by Rebecca York
If he drew back now, reality would crumble. When his lips pressed more firmly to hers, she returned the kiss. She knew she wanted comfort from him, but she wanted—needed—so much more. And she knew in that moment that he needed the same things she did, knew it from the way he began to feast on her, with hunger and passion and perhaps the edge of desperation.
They’d been through hell today. And they had only each other.
Her heart started to beat faster, and faster still when he gathered her closer and his hands moved restlessly across her back. His touch had begun as comforting; now it spoke of a sensuality she hadn’t dared to hope he possessed.
Or perhaps she had known and sensed that he had buried it deep inside himself. And she had brought it to the surface.
That knowledge made her heart leap.
It was a potent combination. The man who had signed on to protect her and had proved his worth a thousand times over. And the man who had proved he cared more about her than himself.
For long moments he stroked her, caressing her breasts, her hips, her bottom, sending ripples of sensation over her skin, sensations that sank into her body, heating her from the inside out. How could she ever have thought him cold? His mere touch took her breath away.
As she felt the heat build between them, she closed her eyes, clinging to him, rocking with him on the bed. When she felt his erection pressing against her middle, she knew without a doubt where they were headed, and she rejoiced in the knowledge—until the moment when she felt him pull away.
Her eyes blinked open and stared into the dark depths of his. “Wyatt?”
His voice had turned gritty. “You know we can’t do this.”
“Why not?” she asked, somehow managing to keep her voice even. “We both want—”
He pressed his fingers against her lips, preventing her from finishing the sentence. “Wanting isn’t the issue. We’ve both been through an emotional roller coaster today. You’re reacting to the dream and to almost getting killed. I’m...”
This time he was the one who stopped.
“You’re what?”
“Taking advantage of you.”
“No.”
He might be putting it that way, but she knew it wasn’t the truth. He wasn’t taking any more than he was giving.
“You’re in a fragile emotional state,” he added.
She swallowed. He could be speaking the truth as he knew it, but she didn’t want to hear his assessment of the heat that had flared between them.
He sat up and ran a hand through his dark hair. Then he moved to the side of the bed and got up, putting several feet of space between them as he stood there breathing hard.
She was also struggling to control her breathing, and listening to the wild pounding of her heart.
She wondered what would happen if she got off the bed and reached for him. Would he come back and take up where they’d left off?
It was tempting to try it, but she didn’t want a second rejection.
Instead, she got up and pulled the covers aside so that she could climb in.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.
She might have told him she wanted to be held. Instead, she said, “Yes,” and fixed the pillow more comfortably under her neck as she closed her eyes.
She could feel him watching her for a few more moments. She thought he’d get back into bed. Instead, as she watched through slitted lids, he walked to the table where he’d left his computer and sat down, leaning toward the screen as he accessed material she couldn’t see.
She kept covertly watching him, sure she wouldn’t get back to sleep. But finally she surrendered to fatigue. The next time she opened her eyes, she smelled coffee.
Blinking, she looked at Wyatt, then at the clock. It was after nine.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You needed the sleep. They have breakfast here. I got us both something. Better than last night’s stale sandwiches.” He kept his voice matter-of-fact, as though nothing personal had happened between them in the night.
If he could do it, so could she. “Thanks.”
He set down a cardboard tray with coffee, juice, cinnamon buns and hard-boiled eggs. She joined him at the table, and they both drank coffee and ate.
“What were you working on when I fell asleep?” she asked as she glanced toward his computer.
“A couple of things. I got the address of Madison’s wife, but I’m afraid that if we go over there, we’re going to run into a bunch of people.”
“If we get some dressier clothing, we can go in as friends of her husband, then ask to speak to her privately.”
“That might work. But it could be dangerous.”
Setting down her coffee cup, she picked up the remote control and turned to CNN. She and Wyatt were still of interest, starting with a rehash of the attack at the Federal Building and progressing to speculation about whether they had been at Aaron Madison’s house.
“His poor wife,” Carrie murmured. “Even if they were having problems, his death has to be a shock.”
* * *
DOUGLAS MITCHELL MOVED restlessly on the narrow bed. His captors had let him get up to go to the bathroom. Then they had secured his hand to the bed again. And they’d given him a bottle of water and a sandwich. Something from a deli, he judged.
He sat in the dark, eating the food slowly and drinking the water.
He wasn’t sure how long the men had been holding him. He shook his head. Sometimes it felt as if he’d been here for hours, sometimes days, and the sense of time distortion was maddening.
One thing he did know: Carrie must still be on the loose. These men hadn’t captured or killed her because he was still alive.
He clenched his teeth together, hating that he was at the mercy of these men.
He’d seen three of them when they’d let him out for his bathroom break. They were all young. In their late twenties and early thirties, he judged.
And they all looked like American men from the Midwest. Not what he’d consider typical terrorists.
Well, maybe they were, if you thought about Timothy McVeigh. But McVeigh had been a fanatic. These guys had talked about getting money for what they were doing. Did that mean they didn’t care about their terrorist plot?
He took another swallow of the water. Should he drink it all or save some for later?
Maybe saving it was best. But maybe he should eat more of the sandwich. It wouldn’t keep, would it?
It was still hard to think about what to do, but it felt as though his mind wasn’t quite as fuzzy as it had been.
Did he recognize this house? He wasn’t sure, but he thought it looked familiar.
He remembered a friend talking about his own mind being fuzzy. The guy had been on a gazillion medications, and he was having problems with his memory. Then his doctor had cut back some of his meds, and he’d started thinking better.
Could that be his problem?
Chapter Eight
Wyatt gave Carrie a direct look. “I have to think Madison’s involved.”
“It could be a coincidence,” she argued.
“You mean his house getting searched and his getting killed the same day you’re supposed to meet Gunderson and someone tries to kill you? Highly unlikely.”
“Then we should go with the paying-our-respects-to-the-widow plan.”
“And if there’s a TV truck outside, we drive past.”
“And then what?”
“Go on to the next best lead.”
“Which is?”
“I’m thinking.”
When Carrie finished her breakfast, she took the toiletries she’d bought into the bathroom and got dressed.
“We’re going to have to stop at a m
ore upscale department store,” he said as he eyed her jeans and T-shirt.
She nodded.
“I wish we didn’t have to go out in public.”
“I’ll be quick,” she answered, starting to mentally plan what she could buy. If she got a dress, she’d also have to buy stockings and good shoes. Probably it was better to stick to dress slacks and a dark jacket.
“Are we checking out?” she asked, as he gathered up his belongings.
“Probably better not to stay in the same place for two nights.”
“Then we should get suitcases, too.”
She gathered up the things she’d bought and put them back into the bags.
“Put on your hat,” Wyatt said.
“I actually hate hats.”
“When this is over, you’ll never have to wear one again.”
And would he be around to see her with the dye out of her hair and the length back? Did she want him to be?
The answer was yes, but she couldn’t focus on that. Right now she had to make sure there was life after hiding out.
He repeated the security procedures from the night before, then motioned her to the car.
They drove to the Columbia Mall.
“Macy’s is probably the best bet,” she said.
“Okay. I’ll get slacks, a dress shirt, a sports jacket and loafers, then meet you in the luggage department. And one more thing. The store probably has security cameras, and there will be cameras outside the building where Mrs. Madison lives. Keep your gaze down, like you need to watch your feet to walk straight.”
“You think the police will be looking at cameras here?”
“Like I said, it’s always better to be prepared. If somebody thinks they’ve spotted us, the cops might go back over the security tapes.”
Inside they split up.
Carrie had never liked clothes shopping. And she liked it even less this morning because she kept wondering if anyone was watching her. To minimize her exposure, she tried to streamline the process. First she picked up slacks she thought would fit. Then she found a black blazer with narrow white stripes and paired it with a simple white knit top. Her selections fit and didn’t look too bad with the low shoes she’d worn to the meeting with Gunderson that never happened. She took the tags off the new clothing and brought them to the checkout counter, then asked the clerk to put what she’d been wearing in the store bag.
At the luggage department, she didn’t spot Wyatt at first. Then a tall man in a navy sports jacket and gray pants turned around, and she realized she’d been totally faked out. She’d seen him in only casual clothing, looking like a rough-around-the-edges secret agent. But he was very polished in the dressier outfit, as if he could fit right into a boardroom.
“You clean up pretty well,” she murmured.
“You do, too,” he answered, eyeing her conservative yet flattering outfit.
He paid for the luggage, and they went back to the car. After stowing the department-store bags in the one of the suitcases, they headed back the way they’d come the day before, taking the same route to the Beltway and then to Wisconsin Avenue.
“We should plan how we’re going to represent ourselves to various people,” Wyatt said.
“Okay. How do you want to play it?”
“I think that if anyone else is with Rita—or asks how we know Aaron—we say we’re friends from the country club.”
“Which club?”
He named a well-known club off of Connecticut Avenue in Chevy Chase.
“What if people who really knew him there are around?”
“Unlikely. They kicked him out six months ago when he couldn’t pay the membership fees.”
“And you know all that how?”
“I researched him on the web after you went to sleep. Then I did some more poking around in the morning.”
“What else did you find out?”
“That his credit cards were maxed out. I also know that his wife has a trust fund from her family. She used it to buy her apartment.”
“So she wasn’t dependent on her husband.”
“Right. Which is lucky for her.”
“Describe her to me, so I don’t start talking to another guest like she’s the widow.”
“She’s a good-looking blonde woman in her late thirties. Her hair is in a short pageboy. Her makeup is always impeccable. She’s the kind who takes good care of herself and wouldn’t allow an ounce of extra fat to spoil the look of her size-four figure.”
“It sounds like you don’t approve of slender women.”
He gave her a quick look, then glanced back at the road. “I don’t like this obsession in our society with trying to look model thin.”
“There are a lot of people who are overweight.”
“Yeah. A weird contrast.”
They drove in silence for another few minutes before Wyatt cleared his throat.
“Yes?” she asked.
“About our cover story... Maybe we should pretend to be a married couple.”
After he dropped the comment, silence hung between them for a few seconds. Carrie could imagine he hadn’t liked making the suggestion, and she couldn’t stop herself from needling him.
“Why, exactly?”
“Because that’s the easiest explanation of why we’re showing up together. Do you have a better idea?”
“We both worked downtown with him.”
“Rita probably met the office staff,” he shot back.
“Right. I guess we have to use the country-club story—and false names, too.”
“Since I’m already Will Hanks,” he said, using the alias he’d used at the rental-car place and the motel, “you can be Carolyn Hanks.”
“You came up with that fast. Were you already thinking about my name?”
He nodded.
“Carolyn Hanks and Will Hanks,” she said, trying out the names. “If we get a chance to talk to Rita, maybe I should be the one who starts the conversation.”
“Why?”
“Because it will be woman to woman, and she may say things to me that she wouldn’t say to you.”
He thought for a moment. “Okay, that makes sense, but maybe we need to have a legend planned so we don’t get caught in any traps.”
“What’s a legend?”
“A spy’s cover story. What if you lost your first husband a few years ago, and you have some idea of how she feels.”
“We’re getting into an elaborate scenario, don’t you think?”
“We need to be prepared.”
“Then what did you do with Aaron at the country club? Golf? Tennis? Do we know what he did there?”
He made a dismissive sound. “I can’t fake my way through golf or tennis. Let’s say we met in the weight room.”
“Okay,” she answered, remembering that Wyatt had been a faithful user of the weights at the safe house. The memory stopped her for a moment. Living with him and using the weight room had been part of her routine for a week. Now that seemed like another life. In fact, her whole world had been turned upside down and righted again—with yet a different view of reality each time.
They arrived at Rita Madison’s apartment building, which was one of the expensive high-rises near the upscale shopping complex at Wisconsin and Western. They drove by, checking out the environment.
“No TV trucks,” Carrie said.
“Let’s hope reporters aren’t hiding in the bushes.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Do you think they would?”
“You never know what they’re going to do. Like I said, I’m wondering how they got my photo.”
The comment set Carrie’s teeth on edge, and she kept her guard up as they walked back toward the building and stepped in
to the lobby. Apparently, it was the kind of place where you didn’t get past the first floor unless you lived there—or were announced.
“May I help you?” asked an older woman in a dark suit who was standing behind a counter resembling a hotel check-in desk.
Wyatt approached her, and Carrie followed.
“We’re here to pay our respects to Rita Madison, apartment three fifteen.”
The woman pulled a long face. “Yes, it’s so sad. We heard it on the news last night. Mrs. Madison only moved in a few months ago.”
“After she separated from Aaron?” Wyatt asked.
“Yes.”
“We were hoping they’d get back together,” Wyatt said, as though he was an old friend of both of theirs.
Still, he broke off the conversation before it went any further.
When the elevator door had closed behind them, he said, “We don’t want to call too much attention to ourselves.”
She nodded, thinking that he should have been an actor. He was good at slipping into a persona. Like he’d done with her. At first at the safe house, she’d thought he was cold and distant because that was what he’d wanted her to think. Then she’d known it was a pose. And what about his relationship with her now? Was there any way to know what he was really thinking?
She stopped trying to puzzle it out as they reached the third floor and the elevator doors opened.
As they walked down the hall, she saw that the door to number 315 was ajar, probably so that Mrs. Madison didn’t have to keep getting up to let visitors in.
They walked into a marble-floored vestibule that could have been the front entryway to a good-size house. Beyond was a living room with very formal furniture—reproductions of seventeenth-century English pieces, Carrie judged.
She spotted Rita Madison right away. She saw the blond hair and the slender form, although the woman had not taken the care with her makeup that Wyatt had described. She was speaking to a man in a black suit wearing a black shirt with a white collar. Her minister. Other people stood around the room. Some were talking quietly while others were drinking coffee or eating from small plates of food.
Carrie looked toward the dining table and saw that various buffet items had been set out. A young, dark-haired woman in a black uniform stepped into the room and began collecting dirty plates and glasses. It was a pretty good spread for having been organized at short notice.
