by Fiona Brand
“Maybe I like watching you.”
For long seconds he didn’t move, didn’t give in to the invitation, even though he was the one who had instigated this, and suddenly the reason she had fallen for JT was crystal clear.
He was fiercely committed to his cause. That focused, unshakeable dedication drew her like nothing else. He was a rock, and for years she had been swimming in quicksand with alligators. The fact that he wanted her, despite who she was, and enough that he could push aside his work and his goals, took her breath.
His fingers tightened, and she knew he was as blindsided as she was. “I don’t want to take advantage.”
“I’m almost thirty-three. I think I know how to make a decision.”
Something flashed in his gaze. After a brief hesitation his mouth landed on hers.
The kiss was short and soft and the intimacy of it rocked her. “Is that another rule you just broke?”
“About the twentieth.”
His mouth came down on hers again and her head spun. Long, dizzying minutes passed while they kissed, an achingly slow dance. She slipped her arms around his waist and leaned in closer, breathing in his scent, adjusting to the feel of being held against a male, definitely aroused body. “I don’t have any contraceptives.”
“I do.”
A hard jolt went through her. He couldn’t have made it plainer that, while he hadn’t exactly planned this, he had been prepared.
The bedroom was small, with a standard double bed. With all the windows closed, it was like an oven, and with JT in the room, it seemed smaller and hotter.
She slid her palms up over the firm muscles of his belly, peeling his T-shirt as she went. He shrugged out of the shirt and let it drop to the floor and they were back to slow dancing.
She felt the wall at her back, the rush of cooler air as her shirt slid off her shoulders, the sudden release as he unhooked her bra. He pulled her close, the skin-on-skin contact searing. As she lifted up into his kiss she had a moment to wonder at the single-minded simplicity of what she needed; a split second later she was lost. Being this close to JT was like being hit by a wave and rolled under. Sex was no mystery to her. She knew what it felt like to want, and the mechanics of the act itself. She knew what it was to touch and enjoy, but she had never felt like this.
Rina slipped out of her jeans and lifted a hand to her hair.
“Let me do that.”
She stood still as he unfastened her braid, his fingers faintly clumsy as he sifted through the strands. She pulled back the covers and slipped into bed and watched as JT set his gun on the bedside table, peeled out of his jeans, sheathed himself and climbed in with her. Winding her arms around his neck, Rina pulled him close, holding her breath as his weight pressed her down. His forehead touched hers, the moment intense as he slid into her.
For long seconds they simply held each other. Like her, JT seemed loath to move, as if he, too, wanted to hold the moment. In the close heat of the room she felt like she was drowning, but there was an odd sense of peace.
Gray dawn light filtered through the curtains directly behind the bed, giving a glow to the walls and picking out the rumpled covers piled on the floor.
They were out on a limb. No one knew where they were, or what they were doing. For the first time in years, Rina wasn’t being manipulated and corralled, led into choices that seemed all she had left because her options had been taken away.
From the moment JT had kissed her, he hadn’t stopped touching her, keeping her close even when they slept. The few times she had moved to adjust her position, his arm had tightened around her. The contact was basic and primitive and it reassured her as nothing else could.
She’d had two relationships before she had married Alex, but they had dissolved before they had come to anything momentous. Killed, she now knew, by Alex the instant she had shown signs of getting serious. When Alex had made his carefully timed entrance into her life, she had been charmed by the attention and the sense of old-fashioned courtship. After years of virtually no male attention at all, she had been lonely enough to drift into the marriage with him.
JT stirred. She slid the palm of her hand across his belly, enjoying the feel of firm muscle tightening beneath her fingers and warm, slightly damp skin. She turned her attention to the small tattoo she’d noticed on one arm. She realized that while he knew every intimate detail of her life, she still knew very little about him. She didn’t even know his full name. For all she knew he could be married, with children, although in his line of work that had to be doubtful.
His lids lifted. “What’s wrong?”
She traced the tattoo. “Aside from the fact that I can’t stop thinking about Taylor, I don’t even know if JT is your real name.”
He propped himself up on one elbow. “My full name’s James Thompson Wyatt. I’m thirty-six and I was born in Louisiana. Before I started working as a contract agent for the CIA I was a Navy SEAL. My mother died a couple of years back—cancer—but my dad’s still going strong. He was a naval engineer. He’s retired now and based on a small farm just outside of Albuquerque, which is where my mother’s people come from. The family’s not big. I’ve got one sister, Claire, who also lives in Albuquerque. Other than that, I’ve got a couple of uncles and a whole rash of cousins.”
“Any other family members in the navy?”
“Both of my uncles are ex-navy. One cousin is a marine, another’s working in Naval Intelligence.”
The reply was mild and matter-of-fact and it outlined the differences between them. JT came from a family with a military background. Sons had followed in their father’s footsteps, their lives ordered and supported by a solid backbone of tradition, while Rina came from a background that, to put it kindly, was suspect.
She dropped her head on his shoulder. “I don’t see how this can work.” Apart from the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be within a hundred miles of her, he had a job that was going to take him away, sooner rather than later. Once Taylor was found, he could be gone within hours.
His arm tightened around her. “Don’t look too far ahead. Let’s just enjoy what we have.”
They got back into Beaumont late that afternoon.
Before they had left the motel, JT had spent time on the phone and working online. After the sighting in Bogotá, Alex had disappeared. There was no news about either Slater or Taylor.
Baby had been checked over by the local veterinary service and found to be suffering from nothing more than mild malnutrition and an infection around the collar area. The vet had administered antibiotic and vitamin shots and prescribed a course of antibiotic pills.
JT made a call to Kurt a few minutes before they turned into her drive. Kurt had delivered her SUV and checked out the house. Everything appeared to be normal, including Wendell, who had been under surveillance since he had hit Liberty. Apart from a girlfriend who came and went, Wendell’s movements were routine. The girlfriend was in her fifties, had lived in Beaumont for most of her life, and worked at the county offices. Apparently they didn’t live together, just dated, and she stayed over occasionally. She had an apartment in town, in one of several apartment blocks built adjacent to the mall where Wendell had his premises.
JT stopped for a set of lights. “You’re going to have to notify Marlow. If you don’t do it, I will. Whether Wendell’s on the level or not, you need to get out of Beaumont. Wendell left a trail a schoolkid could follow. All Lopez has to do is check the flights Baby was booked onto, find out who bought the tickets, then trace Wendell’s rental. It might take him a few days, but he’ll get here.”
“I’ve got Marlow’s number. I’ll call him.”
“I’ve arranged for Kurt and Hal, another agent, to protect you until Marlow gets someone here. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to get a response.”
If that. There was a district court in Beaumont and a sizable presence. Her local contact, Dan Maloney, had assured her that if she needed help they could get an officer to her hou
se in ten minutes, maybe even sooner. All she had to do was make the call.
JT turned onto her street. Seconds later he lifted a hand to a car parked just across the road and pulled into her driveway, braking directly behind her SUV.
Rina studied the man just visible behind the tinted windows of the sedan. “Is that Kurt, or Hal?”
“Hal’s parked one street over, watching the back of your place. Neither of them will leave until your WitSec contact arrives.” JT walked around to open her door. Rina roused a sleepy Baby, waited for him to scramble out, then joined JT, who was collecting Baby’s biscuits and lead from the truck.
The smooth organization of the past half hour had signaled that her time with JT was well and truly over. They hadn’t talked about their relationship—JT had specifically avoided that discussion, and suddenly that wasn’t good enough for Rina. She knew exactly where she was. Maybe she was old-fashioned, but she didn’t sleep with anyone unless she was committed. “Where are you going?”
“To see Wendell.” He pulled her close. The kiss was hard and brief. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll call you.”
Rina watched as JT backed out, then drove away. The weather had closed in, the clouds thickening and blocking out the sun. The air was filled with the scent of rain and the temperature had dropped.
She had wanted to ask more, but as promises went, that was more than she had expected.
Twenty-Five
After feeding Baby, she turned on the television to catch the news. An advertisement for one of the major banks was playing. The bank’s logo flashed up on the screen, familiar to her because it was the bank she used. She stared at the lettering. The number she had remembered while she’d been painting had had those initials in front of it. A chill of excitement gripped her. The connection hadn’t occurred to her before. It wasn’t a license plate number: it was a safe-deposit box.
Leaving the television on so that Kurt would think she was happily employed watching the news, she systematically began searching through her possessions.
Years had passed since Esther had died, but she remembered her mother clearly. If one person had been stamped on her childhood, it had been Esther. She’d been sharp and fiercely loving, and always there. She had also been the cleverest person Rina had ever known. With her photographic memory and bent for figures, Esther had never forgotten a fact or neglected a detail. If Esther had given her the safe-deposit box number, she would also have made sure she had the key.
She emptied her jewelry box onto the bed and began examining the pieces. There wasn’t much, a few pendants and bracelets from her childhood, slender gold bangles Esther had used to wear, a set of long, dangly diamond earrings that Cesar had given to Rina one day, not long after the accident.
She lifted an earring to the light.
“…Red suits you, but you need different earrings. Those long dangly ones with the diamonds.”
Esther lifted a brow. “I’ll tell you what, you go and get changed, then we’ll discuss earrings. Don’t forget we’ve got guests.”
Excitement gripped her. The memory had flowed out of the past, clear enough to send a tingle down her spine, but it hadn’t provided her with any useful information.
She laid the earrings back in their case. She couldn’t even be certain that the memory related to the period of time surrounding the accident. Esther had worn the red dress and the earrings on a number of occasions, and she had looked spectacular every time. It had been Rina’s favorite outfit, and she had always insisted Esther wear these particular earrings with that dress.
When she’d finished examining her jewelry, she started on the few other personal items in her bedroom. She didn’t have much, just the few things she’d had at Alex’s house in Winton that the FBI had packed up and sent to her: a baby photo; an antique wooden music box with her name and the date of her first birthday engraved on it; some of Baby’s toys and his harness; a few other family photos. Like Cesar’s properties, everything Alex had owned had been impounded until the investigations into both men’s affairs had been concluded. With the criminal charges pending, it was highly unlikely any of the properties or chattels would ever be released.
The music box, exquisite in rosewood with marble inlays, no longer worked. At some stage the musical mechanism had been damaged. Rina could have had it repaired, but for years she hadn’t wanted to listen to the sweetly evocative Für Elise.
Lifting the lid, she examined the empty interior, with its finely crafted small drawers and compartments. The box was Victorian, made when expensive mechanical toys were in vogue. The red velvet lining was faded and a little tattered, the tiny ballerina that had used to pirouette in the center of the case long gone.
Holding her breath, she triggered the secret compartment. Victorians had loved secret compartments and had included them in all sorts of pieces of furniture and objects. The drawer sprang open, empty.
Rina replaced the box on the dresser. The only key she had been able to find was the one that wound the mechanism. She removed the key and examined it, just in case there was something unusual about it, but the tiny key with its simple tubular design was definitely made for winding the mechanism, not opening a safe-deposit box.
As she set the box down again a faint memory surfaced. She had almost forgotten, because it hadn’t interested her as a child, but the music box didn’t have one secret compartment—it had two. The second wasn’t contained in the box itself, it was in the lid. Rina had used the obvious one, because it was easy to get at. All she’d had to do was depress the side of the case and it sprang open. The lid had to be unscrewed to gain access to the second secret cavity, and the screws, masquerading as the centers of tiny carved flowers, were tiny and notoriously hard to see.
Taking the box out to the kitchen counter, where the light was better, she rummaged in the cutlery drawer. She needed a tiny screwdriver so she didn’t damage the box or the delicate screws. She didn’t have one small enough, so she compromised by using the tip of a small, sharp vegetable knife.
With delicate movements, she unwound the screws and placed them on the kitchen counter. There were four in all. When she was finished, she lifted off the lid. Heart thumping, she stared at the folded parchment that filled most of the space. Alongside it, taped to the wood so it wouldn’t rattle, was a key.
JT parked on the street outside Wendell’s house. Everson Crescent was a typical suburban backwater. Number thirty-nine was an older weatherboard house, surrounded by large trees and overgrown shrubs and hemmed in with a white picket fence.
Collecting the Glock from the glove compartment, he chambered a round, climbed out of the cab and slipped the weapon into the waistband at the small of his back.
He locked the truck, checking the cars parked along the street as he did so. Nothing looked out of place. Like Kurt had said, Wendell didn’t have a record and there didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary about him, apart from the fact that he had managed to retrieve Baby. The address he had supplied the police, and which he claimed he had retrieved Baby from, had checked out. The couple who lived there had been taken in for questioning. So far nothing had shaken loose. They claimed they had kept the dog for a relative and hadn’t known it was stolen. They were lying, but unless Bayard could pin something else on them, there was nothing he could do but watch them.
Pocketing the keys, he strolled up the path. Wendell was home. His car was parked just outside the garage, but otherwise the house looked deserted.
He knocked on the front door. When he didn’t get a response, he knocked again. Wendell appeared, his outline visible through a glass panel in the door as he unlocked.
JT moved back a half step, automatically checking over Wendell’s shoulder to see if he had company and making sure he had plenty of room to go for the gun if he needed to, but nothing about Wendell looked threatening.
JT produced a badge. “I need to ask you a few questions. You retrieved a dog. I want to know who you had to deal
with to get it.”
Wendell examined the badge, then stared past JT’s shoulder, checking out the street. “Like I told the police, I found the dog locked up in a garage in Winton. I took the dog because I believed it had been stolen.”
He supplied the address and the name of the couple who had been living there. It was the same information he had given to the Winton P.D. and the FBI.
JT asked a few more questions. Wendell repeated the answers he had given to the police.
Minutes later, JT unlocked his truck and pulled away from the curb. As plausible as Wendell seemed, he still couldn’t buy into it. It was too plausible, too perfect. As seamlessly as Wendell’s story held together, he still couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Baby was bait.
The evening news continued to provide background noise as Rina studied the number on the key. It was the same number she had painted on her canvas.
With fingers that weren’t quite steady, she removed the parchment and unfolded it. Her gaze skimmed the legalese. It was a simple document, appointing her executor of Esther’s will and granting her power of attorney. Whatever else Esther had been doing twenty-two years ago, she had also been preparing for her death.
She lifted the brittle tape off the key. There was now no doubt in her mind that Esther had gotten her to memorize the number. Whatever was stored in the safe-deposit box, it had been important enough that she had wanted to make sure that Rina would be the one to open it. She had hidden the power of attorney and the key so well that even though Alex must have searched the box along with all of her other possessions, he had failed to find them.
A loud advertisement finished. The much quieter perfectly pitched voice of a reporter filled the room, followed by the precise cadences of a voice that was startlingly familiar. Distracted, Rina stared at the interview that was in progress.
Until she had been able to distinguish people by their auric colors, voice had been her best means of identification. She had never known who that particular voice had belonged to, but it was singular enough for her to be certain that it was the same person.
