by Irene Hannon
"I'll try not to. By the way, if you and Emily get bored, I can always use a couple extra pair of hands"
"I did my time at your place. And Emily and I can find other ways to entertain ourselves"
Chuckling, Nick waved him off. "See you Monday."
As Mark exited, Nick checked his watch. It was almost quitting time. If the place had cleared out a little early last Friday, today the exodus was even more noticeable. Everyone must have Valentine's Day plans.
One of these years, maybe he would too. But at this point it was in God's hands. He'd bent the Lord's ear about it often, praying that a special woman would grace his life. All he could do now was trust-and be open to opportunities that came his way.
As he shut down his computer, Nick put thoughts of his solitary Valentine's evening aside. What good did it do to wish for the impossible? This year was a wash. Standing, he stretched and reached for his coat. Time to call it a day.
He had one arm in his topcoat when the phone rang. Leaning over, he checked the caller ID. The number was local but unfamiliar. And it was two minutes to five. The day was a breath away from being officially over. Meaning he could ignore this call in good conscience. There was an emergency number if someone needed urgent assistance. He slid his other arm into the sleeve and draped a muffler around his neck.
"You gonna get that?"
At the question from Steve Preston, the reactive squad su pervisor in the St. Louis office, Nick stifled a rueful sigh. It was just his luck that one of the bosses would be passing by at the wrong time.
Switching gears, he snagged the phone and gave Steve a mock salute as he spoke. "Special Agent Nick Bradley"
"Agent Bradley, this is Rachel Sutton"
The woman with the velvet brown eyes and soft lips.
Nick forgot all about Steve as he tried to regroup. Rachel Sutton was the last person he'd expected to hear from again. He did his best not to sound too surprised-or too pleased. "Ms. Sutton. How can I help you?"
"You can find out who leaked my story to the press"
He'd missed the anger in her tone when she'd greeted him. It came through loud and clear now. As did her distress. And her message.
"Let's back up a minute:" Frowning, he shoved one edge of his coat aside and planted a fist on his hip. "Tell me what happened"
"I just had a visit from a reporter with St. Louis Scene. Claudia Barnes. She knew all about my experience with the doll and my visit to the FBI. She's doing a story on paranormal phenomena and wanted to interview me for the local angle. And she says she's going to tell my story whether I cooperate or not. I want to know who tipped her off."
Nick's brain went into high gear. He'd told no one about Rachel's story except his four best friends on Friday night. And he had absolute confidence in their discretion. Besides, he was pretty certain he'd never mentioned her name during that conversation. On top of that, they'd had the secluded corner of the restaurant to themselves. There wasn't much chance anyone would have overheard the conversation. The FD-71 and 302 forms he'd filled out after her visit had gone straight into the file. He'd shared them with no one.
"It wasn't the FBI, Ms. Sutton:"
"It had to be. I'm not saying it was deliberate. But the whole place was probably laughing about my visit all week. Someone may have let it slip in a casual conversation that was overheard by the wrong person"
"No one was laughing about your story, I can promise you that"
"Maybe not that you observed. But you can't be sure about that-or about how it might have leaked:"
"As a matter of fact, I can. Because no one knows about your visit except a couple of trusted friends"
Several beats of silence ticked by. "You didn't tell everyone at your office?"
"No"
A soft sigh came over the line. "I appreciate that. Thank you. But ... if that's true, how did this reporter get her information?"
It was a good question. And he didn't have an answer. "I don't know. But there has to be a logical explanation:" Out of the blue, an idea popped into his mind. One that he wasn't convinced he should pursue. Yet the words came out before he could stop them. "I'm getting ready to leave the office, and I'd be happy to stop by and talk this through. I'm sure we can nail this down:"
Silence greeted his offer, and he suddenly remembered what day it was. He'd noted her ringless left hand when they'd met; surely she had plans for Valentine's Day. No woman that good looking would be spending this evening alone.
"Sorry," he amended, feeling like an idiot. "The significance of the day escaped me for a moment. I'm sure you have better things to do tonight. But I'll be happy to help you try and get to the bottom of this another time:"
There was a brief hesitation before she responded. "To be honest, my plans for tonight involved a nice dinner, a good book, and some quiet time by the fire. In light of what's happened, that's a bust anyway. I wouldn't mind some assistance trying to figure out how the press got hold of my story ... and how I'm supposed to deal with the fallout when this hits the papers:'
She didn't have a date.
That surprised Nick as much as the leak. But in a much more pleasant way. "I can be there in half an hour, if that's okay:"
"That sounds good. I'll see you then'
As the line went dead, Nick adjusted his muffler and buttoned his coat, the whisper of a smile tugging at his lips. He was sorry about the leak and all the grief it would cause Rachel. It seemed the fates had not been smiling on her the day she'd stumbled across a little girl's lost toy in the parking lot. The grinning, orange-haired doll had caused her nothing but trouble.
But it had brought some good luck too. To him, anyway. And perhaps the very opportunity he'd been praying for. Because thanks to a very shabby Raggedy Ann, he was going to spend part of his Valentine's Day with a beautiful woman after all.
She shouldn't have agreed to let him come.
Annoyed with herself, Rachel paced the length of her small living room, her dinner forgotten. A man like Nick Bradley surely had places to go any Friday night, let alone this Friday night. But his surprising offer had thrown her, and she hadn't stopped to consider how an impromptu visit might mess up his Valentine's Day plans.
When the imposition occurred to her five minutes after they hung up, she'd tried to call him back. The recorded message that greeted her told her he'd already left. The best she could do now was apologize for her lack of consideration and send him on to whatever lucky woman was waiting for him.
Her doorbell chimed, and she jerked to a stop mid-pace. At least her body did. Her pulse, on the other hand, bounded forward at double speed.
Good grief, Rachel. Get a grip! The man is here on business.
One look through the peephole, however, and what little remained of her composure evaporated as fast as Nick's frosty breath. It ought to be illegal to be that good-looking. Those cobalt blue eyes were to die for, and while tall, dark, and handsome had its merits, she'd always preferred the clean-cut, fair-haired, all-American look Nick Bradley had in spades. Add in a strong jaw, firm lips, and an endearing, slight crook in his nose that suggested he may have broken it once, and the total package was way too appealing.
Too bad they hadn't met under more normal circumstances.
Except it wouldn't have mattered. A man like Nick would never be interested in her. Four-eyes, the kids used to tease. They'd made fun of her limp too, which had been far more pronounced when she was a child. Mousy hair, unremarkable brown eyes, and average looks didn't help, either. It was no wonder she was spending Valentine's Day alone.
The doorbell chimed again, and Rachel jumped. Good grief! How long had she been ogling the tall agent outside her door? Too long, she concluded, watching as parallel grooves appeared on his brow.
Pasting on a fake smile, she stepped back from the peephole and pulled open the door. "Thanks for dropping by, Agent Bradley."
The genuine smile he gave her in return dented his left cheek with a dimple-and turned her insides to
mush.
"No problem. I'm just sorry this happened:" Large, downy flakes of snow continued to fall, their icy facets sparkling in the porch light as they dusted the shoulders of his dark wool coat and settled on his sandy hair. One snagged an eyelash, and she watched, mesmerized, as he smiled and brushed it away with long, lean fingers. "Looks like we're in for another round of dismal weather"
Weather. He was talking about the weather. Somehow she managed to shift gears. "That's what the meteorologists are saying. I'm glad it's the weekend and I don't have to go anywhere until Sunday. Come in, please" She moved aside.
He stepped over the threshold, his tall frame and broad shoulders immediately dwarfing her small living room. As she shut the door behind him, he gave the room a quick sweep. She did the same, certain his astute gaze missed none of the untidiness-the teal blue and violet throw carelessly tossed over the off-white couch; the books of music piled in one of the matching pair of blue upholstered chairs that flanked the fireplace; the art book that lay open on top of the old brass-trimmed trunk that served as a coffee table.
Nor would he fail to notice the fuzzy, hot-pink slippers she'd discarded by the fireplace a couple of nights ago. They were blinking up at him like a neon light from the polished hardwood floor. And two days' worth of mail was piled on one end of the mantel, beside a small framed photo.
"Have a seat while I get rid of these:" She snatched up a bud vase of wilting daisies from the end table next to the couch. If she couldn't clean up the rest of the room, at least she could dispense with the pathetic flowers. "I usually replace these on Friday, but the floral counter at the grocery store would be a zoo tonight. I'll be back in a sec"
Leaving him in the living room, she fled to the kitchen. After disposing of the limp daisies, she took a moment to draw a deep, calming breath. If Nick Bradley had struck her as powerful and imposing at the FBI office, his commanding presence in her tiny house was overwhelming. He seemed to fill the room with strength. And muscle. And masculinity. It was a heady combination.
But letting it go to her head was foolish. She knew that. She was a sensible person who recognized romantic fantasies for what they were-fantasy. Her reaction tonight was an aberration. Attributable to Valentine's Day, she was sure. And that reminded her of her plan to send Nick on his way with dispatch so he could get started on his own celebration.
He was still standing when she returned. Good. No use getting comfortable. He wouldn't be here long.
She moved behind the couch, keeping it between them as she rested her hands on the damask fabric. "I tried to call you back, but you'd already left. We can talk about the leak another time, Agent Bradley. I'm sure you have plans for this evening."
Silence greeted her comment. As it lengthened, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tiny twitch of his lips, the merest tilt of his head told her he was debating his response.
"Unless working on my house rehab project counts as plans, no, I don't:" The words came out slow and measured as he fixed her with a steady, candid gaze.
Rachel tried not to look too astonished at his disarming honesty. "Oh. Well ... in any case, I hate to infringe on your free time."
One corner of his mouth quirked up. "I'm used to unusual hours. The bad guys never take a day off."
Her own lips twitched in response. "I guess that's true. Okay ... if you're positive you don't mind, why don't I take your coat?"
He shrugged it off and handed it to her, waiting until she took a seat on one end of the couch before claiming the other end.
"I thought about the situation on the drive over." He shifted toward her and draped one arm across the upholstered back. "I had dinner with two couples last Friday night after you and I talked. They're the ones I told about your situation. Both of the men are agents. One of the couples lives in Virginia and was only here for the weekend. There was no opportunity for him or his wife to tell anyone in St. Louis. The other agent and his wife live here. I called him from my car. They haven't said anything to anyone, either. I'm thinking the leak had to be from your end. You mentioned you'd told a friend about the incident and asked her to check with her husband. Could anyone have overheard the two of you talking?"
"No. We were alone in the teachers' lounge:'
"What about your friend or her husband? Could they have told someone else?"
"I asked Marta not to, and she promised me neither of them would say a word. I trust her."
Nick raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. "This doesn't make sense:"
"Kind of like the story I told you last week:" Rachel flashed him a quick smile devoid of humor.
"Actually, that story seems more plausible to me now"
Rachel leaned forward intently. "What do you mean? Did you discover some information about the doll?"
"No. But the wife of one of the agents I had dinner with last week is a psychologist. She suggested the doll may be a trigger for some memory buried deep in your subconscious. And since the reaction only happens when you touch it, she thought the tactile sensation could be tapping into that memory"
Rachel's brow puckered. "I suppose that's possible. Looking at the doll doesn't bother me in the least. In fact, it gives me kind of a warm feeling. Only touching it is bad. I don't remember having a Raggedy Ann doll, but I spent my childhood in foster care and very little went with me from house to house. So I may have had one at some point"
His eyebrows arched. "You were a foster child?"
"Yes. My mother was killed in a car accident when I was nine months old. From what little I've been able to glean about her, she was a single mom with no family except a father who disowned her after she became pregnant. That's her, on the mantel. It's the only picture I have"
Nick examined the photo of the young auburn-haired mother. The highlights in Rachel's hair bore the same hue, but beyond that, he saw little resemblance. Yet she did remind him of someone, though he couldn't put his finger on who. And this wasn't the time to try and solve that riddle. At the moment, he was more interested in the woman beside him-and her surprising revelation.
Shifting his attention back to Rachel, Nick tipped his head. "No one adopted you?"
She gave him a rueful smile. "No one wanted me. I was in the accident too, and sustained serious injuries. You might have noticed my limp. This ankle has lots of bolts and screws" She wiggled her right foot. "I can't blame potential adoptive parents for backing off. Who would want to take on a kid with lots of injuries requiring multiple surgeries? So when I wasn't in the hospital or rehab, I was in foster care. A Raggedy Ann may have been part of my life, but if it was, the memory is buried very deep" She pulled her left leg under her. "Getting back to the reason for your visit-how do you think my story leaked to the press?"
Nick didn't want to talk about the leak. He wanted to find out more about the intriguing woman an arm's length away. Although she'd spoken about her background in a conversational, straightforward manner, the kind of trauma she'd endured must have taken a toll. Yet it didn't show. Rachel Sutton radiated a quiet, steady strength, suggesting she'd weathered the storms in her life admirably. Far better, he suspected, than he had. A dozen questions clamored to be asked. But a personal discussion wasn't the purpose of his visit tonight.
Leaning forward, he clasped his hands between his knees and concentrated on the matter at hand. "If you didn't tell anyone else, I think your friend is the key."
Rachel shook her head. "I don't buy that. The only time she and Joe talked about it was when they went to dinner last Thursday, and she said he agreed to keep it confidential:"
"They were in a restaurant?"
"Yes"
"It's not difficult to eavesdrop in a public place:"
I suppose that's true, but the odds of someone in the media just happening to sit close enough to hear their conversation seem very low'
"Stranger things have happened. A lot of the tips we get are the result of people being in the right place at the right time. What restaurant did th
ey go to?"
"I'm not sure. I could find out from her on Monday."
"How about tonight? I can ask the restaurant to check the credit card receipts from last Thursday and see if any of them belonged to Claudia Barnes. That could tell us how the leak happened. I'd rather nail this sooner than later"
"Sure. I can give her a call. With two kids under six, they're spending Valentine's Day watching an animated video:" Flashing him a quick grin, Rachel rose. "Give me a couple of minutes"
True to her word, she was back in less than ninety seconds and relayed the information. "If there is a match, is there anything I can do to stop the story?"
Nick wished there was. From the little she'd told him about her past, it sounded like Rachel had endured far more than her share of difficulties. "I'd like to say yes, but the answer is not much. Freedom of the press and all that. Unfortunately, St. Louis Scene leans toward the more sensational stuff. They've called our media relations office in the past, trying to dig up information for crime-related stories, and despite our `no comment' response, they tend to do the pieces anyway. A lot of what they write is speculation and conjecture, but they're careful to couch their coverage in those terms rather than present it as fact. Or they get quotes from pseudo experts or friends of victims. That buys them a lot of wiggle room:'
Distress tightened Rachel's features. "In other words, I'm out of luck"
"Unless they decide not to run the story based on your unwillingness to cooperate"
"The reporter seemed very determined. I got the feeling she's not going to back down" Her shoulders slumped.
Nick tried to think of some way to console her. "Look at it this way, Ms. Sutton. Most people who know about or read St. Louis Scene are aware of its reputation. I think readers take the coverage with a grain of salt. And the publication doesn't have a huge circulation. It's pretty much under the radar screen for the average St. Louisan. I suspect most of the people you associate with aren't the type who waste their time on that sort of tabloid. The coverage is also very fleeting. A week after it comes out, it will be old news:'
