by Black, Regan
“When you call the cops, start with Fincher.”
She thought of the message on that rock, and sat down hard on the small patch of carpet she’d cleared. “I won’t. John can handle it without some hard-nosed cop getting in the kid’s face.”
“Then I’ll let the detective know what’s going on.”
“Bernie, give it a rest.”
She was afraid to think what might happen if the detective showed up and interrupted John and his rock-tossing pal.
“He might find a lead.”
She nearly laughed. They both knew whoever was doing this wouldn’t be careless enough to leave evidence behind.
“You have to stop stressing out.” She didn’t have the energy to deal with his panic right now. “We have it under control. Believe me.” John Noble had enough control for a dozen men.
“You’d better be right.” His voice caught and he stuttered. “Y-you are more important than any story.”
“So you’ve said,” she managed. “Thanks.” Their relationship worked because they avoided mushy moments. “I feel the same way about you,” she added, “but I’m not letting this one go. You’ll appreciate it later when the Torch gains national attention.”
Where was John? She checked the cuckoo clock on the wall, but it hadn’t been wound. The signs of a lonely, empty house made her miss her grandmother and the warm times they’d shared. Amelia checked the phone, but her only clue was the elapsed time on the call. Time had been warped for her all day with some moments stretching into what felt like hours and others flying by in a blur. It had been that way since she’d bumped into John outside the office this morning.
One more thing that didn’t bear thinking long about. “Have you ever heard of a ‘Step Forward Project’?” she asked, carrying the full dustpan back to the kitchen trash can.
“Everyone with a conspiracy nut in the family has heard of that,” Bernie snorted. “It’s Washington’s worst kept secret and a complete myth. As bogus as Area 51. What the military wants to do and what they can do are two different things.”
“Right.” She heard Bernie’s fingers on his racing across his keyboard.
“Growing a super-soldier is pure science fiction.” He paused. “I found it. I’m sending you the link. Your senator stopped funding the preliminary studies three years ago.”
“You’re sure?” That was about the time Larimore’s daughter had been testifying. When she was under the protection of John Noble. If Amelia’s contact ever answered her – assuming he or she was alive to answer – she might get some guidance on how to run down more details.
“That’s why I sent the link,” he said. “You don’t trust anyone at face value.”
“And who taught me that?”
“Ha ha.” He sucked in a breath and she knew he was lighting a cigar.
“Sylvia will tell your wife.”
“If my wife complains I’ll run an ad and put Plato up for adoption.”
It would only be an improvement as far as Amelia was concerned. “Then you’ll have to hire a good divorce attorney.”
Bernie grunted. “Polish that draft and hit send.”
“Right.” Her boss was ready to hang up, but John wasn’t back yet. “I’m just running down one more thing, but it can wait for the next part of the series if necessary.”
“I’m not promising you I’ll print it.”
“You never do.”
“And you’re a better reporter because of it.”
He sure liked to think so the way he gave her trouble every time. “I’m a better reporter because I’m not afraid of cowardly bullies like Larimore.”
While Bernie laughed in her ear, she heard the front door open and close. Finally. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to make a decision,” she said and disconnected the call.
Feeling hopeful, she looked up, a smile ready for John, but his face was drawn and pale.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I just need to call the guy about the window.”
“Didn’t you have fun with your friends?”
“Friend. Singular. And no.”
She looked past him. “Is that why you didn’t invite him in?”
He shook his head. “It’s better this way, trust me.”
She already did. As Bernie’s voice echoed in her head, she realized she trusted John Noble with more than her raging attraction for a hot, sexy man. She trusted him to guard her life from Larimore’s attempts to silence her. Given half a chance, she thought she might trust him with anything. There wasn’t better evidence that she really had lost her mind.
“Have you sent your draft?”
“Not yet.”
“Do it now.”
“I don’t have authentication on every detail.”
He shrugged. “Leave something to the fact-checkers or they’ll feel useless. Can you help me get this into place first?”
She hurried forward and lifted the nearest corner, bracing it on the sill. “I hate to damage the woodwork.”
“If I’m not here to fix it myself, I’ll see that it gets done. The historical society won’t be able to tell the difference.”
The man who managed everything with a graceful economy of movement dropped a screw and had to start over. Interesting. Maybe all that talk about the dead scientist was getting to him. Maybe he’d done more than protect as a bodyguard. She wanted him to open up, for reasons that had nothing to do with her typical professional curiosity.
Amelia knew she’d misjudged him when he handled the rest of the repair with an easy expertise. Clearly he could manage more than guns and assailants. His skills surpassed those of a thug with the scars to support a psychologist’s theory about death wishes and self-destructive behavior.
People who didn’t care didn’t bother to build. In that split-second, she hoped the risk to her life lasted long enough to keep them together so she could learn more about him.
“Where’d you learn all this?”
“Around.” The power screwdriver buzzed as he sank the last screw. “Doesn’t have to hold long.”
“That looks new.”
“It is.”
When he didn’t offer up an explanation, she changed the subject. “I feel bad. This was always home.”
“What do you mean?”
The blank look on his face startled her. “You know, home. The safe place, the place you’re always welcome. And I brought this ugliness here. Made it unsafe.”
“You’re safe.” His gaze dropped to the floor and he held out his hand for phone. “I’ll call the glass guy and clean this up. You take care of your story.”
“Seriously?” She crossed her arms over her chest. What was his story? He’d obviously continue to stonewall any direct questions, but damned if she didn’t want to crack through that shell and poke around at what had made him this way. Unwilling to ask why he didn’t understand the concept of home, she played the stereotype card instead. “You’ll clean?”
His hardened green eyes locked on her face. “I can’t do the writing.”
“True.” And if he was cleaning, he wouldn’t be close enough to see her guilty expression when she started researching other things. Like the name on that mug shot picture from the airport. “Thanks.”
A shadow passed over his face, a ripple of something she didn’t know how to classify and she read people for a living. “You’re welcome.”
“We are safe here, right?”
“You’re as safe as we’ll get tonight.”
“I meant we.”
“Go write.”
“What about the arm behind that rock?” John volunteering any information was obviously too much to hope for.
“The arm is on our side.”
“You sound surprised.”
He pushed a hand through his raven hair. “It’s unexpected, that’s all.”
“But in a good way,” she suggested hopefully.
“Sure.”
She felt ready to explode. Don’t scream. N
o growling. Stay calm. She instinctively knew he wouldn’t respond well to a rant or fit, even if that had been her style. Patience was the key that unlocked many a reluctant source. Amelia had never met a more reluctant man than John.
“Well, on that overwhelming wave of confidence, I’ll trot right back to my computer.”
“Good.”
She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel.
“Hang on.”
She paused, but didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.
“If I gave you a name and a last known address could you do anything with it?”
Now she turned, her unflappable reporter’s expression firmly in place. “Maybe.”
“All right.”
She watched him wrestle with what appeared to be a monumental decision. But he said nothing else. She waited there in the doorway until he shifted his attention from her to the phone in his hand. Thinking he might hand over the phone, she waited a bit longer, but he only called for the glass repair.
Amelia stifled her irritation and returned to her laptop, ready to write a story Bernie couldn’t refuse to print.
An hour later, she sat back to read the draft through one more time. Even with the items she could only tie in with vague references, her source had given her enough unbreakable connections to make Larimore the rising star of a criminal investigation.
If there was anything good left in the world, any shred of decency and hope, justice would prevail and Larimore would pay for his crimes against individuals as well as abusing the public trust.
She wanted to take the senator down, not just because he’d tried to have her killed, but because his approach to people and policy had gotten warped somewhere along the line.
That was the one piece she struggled with. She scowled at the screen, dissatisfied, wondering if there was any way to pinpoint the senator’s abrupt attitude shift.
“Here, eat,” John said, nudging a bowl of soup and a plate of rolls across the table.
She rubbed at her fatigued eyes. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Tonight?”
“That’s not funny.” His words slipped under her defenses, made her wish he meant them in an entirely different context. But that wasn’t his style.
“Sorry.”
Neither was an apology. She was instantly wary. “Why?”
“For not being funny. Have you hit send?”
She dug into her soup, trying to ignore the feelings he roused inside her. “Almost. There’s one more thing –”
“Why?”
“Exactly.” She beamed at him, stunned and so happy to meet someone who understood, but he wasn’t smiling back. Damn. No one got her.
“Oh.” He raised another spoonful of soup to his lips. “You want the why.”
“Yes!”
Now those lips curved ever so slightly in a self-congratulatory way. It made her wonder if he’d wear a similar satisfied smirk in bed. She tried to haul her thoughts away from that path, but it was too late.
“The emotional punch seals it and readers can debate the validity of his decisions.”
“In theory.”
“Well, it’s not like I have a quote or much beyond theory for the broader violations I’m suggesting.”
He nodded thoughtfully as his tongue swiped a crumb from his lower lip. She would’ve been happy to take care of that for him. Hell, she would have been happy to dust herself in crumbs and let him lick them one by one from her feverish skin.
She had a serious infatuation with him that would haunt her long after he’d moved on to his next client.
“Have you looked at when his voting changed?”
“Yes.” And come up empty.
He raised an eyebrow at her testy reply. “Cut me some slack. I’m new to this.”
“I didn’t mean to snap.” She pushed a piece of chicken around her bowl while she thought of what had motivated Larimore’s more aggressive policy decisions. “It’s more than a power play or money grab, though he benefited directly from his work on the committees.”
“But nothing you can find made it personal?”
“Not so far.” She glanced at her screen. “It’s good enough. I can do a follow up piece. I’m sure this will bring people out of the woodwork when the investigation is underway.”
Her finger hovered over the track pad, ready to click on the send icon.
“Wait.”
Again? She said a silent prayer he wouldn’t let her down this time.
“Look at the science-geek daughter’s career and see if any highs or lows match up with the voting.”
“I knew you remembered protecting her.”
“I really don’t,” he insisted. “She lived.”
“You’ve got a way of saying things, don’t you?” she asked around the lump of dread in her throat. Her fingers fumbled at the keyboard. “Are you always such a ray of sunshine?”
He shrugged. “It’s the weather.”
She sputtered. “Now that was funny.”
He acknowledged that with a dip of his chin. “What about the daughter?”
“I did this search once already.”
“Focused on the days you thought I was with her.”
“Well, yeah,” she admitted grudgingly. She’d started to go back, but found herself looking for more about John rather than the scientist. Irritated with herself, she’d returned to the story and the info from her source that could be verified.
“Oh.” Amelia searched the Larimore family highs first. His political wins, his daughter’s academic successes. Her first published paper... “Oh, my God.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She leaped out of her chair and came around the table, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek just above of his stubbly beard. “It’s good!” She did a quick happy dance. “And bad. But good for the story. I can’t believe I missed it. Thank you!”
“You’ve had a few distractions.”
Including him, she thought. As she returned to her chair, he shot her a look like she’d lost her mind, but she chalked it up to his discomfort with non-violent physical displays.
“His daughter’s first published paper on genetic immunity boosters coincided with his appointment to the Commerce, Science, and Technology committee.”
“What kind of boosters?”
“This appears to relate to primarily to cancer research.” She scrolled through the brief write up. “Shortly after this paper was released she was promoted to a top secret military lab. That’s when his attitude changed on the Hill. It was subtle though, and he kept saying the right things during campaigns.”
“They all do.”
“Bernie will flip,” she said as she quickly added the details into the story. Nothing she could prove, but this connection would resonate with readers, rip out their hearts, and push them to demand answers to the uncomfortable questions.
As she hit send, she wanted to give John another kiss. Sign over her annual salary or her first born child, if one of those was in her future.
“He won’t know what hit him,” John said.
“As long as you’re here to make sure I live through his inevitable tantrum.”
“Count on it, but as you said, soon you’ll be too popular and important to hassle.”
“By hassle,” she swallowed, “do you mean killed?”
His chin bobbed once.
This was the time to ask, when they were alone and riding the high of a success. “How many clients have you lost?”
“To fatal hassles?”
It was her turn to nod, she was too nervous to risk words. Would he answer her?
“None.”
Now he was just being a jerk. “This is off the record,” she bit out. “You can trust me.” She was too wired to eat, nothing would sit well in her stomach. But she was smart enough not to drink while the object of her infatuation was within arm’s reach.
“I’ve never lost a client as a body
guard. Is that the answer you wanted?”
“Sure. You’re clear as mud.”
She leaned back against the edge of the deep porcelain sink. Grandma had believed in the value of sturdy originals and bred that into her granddaughter.
Amelia tipped her head at John. He certainly qualified as an original. Sturdy too, with that scarred, well-built frame. Deep inside, she knew he was worth the effort, knew his story would mean more once she’d navigated the semantics minefield. “But you said you don’t remember the ones who lived. That implies you do remember the ones who didn’t live.”
“Correct.”
His hot green gaze held captive there with the cool porcelain at her back. His answer seemed to put them in a vacuum, the only mark of time passing was the slow, erratic drip of the faucet.
“You aren’t always the bodyguard,” she whispered.
“Correct.”
He could have screamed it in her face and had less of an impact than the quiet, matter-of-fact delivery. The stark truth and deep sorrow shadowed his features. Contrary to her professional instincts, she didn’t want to know the details anymore. She only wanted to soothe him.
She shook it off.
It shouldn’t surprise her. To protect effectively, he had first learned to defend. But there was more, some darker secret flickering in his eyes.
A trained killer sat in her grandmother’s kitchen. The ivy wallpaper should have shriveled, the bright ruffled curtains would surely go dull any second.
But nothing changed. Nothing but her.
She was being ridiculous. She’d watched him end lives in the course of saving hers. He was one of the good guys no matter what he’d done in the past.
“You’re a man who does what needs done,” she said briskly. “No shame in that.”
His eyes flared wide and if her knees hadn’t been trembling, she might have sauntered off and left him sitting there with his mouth gaping. But bravado wouldn’t keep her upright. Only the sink could do that.
His gaze narrowed, heated, and she wished her mind would kick back into gear. All the questions were a muddle, she wanted to know everything at once, but she couldn’t pick out a single one and run with it.
“Says the woman with the same philosophy,” he murmured, staring at her as if he’d never seen her before.
Her heart fluttered – no other word fit. And wasn’t she painting all this with a rosy romantic brush considering the type of day they’d had.
