Her gaze swept the scattered lingerie and other clothing. Her cheeks practically broiled. “I can do the rest of this by myself. Thanks for your help.”
“You don’t want me folding your bras and panties? A teddy, too. Very sexy.”
She backed away. “Look, we have to work together, I agree, to find my brother. And in a crazy way it makes sense for us to pretend to be—” She stopped, unable to utter the word.
“Lovers.”
“—close. But why can’t you be my cousin or something instead?”
“Hard to picture a cousin being that devoted.” He shook his head. It’s only pretend.”
“And pretending is all it’s going to be. I need to know my brother’s all right. I have my own goals. That means not getting involved with . . . anyone.” Especially a handsome man who could charm the colors off a butterfly’s wings. And throw her brother into jail where God knew what could happen to him.
“I understand no, and I promise you’ll be safe.” He scooped up more lingerie. With a graceful Zorro bow, he dumped the undies in her arms.
“You’d better go. I have to call around and see what I can do about transportation for the next week or so.”
“No problem. Chauffeur and bodyguard Ricardo Cruz at your service.” He snagged his jacket and ambled to the door.
“What do you mean?” She shoved her discount outlet underwear in a top drawer before following him. She’d launder and organize everything later. The chore would keep her busy, body and mind.
“Protecting you. What’s next on the agenda for finding your brother?”
“No, you don’t have to do that.” How strong would her resistance be if she rode in that small sports car with Rick every day? And when did he become Rick? “There must be some other way, Agent Cruz. I can manage.”
“I can protect you, and we can work together. Or are we competing? It can’t be both.”
She sighed. He was right. “It’s just I’m not used to anyone helping me.”
“Your friend will be happy. She’ll think we’re a couple. Can you play your part convincingly?” He hooked a finger beneath her chin and brushed his thumb over her lower lip.
Chapter 6
Later that afternoon, Rick contacted Holt Donovan.
“At first the GS went ballistic,” Donovan told him, “but Jake and I convinced Macmillan to allow you to escort the Paris woman. That puts her in protective custody.”
Better them than Rick facing the Group Supervisor on that issue. He blew out a breath. “I owe you one, Holt. Juliana does need protection. What else?”
“Nothing yet on the bullets. Portland PD found the Lincoln in an alley. Reported stolen the day before the ambush. No prints. Maybe the lab techs will find something.”
“Jake have any leads on the smuggled weapons?”
“He and one of the other ATF guys are out trying to track how Olívas and company ship the weapons north and where they store them until they have a boat. Word is this shipment contains Bushmaster semi-automatic handguns as well as assault rifles, AK-47s and AR-15s. 7.62 and .223 caliber bullets. And a block of C-4. Jake can tell you more later.”
Rick emitted a low whistle. “Powerful weapons and nasty explosives.”
As he disconnected, he dragged in a lungful of air and got back to work.
He had semi-success tracking down Jordan’s former girlfriend. The girl’s parents gave him her phone number at UCLA, but she hadn’t seen Jordan since graduation.
Then there was Juliana. She refused a safe house, insisting she needed to remain where her brother could find her. And she insisted on following her regular jogging routine. After he reminded her she couldn’t outrun a bullet, she agreed to accept him as a running partner.
One of the local agents was letting him stay in a furnished apartment over his garage for the duration. A shorter commute than from Boston made up for not having his stuff. But the main perk was seeing Juliana early in the morning, cheeks glowing pink in her heart-shaped face and her bright hair caressing her shoulders. Torture too. He was here to find the brother, to arrest Olívas, not to hook up with a woman connected to crooks. He shouldn’t want her. But all he wanted to do was carry her off to bed. A couch. The floor.
Worse, Wes Vinson had requested Juliana to sub for his secretary for the rest of the week. She allowed a light kiss between them every day when he dropped her off—part of their cover. Right. He tried and failed to put her sweet taste out of his mind.
He couldn’t object to her working at Vinson Seafood. Couldn’t tell her Vinson was one of the prime suspects in Operation Fish Truck. But every day, fear for her twisted inside him—fear she’d be handed over to Olívas as leverage to flush out her brother.
So far all El Águila’s men were doing was tailing her. This time they were legal. A rented tan Ford. A DEA tail kept track of them and reported to Rick.
*****
Frigid rain and cloudy skies had plagued them the past two days, but on Friday morning, only a few wintry clouds splotched the pale blue sky. Rick squinted at the glare through the windshield. Persuading Juliana to go had taken the rest of the week, but finally the two of them headed Down East. She’d pled a previously scheduled commitment, and Vinson didn’t object.
The weather wasn’t all that had defrosted. Sharing the morning jogs and the daily commute seemed to make her more at ease with him. Less suspicious of his motives. Nah, probably not. But she softened enough to carry on normal conversations. He’d take it.
He glanced at her. She sat beside him, visibly humming with anticipation and hope. Something—her intensity, her dry wit, her compact curves—tied him in knots. Thinking about her made him hard as his nine-millimeter.
She pointed at the hood. “What’s with the horns? Whose truck is this?”
“My borrowed undercover vehicle. Belongs to another agent. Cowboy from the Wild, Wild West.” These wheels weren’t as inconspicuous as he’d like. The gunmetal Silverado suited Maine, but the cow horns on the hood stuck out like a palm tree in Alaska.
She smoothed her left hand across the wide console between them. “I like it. Not as racy as the sports car, but more room.”
He enfolded her cold hand. “You should check out the license plate. HI YO.”
“Silver, away?” With a laugh, she tugged free her hand and opened her bag. She pulled her hair up and wrapped it with a stretchy band. The springy curls invited touching.
Rick flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Still no response from your calls to your uncle and your mother?”
“Uncle Grady hasn’t returned my calls. I left a personal message for Molly on my machine, but I don’t know if she’s called to hear it. No message back.”
“It blows me away that you call your mother Molly.”
“When I turned thirteen, she insisted. She said it made her feel younger.”
Knowing more about her mother would give him insight into the daughter. “You’ve hinted at her traveling and being irresponsible.”
She raised a hand against the sun’s glare. “Ever since my dad’s death, she’s lived only for the day or for some charming man’s pie-in-the-sky plan. My dad was one of those dreamers. He lost all his money—our money—several times. He had big ideas and worked hard, but things never went his way.”
“Is accounting a way to prevent that disaster for others? Or for yourself?”
“Something like that, I suppose. It’s what I’m good at.”
“And your mom?”
“She finds these happy-go-lucky, handsome charmers who fill her head with promises of a rosy future. Sometimes they lavish her with trips and expensive gifts, but most of the time she ends up alone and penniless. Until the next man comes along.” She frowned as if uncertain she should’ve opened up so much.
Maybe he had only the false intimacy of the pickup’s cab to thank, but whatever. “Doesn’t sound like her independent daughter.”
“I hope not. Don’t get me wrong. I love Molly, but we are
very different.”
“My mamá would roast me with the arroz con pollo if I ever called her Ashley.”
She laughed. “Ashley. That doesn’t sound very Cuban.”
“She’s as Anglo as you. My parents met in Miami when she was singing in nightclubs and my papá was waiting tables and going to medical school.”
“So your dad is a doctor?”
“A surgeon. The best in Miami.” Rudy used to say he wanted to be a physician too. Until he chose a wrong path. Before Rick could get too maudlin, she spoke again.
“Do you have any more information on Jordan?”
The kid was probably involved up to his hairline, but he wouldn’t tell her his suspicions. He couldn’t squash her faith in her brother. He could use family loyalty like hers. “The sense is that he’s a little fish and worth netting only for what he knows.”
“The same reason the drug gang wants him, I suppose.” She cast him a fretful glance.
“Try not to worry too much about Jordan. If they had him, they wouldn’t be following you. Think positive.”
“Easy for you to say.” She twisted in the seat to face him. “Tell me something, Agent Cruz, with all the slime you see in your business, how do you maintain such an upbeat attitude? Or is it a cover for your real feelings?”
Her perception surprised him. Not something he’d put into words. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you could see inside me.”
“So you do have a dark side?”
“Not really. At least, not for long. Sometimes looking on the bright side slides me past the dark patches. But it seems natural. Keeps me going.” He slipped off his sunglasses and winked. “You, on the other hand, would make lemons out of lemonade.”
Her chin shot up in a familiar gesture of pride. “I’m simply concerned about my brother.”
“It may take us awhile but we’ll find Jordan.”
“Guess I’ll have to trust you. Some.” She busied herself with her planner, checking off items on one of her lists.
The highway took them north through Portland to the ship-building town of Bath, where four lanes funneled into two. Dirty snow clumped on the shady roadsides. White frame houses and steepled churches and rambling farmhouses linked to enormous barns were sure as hell different from anywhere else he’d lived.
In Rockland, they found the fish buyer, but Sea Worthy had already come and gone.
“No message neither,” said the man slinging ice over bulging-eyed fish in plastic bins. “Funny thing, though. You’re the second folks today to ask ‘bout that Finny fella.”
Rick lasered to attention. “Who were the others?”
The man shrugged. “Never give their names. Dark, foreign guys with accents. Left a couple hours ago.”
“Any idea where they were headed?”
“Didn’t say.” The man returned to icing down the fish.
Rick thanked him and hurried a sputtering Juliana back to the truck.
“Olívas’s men were here ahead of us? How did they learn about Finny?” She clicked her seat belt.
Olívas’s discovery of Finny’s existence reinforced his other suspicions. Later he’d call Donovan, but he didn’t want to frighten Juliana more. “Wish I could answer that. Let’s find your uncle.”
She slashed a line through an item on her list. “That fish guy said he received no message for Finny.”
“Not everyone’s as organized as you. Any number of reasons the phone call didn’t happen. That seemed like a loose operation. Maybe they lost the message or Finny didn’t want to call, and those guys didn’t want to tell you. Mayb—”
“Maybe Wes forgot to give them the message for Finny. I could telephone him.” She opened her flip phone.
Shit. He was slipping. He covered her hand. “No. No calls. And turn off your phone. These days anybody can find directions for GPS tracking on the Internet. You tell anybody where we’re headed?”
She startled but didn’t pull away. “I . . . I had to explain part of the situation to Venice because of my cat, but I said only I had to go out of town for the day.”
It would have to do.
In early afternoon, they reached the village of Bar Harbor on Mount Desert Island. They parked, then trooped to a shed at the pier’s edge.
The dispatcher who worked for the boats that plied the island trade shook her head. “Beal won’t return to port until tomorrow morning.”
“Has anyone else been here looking for her uncle?”
“No, deah. Except for fishermen, there’s no boats in the water.” The woman spoke with a thick Down-East accent. “Hardly any docks.”
At least the assholes hadn’t arrived here ahead of them. But Rick wouldn’t relax yet. The notion that somehow they knew more than they should had him gritting his teeth.
When they returned to the Silverado, Juliana directed him to her uncle’s house, only a few blocks away. They found the small white Cape deserted and undisturbed.
“Locked up and the shutters are all closed,” she said. “He stays here only in winter. He lives in the family’s seaside cottage in warmer weather. I’m surprised he’s moved already but we can try. All the property around the cottage belongs to Acadia National Park. The only access is by boat or on foot.”
“Could Jordan be hiding there?”
She turned to face him, her gamine face hopeful. “I suppose, but Uncle Grady would have to help him. Provide food and such.”
He turned the ignition. “Let’s go. I could do with a walk after this long ride.”
“Walk?” She grinned. “When I said inaccessible, I meant it. Reaching Beal Cottage is a hike, not a stroll.”
*****
At the trail’s small parking area, Rick eased the Silverado behind a tangle of tall shrubs. Mostly hidden from the road, he decided. It’d have to do.
Juliana climbed into the back of the pickup to change from her jeans. He stared into the woods while counting backward from a hundred and trying not to visualize her stripping down. Having seen the hiking boots on her to-bring list, he packed his. He’d also worn a fleece pullover beneath his leather jacket, ready for temps in the thirties.
She emerged in fleece-lined jogging gear and shrugged into her backpack. She strode to the trail head, marked by a wooden sign on a pole. “We can see the cottage from the west face of Otter Mountain. We’ll see smoke from the chimney if anyone is there. If not, we don’t need to go farther.”
He grinned at her expectant gaze. Did she have any idea how sexy she looked? Tendrils had escaped from her ponytail and curled around her face. Her eyes sparkled with the intensity he liked about her, and her complexion glowed. She worked and studied hard, like his parents when he was small, but she had too much zest for life to be called a drudge.
The trail marker described the West Face Trail as strenuous. Towering evergreens and birches lined the steep path. “You sure you want to lug that duffel bag?”
“You have your gun?” She hooked one hand on a hip.
She had no idea how provocative that question was. He bit back a smart-ass answer and patted the holster at his back. “Always, mi amor, but no one followed us.”
“It’s not that. You have your standard equipment. So do I. You never know when we might need something I have in here.”
“Let’s see. A complete first-aid kit with an expandable stretcher? How about—”
“Water.” She shook a finger at him. “Never go on a hike without water.”
“It’s your other standard equipment I appreciate more.”
A flush pinked her cheeks. “Snow and ice stay until April on some of the trails. So watch your step. And it’s pretty steep.”
“Don’t worry. I stay in shape.” The warm-up pants concealed her sleek legs, but hugged other places. The view of her cute little butt would keep him going. “You first.”
She checked her watch. “Right. DEA, former SEAL and all that. Okay, let’s see if you can keep up. My best time on this trail is forty minutes.” With that
, she set out up the rocky path at a rapid clip.
Chapter 7
Rick stood rooted to the spot. He stared at her disappearing backside. The woman was running up the mountain trail and timing it. He bounded after her.
The path rose straight and steep at nearly a forty-five degree angle through dense trees and undergrowth. Blue trail arrows marked boulders the size of SUV’s along the way. He easily skirted the few patches of ice. By the third trail marker, he caught up to her.
“Whoa, Ms. Marathoner, what are you doing?” He tried not to sound breathless, though San Francisco was the last place he’d raced uphill. Everything there was on a damn hill.
“Hiking the trail, of course.” She bent to adjust her socks. “What’s the matter?”
“How can you look at the scenery if you move at mach five?”
“If you haven’t noticed, we’re surrounded by trees and rocks. The real scenery appears above the tree line.”
“Last I knew rocks and trees are real scenery.” He waved toward the trees. “I’ve traveled the globe, but I can’t help the comparison to my native Miami. This is as different from palms and hibiscus as the Metropolitan Opera is from indie rock. I want to enjoy it.”
Juliana glanced from the brown leaves underfoot to the cedars and naked maples and birches around them. “Sorry. I’m so used to these trails that I make it a contest with myself. It’s fun trying to beat my times.” Her contrite smile disarmed him.
“Always lists and numbers, Juliana.” He grinned. She was unique. In more ways than one. “You’ll be a hell of an accountant.”
“The best views are up where the trees stop and the mountain is nothing but slabs of pink granite. Like the song says, you can see forever on a clear day. Like this one.” Clearly eager to get moving again, she jogged in place. “And I might find Jordan.”
“You win. We’ll race up, but let’s cool it on the return. Check out the trees. Listen to the birds.” Steal a few kisses.
Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle) Page 5
