by Irene Hannon
“Luke! I was just thinking about calling you.” She gave the jeans and casual shirt he’d worn for the surveillance gig a quick, appreciative sweep. “Nice look. Come in.”
In view of the warmth in her eyes, there was no need to apologize for this impromptu visit.
Nevertheless, it couldn’t hurt.
“Sorry to come by this late without warning, but I was on my way home and couldn’t resist a quick side trip.” He stepped inside and, with the pad of his thumb, gently traced the arc of the shadowed half circle beneath her lower lashes. “You look tired.”
She swallowed. “You’re the second one to . . . uh . . . tell me that today.”
His touch appeared to distract her.
Encouraging.
“Yeah? Who else got up close and personal enough with you to notice?” He gave her a teasing grin.
“I saw Ryan in the parking lot as I was leaving. You know, the insurance guy with the office two doors from WorldCraft.”
His mouth flattened. “I remember him.”
“He said he ran into you in McArthur’s today.”
“Briefly. He seems very interested in your case—and in you.”
She tilted her head. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
“That would be misplaced, wouldn’t it?”
A dimple dented her cheek. “Clever ploy to get information without answering my question, Mr. Detective—but for the record, yes, it would be misplaced. I have my sights on another man.”
“Anyone I know?”
“That would be a safe bet.” She waved him further into the condo and closed the door. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“I’d love a soda—but I’m not staying long.” He followed her to the kitchen. “Why were you thinking about calling me?”
She motioned him toward the table while she filled two glasses with ice. “I was feeling kind of uneasy, and I knew talking to you would help. But I assumed you’d had a long day and hated to bother you.” After pouring two sodas, she joined him.
“Hearing from you is never a bother. Why are you on edge?”
“I don’t know.” Creases scored her brow.
“Did Doud . . . hold on a sec.” He pulled out his cell and scanned the screen. “Nick.” He put the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”
“I heard from Adam Lange at the CIA. His local agents have found some connections between our guy Khalil in the monastery and ISIS. They’re confident he’s our man. I assumed you’d want to know.”
“Thanks. I wish we were as far along on our end.”
“Agreed.”
“You certain you don’t need me tomorrow?”
“No. We’ll keep the locker facility at the rec center under surveillance, but until someone shows up to retrieve the items or we detect a different drop spot, not much will be happening. I’ll text you as soon as there’s any news. I expect your boss will be glad to get you back.”
“So he told me when I touched base with him. I’ll wait to hear from you.” He slid the phone back on his belt.
“News?” Kristin swiped a bead of condensation off her glass.
“Some. Our people in Syria have established a connection between the inside man at the monastery and ISIS. Closer to home, we’re on hold until the items are retrieved.” He took a drink of his soda.
“The woman from the shop today didn’t provide any leads?”
“Not many. She led us on a tour of several shopping malls and met a guy who appeared to be Middle Eastern at an outdoor café for coffee. After they finished, the two of them hugged—and he left with the WorldCraft bag.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Yes. The FBI ran her plates and did some digging. She’s a college student. Best guess, she met this guy somewhere and they’re dating. He must have asked her to pick up the candles for him. Her personal history is pristine.”
“What about him?”
“Mud-smeared license plate, like yesterday. We tag teamed tailing him. He dropped a package in the same place the other courier did and went home. After we had an address, we ran his background. A Syrian national, here on a visa. No apparent ties to terrorism.”
The puckers on Kristin’s forehead deepened. “Where is the main guy finding these people?”
“I suspect they’re being recommended by trusted connections.”
“So did anyone pick up the packages?”
“Not yet.”
Kristin swirled the ice in her glass. “He could send another courier to pick those up too. What if he never has any face-to-face contact with anyone?”
“We’re beginning to think that’s a real possibility.”
“Does that mean he might get away with everything?” Some of her color faded.
“I hope not. The one piece of good news is that his operation is dead in the water. As soon as we give the monks the go-ahead, they’ll notify local authorities about the inside man who’s putting the artifacts in the candles. No matter how they choose to handle it, he’ll be gone from the monastery.”
“But if the coordinator here gets away, won’t he recalibrate and set up shop somewhere else?”
“He’s got an elaborate plan in place in St. Louis, and putting all the necessary pieces together again will be a challenge. But yes . . . if we don’t nail him on this, he could relaunch in another city.”
Distress darkened her irises. “That would be terrible.”
“I agree—and we’re doing everything we can to keep that from happening.”
No need to tell her the odds were against them at this point. She was already stressed out—and he could always admit defeat later if they couldn’t crack this.
“I’m glad you came by, Luke.” She touched the back of his hand.
The warmth from her fingers seeped into his skin . . . and rocketed straight to his heart.
“Me too—but you need to get some sleep.” He finished his soda and forced himself to stand, even though every impulse in his body was prodding him to stay. “Walk me out?”
“Sure.”
She started toward the front door, and he fell in beside her . . . their hands inches apart.
His fingers began to tingle.
He flexed them.
Fisted them.
Gave up.
He might have overcome the temptation to stay, but he couldn’t resist the urge to take her hand.
Her step faltered as he twined his fingers with hers. “I thought we were hands off—pardon the pun—until this was over?”
“Your part is over—and we’re winding down on the rest. I think I can bend the rules a little.”
“How much is a little?”
The flirty lilt in her voice kicked up his libido and broke the flimsy hold he had on his restraint.
He paused at the door and turned toward her. “Shall I demonstrate?”
Watch out, Carter. You’re edging into dangerous territory.
“You know what they say.” She gave him a frisky nudge with her shoulder. “Actions speak louder than words.”
His heart stumbled.
Oh, man.
Where had Kristin been hiding this new, coquettish side?
No matter.
He liked it.
A lot.
And he was in too deep now to back out.
Very deliberately closing the distance between them, he gave her a slow smile. He knew how to play the flirting game too. “Consider this a preview—but cut me some slack. I’m a little out of practice.”
“Trust me.” Her tone was more serious now. “You have loads more experience than I do.”
He traced the curve of her jaw with a whisper touch, her skin soft beneath his fingertips. “If you’ve lacked for dates, it had to be by choice.”
“When I . . .” Her voice failed, and she cleared her throat. “When I was a teenager, I was too shy to have anything to do with boys—except Colin and Rick. In college, I was too busy studying to have much of a social life. The dating opportunities i
n Ethiopia were nonexistent. And after I got back here, I was too focused on WorldCraft to have time for . . . this.” Her breath hitched as he skimmed his fingers across her lips.
“Do you have time now?”
“I’ll make time.”
“I like your priorities.” He brushed back a stray strand of her hair. “You’re incredibly beautiful, you know that?”
“No, I’m not.” She shook her head, her inflection matter-of-fact—and definitive. “As my father used to say, I have an interesting face rather than a pretty one.”
Funny.
That had been his first impression too, at the wedding reception. In truth, Kristin wasn’t beautiful—by Hollywood standards.
She was better.
Instead of being starlet glamorous, or gorgeous in a conventional sense, she had a face you noticed—and remembered.
As far as he was concerned, that was beauty in its own right.
“I stand by what I said.”
A soft blush spread over her cheeks. “Well . . . to use another old adage, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder—and even if I’m not beautiful, you make me feel beautiful.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You have the kind of looks that will last. In twenty years, you’ll still be the most captivating woman in any room—and still attracting men’s attention.” He fingered the silky strands of her flattering shag cut and studied her lips.
So generous.
So appealing.
So tantalizing.
Now his breath hitched.
And another caution sign began to flash in his mind.
Maybe he should wait until the case was over once and for all before taking this step, as he’d planned to do from the beginning.
That would be safer.
More prudent.
But he’d been playing by sensible rules since this investigation began . . . his patience was wearing thin . . . and the lady was willing.
It would take someone with Superman’s powers to resist the temptation standing inches away from him.
And he was no Superman.
Besides, what was the harm in one simple kiss? It would give them a taste of what lay ahead, help sustain them until the specter of terrorism was forever banished from their lives and they could take their relationship to the next level.
“Hey . . .” Kristin touched his jaw, her fingers as warm and gentle as the breeze on this June evening. “If you want to wait, I unders—”
“No.” More like no way. He was past the point of resisting. “I’m just savoring the moment. The best things in life shouldn’t be rushed. And you definitely fall into that category. Colin isn’t the only one who thinks you’re best woman material.”
Her lips curved up. “You have a way with words.”
“Thanks. But I think we should move past words and introduce some action, don’t you?”
Without waiting for her to respond, he dipped his head to claim the kiss he’d been dreaming about for weeks.
And everything in the universe ceased to exist except the two of them.
Sound stopped.
Worry stopped.
Time stopped.
All because of the woman in his arms.
She gave as much as she took, her arms slipping around his neck, her soft curves molding to his firmer planes as if the two of them had been designed to fit together. Playful yet sensuous, eager yet shy, she held nothing back. What she lacked in experience she made up for in enthusiasm.
It was the most extraordinary kiss he’d ever experienced.
And he didn’t want it to end.
Finally, calling up every ounce of his willpower, he forced himself to ease away. “We need to come up for air.” He rested his forehead against hers, his words as rough as the stubble that appeared on his chin when a case kept him on the go for forty-eight hours.
“I think my lungs stopped working . . . like . . . five minutes ago.” Her whispered comment sounded as shaky as he felt. “If that was a preview, my heart may not be able to take the main attraction.”
“You want to bail?” He played with the hair at her nape.
“Are you kidding me?” She grinned up at him. “My heart may give out . . . but what a way to go.”
He chuckled and tucked her back against his chest. “I like how you think, Ms. Dane.”
“I like how you kiss, Detective Carter.”
“We need to do this again soon.”
“Name the date.”
“Pencil me in for an upscale dinner a week from Saturday. We’re going to launch this courtship in style.”
She wiggled free again so she could see his face. “You think this will all be over by then?”
“Doesn’t matter in terms of our date. After the items are retrieved from the rec center—or wherever they end up being stashed—Bishara should receive instructions to pick them up. Unless we can get our people to the source of that call fast and nail the brains, we’ll have to resort to interviewing couriers who may not have a clue to his identity. The investigation could drag on forever, and I doubt I’ll be part of an extended probe.”
“I hope that doesn’t happen. I want a resolution to this.”
“I’m with you.” He dropped another kiss on her forehead and backed away. “I need to go.”
“Will you stay in touch?”
“Every day. Barring a break, I’ll be back at County tomorrow—counting the days until a week from Saturday. Wear that dress you wore to Colin’s wedding, okay?”
She blinked. “You noticed my dress?”
“Trust me. There wasn’t a man in that room who didn’t notice it.”
“Thank you for that ego boost—but I’m surprised you did. You seemed . . . distracted . . . that night.”
His mood sobered. “It was the first wedding reception I’d attended since Jenny died. I wasn’t in a party mood.”
“Oh.” Sympathy softened her features. “In that case, I’m amazed you remembered me at all.”
“I was too . . . which told me you were special.”
“I guess we owe Stan Hawkins a debt of gratitude for introducing us. Who’d have imagined he’d end up being a matchmaker?”
Luke smiled as he conjured up an image of the older gent who’d shared a cocktail table with him. “Any man who calls a wife of sixty-one years his bride and hurries home to share a piece of wedding cake with her is a romantic at heart.”
“Seriously?” Her own lips bowed. “That is so sweet.”
“An example to emulate.”
“I’ll second that—though at my age, a sixty-first anniversary might be a long shot.”
“But fifty’s a strong possibility.”
“Depends on when I get married.”
“I’m thinking sooner rather than later.”
“Is that a proposal?” The cute dimple reappeared in her cheek . . . but she held up a hand before he could respond. “Just kidding. It’s much too soon to be discussing anniversaries or proposals.”
“Is it?”
Her eyes widened. “Well . . . yes. I mean . . . we’ve only known each other a couple of months. That’s way too fast to get serious . . . isn’t it?”
Maybe not. With Jenny, he’d known within minutes she was special. It had been the same with Kristin, though he’d refused to admit it until Becca forced his hand.
Conclusion? Unless his instincts were failing him, a proposal would be on his agenda in the not-too-distant future.
But while he, unlike her, wasn’t convinced they were moving too fast, it would be better not to push and risk scaring her off.
“Could be. There’s no need to rush, anyway.” He gave her one more brief good-bye kiss. “We have lots of tomorrows ahead.”
And as he walked down the path to his car, the corners of his mouth tipped up.
Because for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to the days and weeks and years to come.
Spewing out a string of expletives vulgar enough to make an X-rated mo
viegoer cringe, Amir slammed his fist on the table beside his computer.
This was all Darrak’s fault.
He muttered another oath and crumpled the empty soda can beside him.
If the man had shown up on schedule to retrieve the candles back in April, Elaine Peterson would never have bought them.
Then he’d made matters worse by killing her and Susan—two women with connections to WorldCraft—which had caught the attention not only of the police but the FBI.
Talk about a total screwup.
Offing the man had been eminently satisfying.
But it didn’t solve the problem he’d created.
Amir jabbed at the button on the computer and replayed the entire phone conversation that had taken place between the detective and Kristin this morning after the final candle pickup.
Carter had been careful not to say too much over the line—but the call had validated his suspicion that law enforcement was on his scent. The only new piece of information he’d gleaned was the cop’s interest in Kristin.
However, the conversation that had just taken place between them in her condo had provided a few more details . . . until they’d walked away and their voices had faded out.
He drummed his fingers on the table. The confirmation that they were watching the rec center locker didn’t surprise him—but the stashed items were his. All the provenance had been prepared based on the photographs provided weeks ago, and the merchandise was worth too much to let it slip away. Those artifacts would fund him . . . and many of the cells . . . until he could reestablish a new operation somewhere else.
And if his retrieval plan worked as well as he expected, by tomorrow night they’d be in his hands.
But how had the cops discovered the candles contained artifacts in the first place? All of the items from the last shipment had been retrieved—albeit messily—and sent on to new homes. None had been intercepted by the police.
So what had tipped the authorities off?
He hadn’t a clue.
All he knew was that the well-thought-out scheme that had worked flawlessly for two years was finished.
This iteration of it, anyway.
The question was, what to do now?
He rose and began to pace, letting the analytical side of his brain take over.
