by Nina Bruhns
He was right about one thing: what she needed was a warm, relaxing bath surrounded by scented candles. She went in and turned on the waterfall tap, which poured into the deep, luxurious spa tub, and started to take off her clothes. At the last minute she remembered the champagne, and went back out to fetch it.
But the ice in the bucket had melted. Damn. In the steamy sauna of the bathroom, the wine would soon be warm. Nothing worse than warm champagne. She needed more ice. She stared in indecision at the bucket.
Gregg’s warning rang in her ears as clearly as if he were there: Don’t leave the room.
But the ice machine was just a quick jog down the hall. She’d be there and back in thirty seconds. What could possibly happen?
She turned off the water in the tub, grabbed her room key and the ice bucket. Cautiously, she opened the entry door, and peeked out. The coast was clear. Not a sound could be heard. Not a soul in sight.
She slipped out of the room. And ran for the ice machine.
SIXTEEN
THE STORM jet landed in Washington, D.C., and Rebel exited the plane in a mental fog. Hurt still cascaded through her every few seconds, despite her best attempts to stop it. To stop herself from thinking about why Alex would want to avoid her so badly he’d marry a woman he could never be with. But she couldn’t.
They climbed into the waiting limo while the chauffeur loaded their bags into the trunk. Giving her her space, Alex kept up a staccato conversation with the man for the short drive to the hotel where Tara Reeves had set up the STORM operation headquarters.
But as they were about to get out of the limo, Rebel could no longer hold the question inside. “Why?” she asked him. Her voice came out small, like when she was a little girl and a mean uncle had told her the Easter Bunny didn’t really leave the chocolate eggs in the bright pink basket by her door each year. “Didn’t you want me? You had to know how I felt—” She turned away from him again. “Oh, no. I’ve made a huge mistake . . .”
“Rebel. Ah, angel. Come here.”
He reached for her, but she backed away. She couldn’t let him touch her. If he did, she might break down completely. Without waiting for an answer, she shoved open the limo door and almost threw herself out of the vehicle. Straightening her spine, she strode quickly to the hotel reception desk, where they checked in.
As soon as they were alone and the elevator doors closed on them, he dropped their bags and grasped her arms. “Baby, you have to know from the moment I met you, I wanted you crazy bad. Day and night I thought about you, and what it would be like to hold you. That’s why I agreed to Helena’s proposal.”
Her jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”
The elevator dinged at the top floor and the doors whooshed open. She swooped out ahead of him. She could not deal with this.
She heard him hurry after her, saying her name.
Nearby, the sound of an ice machine drowned out the unhappy chaos of her thoughts.
She halted, and whirled to face him. “Alex. That makes no sense!”
“It does,” he insisted. “Because I knew damn well you wanted children and a normal husband who comes home to you every night. One who shares your life in all ways. I could never give you that. I still can’t. Not any part of it.”
At that passionate declaration, her heart shattered in her chest. Because she knew it was true. She spun back around and blindly walked down the hallway. She glanced at the key card in her shaking hand to check her room number, but it swam out of focus.
Which is why she didn’t see the woman come out of the alcove with her filled ice bucket. Lost in her own roiling emotions, Rebel ran right into her. She gasped, taken by complete surprise.
Ice flew everywhere, ricocheting off the walls and the metal of the ice machine like gunshots. The sound shattered through her thoughts, hurtling her back to reality with a crash.
Instantly, Alex whipped out his weapon and pointed it at the woman. “Stay where you are! Don’t move!”
Falling backward into the alcove, the frightened woman scrabbled frantically at her robe, groping for the pockets. Long black hair tumbled over her shoulders, hiding her face.
“Wait!” Rebel exclaimed, grasping Alex’s arm. The woman wasn’t a threat—she was obviously terrified that they meant to harm her.
Seeing the gun, the other woman gave a desperate cry and started to lunge at Alex’s chest with her bare fists. “No! I won’t let you—”
“Stop!” he commanded, raising his weapon to fire.
“Alex, no!” Rebel cried, and shoved his arm to one side.
“Hey!”
The woman slammed into Alex, knocking them both down to the plush carpet. Black hair flew in a flurry as she struggled to get away from him.
“It’s okay! We’re not going to hurt you!” Rebel assured her loudly, trying to figure out how to stop them without being drawn into the brawl herself. “I promise!”
The woman came to an abrupt halt and looked up, her gaze going from Rebel to Alex and back again. Her eyes widened and she let out a stuttering gasp. “Oh, G-God. A-Alex? R-Rebel?”
Sweet goodnight. Disbelief and recognition slammed into her in equal measures. It wasn’t possible . . . But oh, lord! It was!
“Gina? Is that you?”
DR. Stroud’s welcoming smile almost made up for the fact that Sarah was standing in her least favorite spot on earth: the autopsy room.
“Come on in. What a nice surprise!”
Twice in two days. Yikes. A record. One she hoped never to repeat.
“Hello, Dr. Stroud.” At his admonishing mock frown, she amended, “Johnny.”
“What’s up? Lieutenant on the warpath again?”
Sarah laughed nervously, trying to block out the nauseating smell of death and disinfectant. “Not this time. Just came by for the autopsy report on Asha Mahmood.” Stroud had left a phone message, but she wanted the whole file. You never knew what it would inadvertently reveal. Thus forcing her to brave her personal nightmare yet again. “Sorry, I got busy yesterday and couldn’t return your call.” She glanced at the sheet-covered body on the table and swallowed down a lump of queasiness. “That yesterday’s vic?”
“Yep.” Stroud grinned sympathetically. “But I’m afraid you’ve missed all the exciting stuff.”
“I’m crushed.” She tried not to appear too elated. “But I thought the autopsy wasn’t until later this afternoon.”
“Inexplicably, I find myself ahead of schedule. Must be the anticipation.”
The good doctor appeared almost giddy. “Of?” she dutifully prompted, angling away from the remains.
“This,” he said proudly, “is my last day as an assistant. Landed myself a new job. Full-fledged medical examiner for the island of Kauai.”
“Hawaii? Wow.” She was impressed. “Damn. I’m jealous. How did you manage that coup?”
“My razor-sharp intelligence and charming personality, of course.” The boyish grin widened as he snapped the collar of his lab coat artfully. “And my impeccable style.”
She chuckled, but it faded into consternation as she realized—“Hell. That means another new assistant M.E. here.” She gave a genuine sigh. “Just when you were getting nicely broken in. Any idea who your replacement will be?”
“No clue. Don’t worry, I’ll brief them that you’re one of the good guys.”
“You’d better.” She tipped her head at the body on the table. “Speaking of which, if this one’s done, do you have a cause of death?”
“Yep. Report’s right here; Asha Mahmood’s, too.” As Stroud walked over to his desk and picked up the files, he asked, “Find out who he is yet?”
“Yeah.” She accepted the files and flipped open the top one. “Prints came back to a Raul Chavez. Limo driver. And you’ll never guess who his last pickup was.” She scanned the autopsy report. Her heartbeat kicked up. “Okay, maybe you would.”
“Asha Mahmood.”
“Bingo. Mahmood was smothered and Chavez drown
ed, but it seems they both had an identical dose of Rohypnol in their blood, administered before death.”
“Coincidence?”
“I hardly think so. What are the odds they were killed at the same time by the same person?”
“Pretty good, I’d say. TOD fits.”
Excitement swirled through her. She couldn’t wait to grab a cup of coffee and compare the rest of the two files, then get onto nailing down a solid connection. “Okay, then.” She gratefully headed for the door. “Anything else I should know?”
Stroud perched on the corner of his desk, so impossibly young and handsome, and so full of life and possibilities that it almost hurt to look at him. “Just that I’ll miss you.”
She paused at the door. “I’ll miss you, too, Johnny. You take care.”
“Kauai. Standing invitation.”
“Thanks, Doc. And thanks for the reports.” She saluted him with the files and exchanged a warm smile. Damn. She really would miss him.
Feeling a bit wistful . . . and far too old . . . she made her way to the parking lot.
And there, leaning his tight backside against her plain-clothes sedan, blue eyes glittering with a whole different kind of anticipation, was the perfect antidote to her blues.
One thing about the man, he was flatteringly persistent.
“Hi,” Wade said.
“Hi,” she answered, walking up to him.
“Forgive me yet?” he asked, running an impudent finger down her throat.
A trill of desire sang through her breasts. “Maybe.”
With no further invitation, he slid his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his. For about two nanoseconds she thought about protesting. Then his tongue slid past her lips and she gave up the notion entirely.
He drew her closer. Angled his mouth tighter. A moan eased through her. Lord, he tasted good.
“When do you get off?” he murmured between kisses.
Please, God, sometime tonight.
Oops. She pulled away. Cleared her throat. “Um.” She retrieved her lost wits. “I may be late. Things are starting to come together on the Mahmood case.”
He was watching her lips as she talked. It made them tingle. “Yeah?” But before she could say more, he leaned in and kissed her again. Damn.
“Mmm.” How could she resist? But she must. She finally turned her head aside, but didn’t step back.
He sighed. “Okay. I get the hint. How’s the case coming together?”
“The vic from yesterday . . .” She told him what she’d learned from Dr. Stroud. It felt a little strange talking business to an FBI agent with her head on his shoulder and his arms around her . . . but not in a bad way. She could get used to it.
“What’s your theory?” he asked. “How does this tie in with Gina’s kidnapping, do you suppose?”
“Not sure. I want to compare the autopsies a bit closer. Do a background on the limo driver. Interview his family and co-workers. See if he’s involved with the terrorists or just an innocent bystander.”
“His name suggests the latter.”
“But the Rohypnol suggests the former. There are faster ways of killing bystanders than drowning.”
“An accident? He drank something intended for Mahmood?”
“It’s possible.” But she doubted it. “Maybe I should call Quinn. Get his take.”
Wade’s muscles stiffened at the mention of the STORM commander. “Don’t want mine?”
“Of course I want your opinion, Wade. This isn’t a competition. I just want to solve the case.”
He relaxed marginally. “I know. There I go again. Sorry.”
“Anyway.” She stepped out of his arms. “Want to help me go over the autopsy reports? I’m dying for a cup of coffee.”
“Sure.” He reached for her hand and tugged her back to him. “So. What about later?”
Her breasts zinged again. The man was so damn tempting when he was trying to seduce her. “Dinner?”
His lips crooked. “And after that?”
The rest of her zinged. “A movie?”
“You’re killing me here.” She smiled and stepped away again. He held up his hands. “I know, I know. I deserve a sound rejection.”
“You do.” She headed around to the driver’s side of her sedan. “But I did enjoy the kiss.”
“I want you,” he called after her.
There was something irresistibly sexy in the bold challenge of his declaration. Something that made her want to throw aside all her reservations and accept. After all, she’d been thinking the same thing ever since the first time she’d heard his sexy voice over the phone.
“I know,” she said with a smile as he swung open his vehicle’s door. “Follow me?”
“For now.” He pointed a finger at her over the BMW’s roof. “But I’m giving you fair warning.”
“Of what, SAC Montana?”
He sent her a bone-shivering, half-lidded look. “My bed, Detective McPhee. Naked. Tonight.”
WELL, that was a complete waste of time.
Gregg stepped up onto a city bus along with a clutch of Pentagon commuters and took a seat on the aisle. As usual, he’d deliberately chosen a bus going in the wrong direction from where he really wanted to go.
Disguising his frustration, he raised the copy of the Washington Post he’d grabbed at a newsstand, slid on the pair of thick, black-framed glasses he’d bought earlier at a thrift store in Arlington along with a briefcase and the nondescript brown suit and loafers he was wearing, and pretended to read without a care in the world.
He’d picked up a tail, of course.
No big shock there. After the meeting he’d just left with Frank Blair’s Pentagon contact, he would have been insulted not to have acquired one. It would have meant the bad guys didn’t take Gregg seriously. As it was, the presence of his tail confirmed three things: 1) the Pentagon guy’s involvement in treason on some level, however peripheral or unaware, therefore, 2) that Blair had been telling the truth—about this, anyway, and 3) that either Gregg’s credentials when they were scanned or the Pentagon computer files they’d just pulled up during the meeting were being monitored for activity—by someone other than Tommy Cantor, his inside man. Yeah. Everyone who thinks it’s the bad guys doing the watching, raise your hand.
Okay. So maybe not a total waste of time.
However, one thing was pretty clear: Pentagon Guy was not the head honcho traitor. He’d been far too forthcoming. After Gregg had shown him his CIA Zero Unit credentials—which Tommy had managed to keep active on the pretext of tracking the movements of a dangerous rogue operator—and explained he was just fact-checking a report on a completed mission, Blair’s contact had willingly logged into the archive database and opened the “person of interest” file on Gina Cappozi and shown Gregg what was in it. Which, shock of shocks, was practically nothing. Other than the fact that the written order to bring her in to ZU-NE last August to identify Rainie Martin’s body had not originated in the Pentagon. In fact, a search revealed that the archives did not contain a file on Rainie Martin. Not even a mention. Blair’s contact had insisted defensively he’d just sent the order on to Zero Unit. He didn’t know who they’d come down from. Only that the paperwork had followed regulations and the protocols were correct. Gregg believed the officious twit.
On a hunch, he’d asked if there was a file on Kick Jackson. One came up, all right. With sizeable bandwidth. But it was flagged for level one, passworded clearance— which neither Gregg nor the other man was authorized to access. Same thing for Alex Zane’s file.
The existence of the files was not terribly surprising, given the men’s profession. But level one clearance required to view them? That was interesting. What was so top secret about what they did for ZU? It could be legit and completely unrelated to the al Sayika connection. Of necessity, military intelligence files on Zero Unit operators tended to be thin and vague—which made these large files unusual. Unusual enough that even Pentagon Guy comm
ented. Though his explanation was that Zane and Jackson must be involved in a critical, long-term ZU op. Gregg knew that wasn’t true. They’d both resigned from the unit months ago. He figured those files being pass-coded was far less benign than some op.
And he noticed one other detail as their headers flashed past. The flag codes for files were the same as the source code listed on the orders to bring in Gina to Zero Unit headquarters.
Hell yeah, he’d memorized it. Not that it would do him any good. Without the password, Gregg had zero chance of finding out where the written orders and file lock-downs originated—which might have led him straight to the traitor. Unfortunately, computer hacking—especially the goddamn Pentagon system—was so far out of Gregg’s wheelhouse he had a better chance of being elected President.
He’d just have to find a different way to get the source of those codes.
Which brought him back to his present tail.
The guy was a typical jarhead dressed in khaki who would have blended in perfectly except he kept letting his eyes flick over to Gregg every time he moved his newspaper. Rookie.
Gregg briefly considered luring the dimwit into a trap and forcing him to spill who he was working for. But that would be a useless exercise, without doubt. The jarhead wouldn’t know any more than Pentagon Guy had about who was behind his orders. The al Sayika mole was smart. A classic man-behind-the-curtain, pulling strings from afar, with none of his puppets being any the wiser.
Except Gregg.
His cell phone rang. He was surprised to see it was Tommy. “Yeah.”
“You’ve got company.”
“No shit,” Gregg drawled. Then frowned. “Wait. Where are you?” As far as he knew, Tommy was still up at ZU-NE, not in D.C. He glanced around.
“I meant company at the hotel.”
Ah. Gregg came to attention. His first thought was of Gina. “What’s going on?”
“Raj called.” Raj was the Watergate bellman he’d paid handsomely to keep an eye on the room and Gina, and to call Tommy with hourly updates on who checked into the hotel and who was hanging around that shouldn’t be. Tommy continued, “Raj said last night someone booked three doubles and a suite on the top floor. An hour ago, four people and a bunch of equipment arrived.”
