by Julie Miller
Holly’s lips parted in shock at the vehemence of his argument. How damaged did a man have to be that he could only allow himself to see the world in one isolating, dangerous, forget-about-anyone-else’s-wishes-or-feelings kind of way?
“Edward, you can’t control who gets hurt and who doesn’t.” She gestured toward the sounds of the cops doing their work behind those cubicle walls. “Yes, this is dangerous work. And sometimes innocent people get hurt. But I’m trained to do my job. I’m trained to be smart and watch my back and get the bad guys, all at the same time. I’m going to do my job. With or without your help.”
“Taking on Z Group is suicide.”
“That’s what they used to say about taking on André Butler. And you defeated him.”
“No, Stick. I lost. I lost everything.” He smacked his hand against the elevator door and Holly jumped at the sudden outburst of his frustration and emotion. “Look at me. I’m not the man who took on Butler. I’m beat-up, I’m out of practice and my head’s not in the game the way it used to be. I thought you were dead when I saw you in that autopsy drawer with all that blood. When I saw Blake Rivers accosting you just now, I nearly lost it.”
“He wasn’t hurting me.”
“I know. And I still…overreacted.” Edward’s eyes were looking everywhere but at her. He was searching for words, searching for reason. “I can’t…” He swallowed hard, then determinedly looked her in the eye. “I can’t care about you if you’re going to intentionally put yourself in danger.”
“If we’re a team, it won’t be so dangerous. I watch your back. You watch mine. There’s no one I trust more than you to keep me safe.”
“That’d be your mistake.”
“Your wife and daughter didn’t die because of any mistake you made.”
“I put them in harm’s way. I made them targets. And now I’ve gotten you so involved in my father’s murder that I’ve made you a target.”
“Edward, please.” She curled her fingers into the front of his sweater, trying to reach the man inside. “It was a tragedy, yes, and you paid a huge price. But think of all the lives you saved by getting rid of Butler. Think of the lives we can save by exposing Irina Zorinsky and Z Group. It’s not just about us,” she pleaded with the man she couldn’t help loving, despite his harsh words. “Help me.”
“I’m sorry.” He pulled her fingers off him and retreated. “I just can’t do this. I can’t lose you, too.” The elevator doors opened and he walked inside. When he reached the back wall, he turned around and offered her one last bleak pronouncement. “You’re on your own. Good luck.”
The doors closed.
They closed around her heart, too.
“WHAT ABOUT GRANDPA, DADDY? You promised.”
Edward sat in the living room of his stone cabin, isolated in the snowy countryside on the outskirts of Kansas City’s metropolitan area. Late-night television provided the only light in the entire house, but he wasn’t really watching. He slouched back against the black leather sofa, his booted feet propped up on the coffee table beside two cartons holding eleven bottles of ice-cold imported beer.
He twirled the twelfth bottle unopened in his right hand, savoring the chill of the icy condensation dripping over his fingers, barely able to hear his daughter’s voice.
A box that he’d pulled down from a closet shelf sat open on the coffee table. He’d tried to give some of the items away—but his mother and youngest brother had insisted he keep the contents that had once held meaning for him. Inside the box were painful reminders of his past. His badge. His gun. A wedding picture with Cara. A child’s rag doll ornament with button eyes that had been glued on crookedly. The ornament had been Melinda’s gift to him that last morning, just before he drove away to pick up her new bike. She’d given them a handmade present that she’d made at her school because she was too excited to wait until Christmas.
Tonight he’d gotten the cockeyed notion in his head that if he could look at those things that had once meant so much to him and not fall apart, then maybe he stood half a chance at making something happen with Holly. Maybe he could be a cop. Maybe he could feel like a real human being again.
Walking away from Holly this afternoon had been a selfish thing to do. The coward’s way out of getting hurt.
And tonight he hurt, anyway.
“Be brave, Daddy.”
“I’m trying, baby,” he whispered into the darkness. Trying and failing.
He’d already destroyed one family connection tonight. Before stopping to buy the beer, he’d paid a visit to William Caldwell. He’d asked the man flat-out how much he knew about Z Group’s current activities, how much he might still be an active part of them and if he knew that Irina Zorinsky Hansford was still alive.
Bill had gone pale. Poured himself a brandy before saying a word.
Yeah, there was something to tell. Either he’d just seen a ghost, or he’d been caught in the biggest lie of their lives.
“Alive? Irina is alive?” Edward had seen better acting jobs from doped-up street punks trying to talk their way out of a possession charge.
All these months since his father’s murder—all these years that they’d spent together on camping and fishing trips, holiday get-togethers, graduations and other special events—Bill Caldwell had been lying.
He knew about Irina. Knew about Z Group.
Why give him clearance to search the labs at Caldwell Technologies? Not to point the finger at Blake Rivers, but to ease his own conscience.
Edward half hoped that Bill would say something about being blackmailed, about having no choice but to do an evil woman’s bidding—that he was a victim like the rest of them. Instead, he claimed to know nothing about his father’s murder or Holly’s attack or any other thing that Irina Zorinsky had been responsible for.
Oh, he told him plenty about the old days, when Z Group had been a government-sanctioned organization monitoring the flow of weapons and technology throughout eastern Europe before the fall of Communist regimes. He talked about the beautiful Irina—the double agent who had planned to hand over their names to their enemies—how they’d met secretly and taken a vote to eliminate her. He told him how Irina’s besotted husband, Leo Hansford, had volunteered for the mission to kill them both in a car accident.
“But Atticus’s fiancée, Brooke Hansford—Leo and Irina’s daughter—went to Sarajevo to move her parents’ remains back to the States. We told you that the DNA tests proved that the body buried in Irina’s grave wasn’t Irina. Didn’t you suspect anything then? Or are you the reason she’s still alive today?”
“She can’t be alive.” It had taken another brandy for Bill to finally start sounding like the self-made billionaire he was. He’d accused Edward of lying, of manufacturing stories to trip him up like some common criminal. He was throwing out cruel guesses, trying to stir up a suspect because KCPD had been working eight months on this and still couldn’t make a case. “Crawl back into your hole, Edward, and stop trying to be a hero. How could you accuse me of being a part of your father’s murder? I loved John like a brother. I love you and your brothers as if you were my own sons. I love your mother. Why would I agree to allow the people I love to be hurt?”
Feeling the lies like whip marks over his soul, Edward had stood up to make his exit. “Think about this, Bill. If you know about Irina and you don’t do anything to stop her, then you might lose more of the people you love. Their lives would be on your head.
“And trust me, you don’t want to be in that place.”
When he walked away, it had almost been like losing his father all over again. He’d made the accusations his brothers hadn’t been able to make. He’d severed a bond that had been a part of his life from the day he was born. And someone else he loved had just been lost to him forever.
Now he was sitting alone, with late-night television shows droning on like crickets in the darkness, debating whether or not eight months of sobriety was worth the pain of caring about things.
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It had to be better not to care about Holly, right?
Better not to want her with every cell in his body.
Better not to see her as the first light of something good to come into his life since losing Cara and Melinda?
He squeezed the bottle’s cap within his fist and considered turning it.
He was saving them both from a big world of hurt, right?
“…Holly Masterson, medical examiner with the KCPD crime lab. Dr. Masterson…”
“What the…?” The words from his TV set suddenly became important.
Switching out the beer for the remote, Edward turned up the volume. The nosy blond reporter who’d tried to stop him at the lab, Hayley Resnick, was recapping a news report, covering the highlights of a KCPD news conference held earlier in the evening. The picture switched from Ms. Resnick to taped footage of the news conference.
Edward’s heavy boots thumped to the floor as he sat forward. Unbelievable. Did that woman have a death wish?
Flanked by Mitch Taylor and Detective Kevin Grove, Holly stood at the press room podium, waiting to address the reporter’s question. “Dr. Masterson. Is it true that your lab has found conclusive results confirming that Cold War operative Irina Zorinsky Hansford is still alive?”
“Yes. Her DNA turned up at a recent crime scene.”
“Can you elaborate?”
Holly tucked her short hair behind her ears. “I’m afraid I can’t comment as it’s part of an ongoing investigation. But I assure you, the results are conclusive. She is alive.”
Dissatisfied with that answer, Ms. Resnick turned her microphone toward the officer in charge. “Major Taylor, I see you’re standing in for the commissioner while she’s away on vacation. Can you tell our viewers—does Ms. Zorinsky pose a significant threat to the Kansas City community? Is this something Homeland Security will look into?”
KCPD could place a woman matching Irina’s general description at two different locations—one of which was Holly’s attack—and they thought it was a smart idea to splash Holly’s face all over the television?
Edward rose to his feet. Was this Holly’s idea? Flush Irina Zorinsky out of hiding? And what was Taylor thinking? That Holly’s pretty face and brainy deductions made the perfect bait?
Edward snatched his cell phone off its charger, intending to punch in Major Taylor’s number and warn him of the danger Holly could be in. But when he turned it on, three voice mail messages popped up, all from Holly. She was probably just checking up on him, being strong and sensible and braver about their growing feelings than he’d been. But if any one of them included the word help or danger, then he’d probably just tumble right over the edge into the bottle that was now leaving a ring of moisture on his coffee table.
Edward turned away from the temptation and played the first message. Holly was looking for him. Why didn’t he answer his phone? The second message was similar, leaving her sister Jillian’s cell phone number as well as her work phone in case he wanted to contact her. The third—
The knock at his front door was as startling as any cry for help. Ages ago, he would have sensed the unwelcome guest and identified him already. Tonight, he hadn’t even heard a car drive up. Every muscle inside him tensed before he closed his phone and set it on the table. The hour was late, the cabin dark, the location remote. This couldn’t be any accidental tourist stopping by.
The box containing his past life was right there beside his hand. With defensive instincts and old cautions surfacing inside him, it felt only natural to reach for the gun and pull it from its holster. It hadn’t been cleaned in two years, but then it hadn’t been used, either.
He was unboxing a clip of bullets when his visitor knocked again. Louder this time. “Edward? Are you awake?”
“Holly?” His ankle and knee protested the sudden spin toward the door. But other pangs moved him even faster. “Holly?”
He tucked his gun in the back of his jeans and swung the door open to find her standing on his screened-in porch. Bundled up and dotted with snow on his porch. “I know it’s late, but—”
“Get in here.” He pulled her inside, taking note of the black-and-white unit making a U-turn in his drive and pulling away. He scanned the woods and gravel road beyond, searching for any sign of being tailed, before closing the door and pushing her against the thick stones and beams of the wall. “Where’s your escort going?”
“He’s been with me all day and night. I told him once I got inside with you he could go home to his own family.”
“Call him back.”
He was still shielding her with his body from a threat he knew was out there, somewhere, when her gloved hand came up to brush against the stubble of his jaw. “You didn’t return any of my calls. I was worried. I didn’t want to leave it like it was between us this afternoon. I think we need to talk.”
Wants and needs lurched inside him in response to her determined tenderness. But something harder, self-preserving, made him reach up and pull her hand away. “Do you have any idea how much I don’t want to talk?”
Her gaze moved beyond him to the coffee table. “But you’re willing to get drunk?”
“I saw your news conference. Taylor shouldn’t have put you up to that.”
“I volunteered. This case is about to break wide open. I’m about to find the answers I’ve been searching eight months for.”
“No. No way, Stick.” He raked his fingers through his hair and turned away, crossing to the table and placing the loose bottle back in the carton with its golden, frosty mates. “This is my war to fight against Z Group. Not yours. I want you off my father’s murder investigation. I’m prepared to deal with the mess that’s coming down the road. But I don’t want you anywhere near it.”
Her footsteps followed him into the kitchen. “You’re armed and sitting in the dark with twelve beers? That’s what you call prepared? I was right to be worried.”
“Here.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out to her. “Call your backup guy back, and have him drive you home. Or better yet, to a safe house.”
Bright lights flooded the kitchen, forcing him to close his eyes. “Stick.” Any argument died when he felt her press her face against his chest. Cells in his body leaped to life. She turned her nose to the juncture of his neck and shoulder and his pulse raced. She framed his face and tilted her head back. His arms went round her and he lowered his mouth, helplessly drawn to her kiss. But the surge of passion came to a cruelly abrupt halt when she sniffed. And then she was prying open his eyelids. “What are you doing?”
“You haven’t had anything to drink yet?” Her hazel eyes studied his, looking for answers that went beyond the physical. Looking hopeful.
He squeezed her shoulders and pushed her away. “No.”
“Then call your sponsor and go to a meeting before you do. Please.”
This woman was unbelievable. She’d just revealed her knowledge of a dangerous killer on a public newscast and she was worried about him? He released her entirely. “Look, you do not need to deal with the likes of me. You already have one addict in your family—that’s more than any one person should have to take care of.”
“Jillian’s a recovering addict,” she corrected. “And you’re the one who reminded me that it isn’t my job to ‘take care’ of her. She has to take care of herself. I just have to love her.”
Her green-gold eyes reached all the way into his heart, stunning him like an electric shock, bringing something back to life inside him.
No. He couldn’t hear those words. Couldn’t dare feel them or believe what they implied.
He gripped the edge of the counter behind him. Gripped it with both hands. “Let me solve Dad’s murder on my own, Stick. Leave me alone and let me work. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I’ve watched Jillian heal, Edward. You can, too. I need you to heal.”
“So I can keep you safe? You know how well I protected my own family.”
“Please.�
� She had the brass to reach right into his pocket and pull out the keys to his Jeep. “Let me take you to the meeting, Edward. And then…we’ll come back here.” Her hands might be bold, but vulnerability softened her eyes and sentenced him to the truth. His efforts to free himself from his feelings for Holly Masterson had come too late. “You may want to get rid of me, but I have no intention of leaving you.”
Chapter Ten
“Satisfied?”
He watched her slide the last stack of bills back into the envelope he’d given her, and then tuck it into her trinket box along with the other spoils from her work here in the United States. She’d counted out the entire $100,000, not trusting him for one minute, even after all this time together.
She reached up to trace his mouth with one red-tipped finger. “Now that’s a loaded question, isn’t it, dear? You know my appetites are insatiable.”
He kissed the fingertip because she expected him to. But his mind was already racing ahead to the plans he’d made following his visit from Edward Kincaid earlier in the evening.
Edward—who suspected everything but couldn’t prove it.
If he was anything like his father—and he was—then it was only a matter of time before Edward found that proof.
He’d already buried his best friend because of this woman.
William Caldwell wasn’t going to stay around long enough to see his best friend’s oldest son buried alongside him. The game was finally up. But Bill had one last play to make.
After she zipped the trinket box into her carry-on bag, Bill tossed a pair of airline tickets onto the bed beside her. It had to be two tickets because even with all her conniving intellect and complete lack of remorse for the vicious retributions she’d handed out over the years, Irina Zorinsky had one fatal flaw.
She hated to be alone.
It was her insatiable need for male companionship that had doomed him to this deadly alliance in the first place. If he hadn’t been sleeping with her thirty years ago, she never would have discovered that he was the one who’d been selling American technology and the names of Z Group operatives to their enemies. She never would have discovered how lucrative playing both sides of the spy game could be and demanded to be cut in on a piece of the profits. She never would have hatched that ludicrous plan to take the blame and “die” in his place, thereby setting up a secret partnership that allowed him to be the straight, upstanding American entrepreneur while she sold his company’s technology abroad without fear of being caught. After all, how could Interpol or the CIA or anyone else track a dead woman?
