full steam, John. You’ve got to take it slowly.”
Somehow, coming from her, the sentiment failed to make him angry. He should have been surprised by the fact, but he wasn’t. Nothing about Kathleen Cavanaugh elicited a rational reaction.
“So everyone keeps telling me.” He laughed, the sound rusty. “I’m afraid sitting still isn’t something I’m good at.”
“Well, it’s something you’re going to have to get used to.” She swung her legs around so that she was sitting on the arm with her feet on the cushions. “No matter how much you want to hurry it, recovery comes at its own pace.”
“And I suppose you’re here to ride roughshod over me?”
“Someone’s obviously got to do it.” Her smile was infectious. “It might as well be me.”
“All right, then, let’s examine your qualifications, shall we?” He shifted slightly, on the pretense of getting comfortable, but in truth he just wanted to be closer to her. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Six years.” She slid down onto the cushions, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “Five of them in the field.”
“I’m assuming fieldwork is the same as home care?”
“One-on-one, so to speak.” Her smile was slow, and just a trifle wicked. “I do better in a more intimate situation.”
He decided to let that one pass, although it was tempting to just forgo niceties and pull her into his arms. Better to stick to conversation for the time being. It seemed the better part of social valor. “So what’s your specific area of expertise?”
“Besides being very good at what I do, I suppose I’m known for listening. Sometimes the key to physical health is mental.”
“Spoken like a true therapist. But surely you have more to offer than that?” He leaned even close
r, trying not to stare at the soft rise and fall of her breasts. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d simply engaged in the art of innocent banter. No games to play, no hidden agenda.
“Hmm . . .” She tilted her head, pretending to contemplate the question. “I make an excellent grilled cheese, I play passable guitar, and my brothers would tell you I pack a mean punch.”
“Brothers?”
“Two. Both of them older than me.”
It was his turn to grin. “So you really had no choice. About the punch, I mean.”
“None at all. It was survival of the fittest.”
“Sounds like a wonderful childhood.”
She sobered, her face looking almost wistful. “It was. I don’t see enough of them.” She flipped her braid behind her shoulder, her face clearing with the motion. “But you know all about brothers. You’ve got Danny.”
“Yes. And you’ve seen what a handful he is.” He gave her his best pathetic look, but it obviously fell on deaf ears.
“From what I’ve seen, you’re well matched.”
He shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. And I am lucky to have him here. He’s been a godsend over the last few months. I couldn’t have handled any of this without him.” The thought brought reality crashing down around him again.
“It’ll all come right in the end, you’ll see.” Kathleen reached for his hand, the warmth of her touch reaching soul deep. “All you have to do is have a little faith.”
He turned his hand in hers, wishing he could capture the moment, trotting it out when things looked bleak again. But if the last few months had taught him anything, it was that nothing lasted forever, and there was no sense wishing it so.
Instead, he’d simply have to revel in the moment. They sat quietly, still touching, neither saying anything, and then despite himself he yawned.
She leapt to her feet, her green eyes lighting with concern. “Some professional I’m turning out to be. Here I am supposed to be helping you, and all I’ve done is tire you out.”
“Actually, it’s quite the opposite. I don’t know when I last felt this good.” It sounded trite, but he meant it. Really meant it.
Just for a moment, he’d actually been able to put his troubles aside, and for that alone he owed her an enormous debt.
Now if only he could find a way to convince her to collect.
Have a little faith?
She’d sounded like freaking Mother Teresa. John Brighton brought out a part of her she thought she’d left behind in childhood, along with Pop-Tarts and wishing on a star. If Roswell could have seen her this afternoon, he’d have had more than enough ammunition to have her ass sent back to Boston on the next plane.
She’d been flirting. Flirting. And worse still, she’d been enjoying herself. There was something about John Brighton that put her off guard. Made her feel safe, comfortable. And neither of those words should ever be used in concert with an undercover agent.
Ever.
Damn it all to hell.
Katie lay on the bed, trying to absorb the cool comfort of the sheets, to banish John from her thoughts, but neither seemed to be a possibility. The heat was still cloying, even with the air conditioner blasting at sub-zero levels.
Maybe that’s why she’d acted the way she had. Heat made people overemotional, surely. There was really no other explanation. It wasn’t as if this were an overwhelming assignment. She’d been on a lot worse.
And she’d never acted like this. Jumpy as a cat in heat. And just as dangerous. She’d even hit Wilcox. Not that he hadn’t been asking for it. Sneaking up on her like that.
She hadn’t been kidding John. Two older brothers with a penchant for surprise attacks had taught her the rudiments of self-defense at an early age, and what she hadn’t already figured out, she’d learned at Quantico. In her line of work, she needed to keep her reactions honed.
Sometimes a split second was all you had.
She shuddered, her thoughts turning to Walker Priestly. Despite the passage of time, the memory still ran just below the surface. A constant reminder of how quickly things could turn ugly. Going after him had almost cost her her life. Five years in undercover obviously hadn’t been enough to engrain the concept of backup firmly enough. She’d felt invincible. But all that had changed with the flick of a knife. . . .
She shook her head, clearing her mind. No sense in dwelling on the past. She’d survived and the bastard was dead. She traced the ridge of scar beneath her T-shirt, a tribute to the fact that good had won the day.
And so here she was, fighting other battles. Lesser battles. Finding out the truth about Jonathan Brighton ought to be a walk in the park. Her first active duty in three months, she was determined to prove that she still had her edge.
But with a look, a touch, he’d managed to slide right past her carefully erected barriers. Which just wouldn’t do. Not if she was going to prove herself to Roswell.
Roswell.
Now, there was a piece of work. A chauvinist’s chauvinist. She’d only met him a couple of times and he’d already driven her to violent thoughts. The asshole might be her superior by title, but he was nothing more than a reptilian throwback.
And that was putting it mildly.
Thank God she had Wilcox as a buffer.
She looked around the room at the artfully arranged bric-a-brac in what was supposed to pass for a guest room. There was nothing personal at all. No photographs, no individual touches. Just a decorator’s feast of chrome and gray.
Either John Brighton had no taste, or he simply didn’t care. Neither of which seemed to jibe with the man. An enigma. That’s what he was. On the surface one thing, and underneath . . . well, time would tell.
She reached for the half-empty soda glass, wishing it were tomorrow already. It was like she’d told Wilcox, waiting always made her edgy. She got off the bed, pacing the floor, thinking about John Brighton. There’d definitely been a connection between them. Something she hadn’t expected.
Her senses were tingling. Warning her of danger she couldn’t define. Not physical, certainly. Not even danger in the true sense of the word. Nothing she could actually put a name to, really. Just an unease. A sense of something more to come. Something personal. She shivered again, this time not from fear.
God, it would be so much easier if she could just go to John, lay her cards on the table, get the goods, and get the hell out of here. But rushing things never accomplished anything. Her father had always said that police work was like fishing. It required a good line and a lot of patience. She had both.
She pushed back her hair, perspiration making it stick to the back of her neck. Whatever it was between them, it was strong. And it would take every ounce of willpower she had to resist it. Which sounded a bit melodramatic.
She was a professional. Surely she could manage to smother whatever it was she was feeling. If necessary, she’d rely on cold showers. The perfect remedy for everything that ailed you.
She shook her head, and grabbed a book off the bed, flipping to a bookmark about halfway through. She’d read it twice already, but it never hurt to bone up on the facts. One slip and it was all over. And they didn’t pay her to slip up.
Tomorrow, everything she’d learned would be put to the test, and even though she knew her stuff, she couldn’t afford a mistake. There was a lot riding on it. Not the least being a man’s recovery. Enigma or no, she had no intention of harming him. At least not in a physical way.
The rest of it, well, either he was guilty or he wasn’t, only time would tell. Time—and despite any impulses to the contrary, a helpful little nudge from her.
Chapter 4
“So how well did you know the deceased?” D’Angelo watched as Jason Pollock shifted nervously in his chair. The conference room at Guardian was more than plush, it was elegant, in that quiet understated way that spoke of money. Lots of money.
Not that Eric had a great deal of personal experience with that sort of thing. Still, he’d seen his fai
r share of corporate boardrooms and this one was right up there on the opulence meter.
“He had a name, you know.” The man narrowed his eyes, looking first at Haskins and then back at D’Angelo.
“All right, then, how well did you know Derek Miller?” Eric repeated the question, using the guy’s name, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
Tony, who was seated slightly behind Pollock, didn’t show the same restraint. He struggled with a smile, his eyes telegraphing his thoughts. God save them from stupid people.
D’Angelo suppressed his own smile, forcing his concentration back to Pollock.
“I didn’t know him all that well. We saw each other in passing from time to time. That’s about it.”
“So you can’t think of any reason why someone would want him dead.” Haskins finished writing something in his notebook and then looked up to meet Pollock’s gaze.
“He had a problem with drugs. Or at least that’s what everyone says. I didn’t actually see him or anything.” Jason looked down at his hands.
D’Angelo studied the man, wondering why he was lying. Pollock had practically bitten his head off for not using the man’s name, and now he was claiming not to know anything about him.
“According to Valerie Alejo, you had lunch with Miller on a regular basis. Is that what you meant by ‘in passing’?” Haskins made a play of looking back in his notes, obviously thinking along the same lines.
The other man shifted again, his eyes locked on the table in front of him. “I had lunch with Derek. We all did. It’s a small shop. And it’s natural to go out with colleagues. Valerie and Frank had lunch with us, too. Sometimes even Danny would come along.”
“What about Jonathan Brighton?”
“No, he never came.” Jason’s answer came quickly. “He’s not a get-down-in-the-trenches kind of guy.”
“A loner?” Haskins looked up from his notes, interested.
Pollock shrugged. “I think that’s probably overstating it. Jonathan lives for business. He’s a classic workaholic. Hanging out with us would have been a colossal waste of time.”
“I see.” Haskins scribbled something, then looked up. “But you did hang out—with the others, I mean.”
