Crazy Cool

by Tara Janzen

  She looked across the hall to the bathroom door on the other side. Complicated, he’d said, and she was beginning to see exactly what he meant.

  Glancing down at the tiara, she swore under her breath. None of this was good. It was all bad, the whole damn thing, starting with last night and continuing on until now.

  She took the manila envelope out from under her arm and snapped it open. Whatever was in it, if it had something to do with her and the mess she was in, she’d prefer to know it now rather than later.

  At least that’s what she thought until she looked inside.

  HAWKINS found her exactly where he’d left her, except she’d put on one of his shirts and a pair of his jeans. She’d been in his spare room and in his closet. He’d known immediately when he’d gone in to get a change of clothes. The scent of her perfume had lingered in the air, the way it no doubt lingered in his bed.

  She didn’t look happy, and considering what she was holding in her hand, he wasn’t surprised.

  Well, nothing about this was easy, least of all what he’d put off long enough. She had to be told about Ted Garraty.

  “More tea?” he asked, bringing the iron pot and her cup with him from the kitchen.

  She nodded.

  He refilled her cup and poured one for himself, before setting the pot on the slate table in front of the fireplace and settling into a chair.

  “You’ve seen these?” she asked, taking the opening gambit and lifting the manila envelope, her voice tight.

  Oh, yeah, he’d seen them, spent quite a bit of time last night looking them over as a matter of fact, which hadn’t done a damn thing to improve his chances of getting any sleep.

  “Yes,” he said, keeping his face expressionless, his tone of voice flat and professional.

  “How long have you had them?” From the ice in her voice, he was guessing she thought he’d had them about, oh, thirteen years or so. That pissed him off a bit, but he kept his cool.

  “Your secretary and my partner found them when they entered your apartment last night. They were inside the front door, along with your tiara.”

  “Alex saw these?” she gasped, her voice little more than a strained whisper.

  Reaching over, he took the envelope from her and belled it open. A quick look inside netted him a score, and he pulled out the top photo.

  “Just this one,” he said, handing the photograph and the envelope back to her. Talk about ice. He was so cool, he was damn near glacial.

  She looked down, and all the color she’d lost came flooding back into her cheeks. He understood. The look on her face in the eight-by-ten glossy made it the hottest picture in the group. There was less of her body exposed than in the other shots, but her expression was one of pure, raw pleasure, and he’d been the one giving it to her.

  He wondered if now would be a good time to tell her about Ted, while she was already halfway into a state of shock.

  “Who . . . wh-who,” she started, stammering again, and he decided to wait a minute longer, let her catch up with the facts a little.

  “Were any of the Prom King boys shutterbugs? Any of them into photography?” It was a question he’d wanted to ask her since he’d hauled her out of the alley behind Toussi’s. There’d been a lot of buzz on the street last night. A lot of the people he and Mickey had talked to about Ted Garraty had made the connection to the Traynor case. A few of the old-timers had even brought up Lost Harold and the Jane Doe floater, remembering the whole crazy summer that year. No one had seen Ray Carper in the last couple of days, but they’d assured Mickey the guy was still around and that they’d get the word out: Superman was looking for him.

  “No, not that I . . . you think one of them . . .” She lifted her gaze, her voice trailing off.

  “Yes, I do,” he said clearly. “I think one of the boys snagged your crown out of the alley, and later somehow got himself into a position to take these photographs. I have no idea why, or what he’s done with them all these years, or why he suddenly decided to give them and the crown and a piece of your prom dress— Did you see the piece of material in the bottom of the envelope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know why whoever it is decided to deliver everything to your apartment last night. What about you? Do you have any idea why someone would do this?” He kept the part about him maybe getting framed for Ted Garraty’s murder to himself for the moment.

  “No,” she said, her attention straying back to the photograph. “No, I don’t . . . except maybe blackmail.”

  His gaze accidentally strayed back to the photo, too, and he let out a short breath. Geezus. Just looking at it was enough to remind him of how she’d tasted. It’s what he’d struggled with in the night, the memory of her and how he’d felt every time he’d been with her—like he’d slipped into a fantasy dream, her skin so pale, her curves so delicate against his much larger, darker frame. Every time they’d made love he’d felt washed through with satisfaction, and infused with magic. That she would give so much to him. At nineteen, he’d given her everything—and now, to top off an already shaky start to the day, he was a little more than halfway primed for more of the same.

  Perfect.

  Getting a hard-on was so professional.

  “Has anyone contacted you, wanting money?” he asked calmly.

  “No.”

  Of course not, he thought, shifting slightly in his chair. Extortion would have been too easy, and it wouldn’t have addressed the problem of Ted Garraty getting double-tapped between the eyes.

  “Have you kept in touch with anyone from that time in your life?”

  “N-no . . . I haven’t seen any of them in years.”

  Well, things were moving right along, he thought. They weren’t getting anywhere, but overall, the interview was going pretty well. She hadn’t cracked, and he hadn’t caved in, leaped over the table, and ravished her.

  God, he really did need his head examined.

  “Any of your girlfriends?”

  “No, not really. I tried at first, but it was difficult, and I, well, it was difficult.” She passed her hand over her face, rubbing her brow. “Look, is this really necessary? My insurance company will investigate what happened, including the break-in at the gallery. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble for tampering with evidence, but really, shouldn’t you have left all this at Toussi’s and let the authorities handle it?”

  Her faith in him was utterly demoralizing, just exactly what he needed to get his other problem under control.

  “I’m going to send the tiara and the piece of dress over to Lieutenant Bradley at the Denver Police Department today,” he told her. “Along with Skeeter’s analysis. But I thought I’d keep the photos, just send a description.” He’d be damned if he wanted half the cops in Denver ogling her, or a bunch of guys staring at his ass. The photographs were grainy, but there was no doubt about who was in them. “Other than that, I am the authority on this case.”

  And he was. She could take it to the bank.

  She let out a heavy sigh and looked up at him through her fingers. “Since when does the Department of Defense, or the FBI, or the U.S. Army, or the State Department, for crying out loud, get involved in charity art auctions?”

  So she’d looked through his stuff. He wasn’t surprised.

  “Since I was called off a high-priority mission and assigned to be there. It took somebody with a lot of power in Washington, D.C., to pull that off.”

  “You mean my mother,” she said wearily, then covered her face again. “You can’t possibly work for all those government agencies you have identification for in your closet.” She said it as a statement, but the question was clear.

  “I’ve worked with all of them, and other than that, what I do is pretty much classified.”

  “How convenient,” she said flatly, still hiding behind her hands.

  Usually, he admitted to himself, but it wasn’t proving very convenient this morning.

  “Or criminal,�
�� she mumbled, apparently as an afterthought.

  Well, he wasn’t going there with her, not right now. There was only so much he could prove to her under their current circumstances. After that, she’d either come around to believing him, or she wouldn’t.

  “I’d like your cooperation on this, Katya. With your help, I think we can clear this up in a couple of days.” And be the hell done with it.

  She slumped even further down in her chair, her fingers sliding up over her head, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain he knew she was feeling. She looked like a whipped puppy—with completely wild, long blond hair and slinky curves wrapped in a man’s shirt and a pair of too-big jeans that still managed to look sexy as hell, which kind of ruined the whole puppy thing he’d had working.

  “I can guarantee you my mother doesn’t have anything to do with those photographs or the tiara, or that piece of dress material,” she began slowly, “but it is entirely reasonable to assume she would hire bodyguards behind my back, sic them on me at her whim, and have me followed every freaking place I go.” She stopped for a second and rubbed her fingers across her brow, and if he wasn’t mistaken, swore under her breath before continuing. “Therefore, if you qualify as a government bodyguard, one whose assignments could be manipulated by a senator with deep ties to the military establishment, it’s true my mother, much to her horror if she ever finds out the bodyguard was you, could have gotten you pulled off a high-priority mission and assigned to a security detail at my party.”

  Nicely said, but nothing he hadn’t already known, except for the fact that her mother had her followed, consistently, relentlessly, despite her wishes. No wonder she’d been so adamant about not calling Linebacker last night—for all the good it had done her. With Alex Zheng on the senator’s payroll, Hawkins figured Marilyn Dekker had kept herself very well informed as to her daughter’s comings and goings.

  “It’s not my usual line of work, but I’ve been a bodyguard for three U.S. ambassadors, the secretary of state, two envoys, and the occasional governor or congressman, and I can guarantee you are safer with me than you’ve ever been with Alex Zheng or with anyone else on this side of the Mississippi.”

  She looked up at that, her eyes peeking out from under her hands, blatantly curious. “Who’s on the other side of the Mississippi?”

  “The D-boys at Fort Bragg,” he said with a grin. Even hungover, she was quick. “If one of them wants to take you out, we might have to run.”

  Miraculously, the faintest hint of a return smile curved the corner of her mouth as her gaze slid away. “I don’t think I’ve got any Delta operators mad at me. They love my mother. She fights for them in Congress, and they know it.”

  Dragon Dekker, Hawkins knew Kat’s mother was sometimes called, for her fire-breathing, saber-rattling support of the armed forces. She especially championed Special Forces, which benefited SDF, the irony of which had never been lost on him.

  “Katya . . . I need your help to get to the bottom of this. I need you to call up your old friends, set up a few meetings for today and tomorrow, just casual, social stuff,” he said, outlining his basic plan, well aware that he still needed to work in the part about Ted being dead. “Ask each one to meet you for coffee, or a drink. Then when the time comes, I’ll go alone and make your excuses, tell them I’m your secretary and hit them up for a charity donation or something. I want to keep it low-key, just check them out, see what they’re up to.” At least that’s what he was telling her. “I’m sure the police will be contacting them, but with your help, I can get to them first.” And Lieutenant Bradley could have whatever was left when he got finished with them.

  She let out a heavy sigh and buried her face back in her hands—and just sat there, for a long time, without saying a word.

  “I’m having a hard time connecting the dots,” she finally said, looking up. “Fireworks, maybe some ruined paintings, my tiara, those pictures, a piece of my dress . . . you. What’s the point of all of it?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “But you think we’ve got a perverted pyromaniac photographer on the loose, and you’ve already narrowed the suspects down to the seven Prom King guys?” She dragged one of her hands back through her hair. She only got partway before her fingers got caught in the tangles. Working her fingers free, she gave up on her hair and continued. “Most of whom I don’t ever want to see again. So your answer is no. I won’t be calling a bunch of guys who I thought were my friends, but who turned out to be terrible jerks, and asking them out for double cappuccinos. I don’t care how drunk they were. I don’t care that charges were never filed against them. Also, with you in control here and the police on the case, and Alex waiting for me at home, I don’t see much need for a bodyguard, either, thank you very much. So if we can just call this quits, and call me a cab, and get me back to Toussi’s before my mother gets there, or to a hotel, if she’s already in residence, that would be great. I’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

  “Six,” he said, figuring it was now or never.

  “Six what?” she asked after a short pause, her gaze narrowing the slightest bit.

  “There are only six suspects, six Prom King boys left. Ted Garraty was killed last night at the Botanic Gardens. Murdered.”

  The dumbfounded shock on her face made him feel like the world’s biggest jerk. She’d had to be told, and he’d put it off long enough, but there had probably been a better way. He just didn’t know what it could have been.

  “Ted was—was murdered?” she finally choked out.

  “A clean hit.”

  She stared at him for the longest moment, a dozen emotions crossing her face, each of them fleeting, each of them bounded by confusion and disbelief.

  “I think,” she finally said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  WELL, THAT HADN’T gone too badly, he thought. Now she knew the worst of it, knew she was in serious trouble, knew she couldn’t just walk away, knew she was stuck with him—and it had made her lose her toast, and her tea, and everything else she’d had in her stomach.

  She’d kicked him out of the bathroom—he checked his watch—approximately one hour and ten minutes ago, which he would have found nearly unbelievable, except he knew all about her and bathrooms. They were her favorite place. They’d practically lived in the bathroom at the Brown Palace. It was where they’d showered, and made love, and where he’d watched her dry her hair, and lotion her legs, and pretty much all-around drive him crazy.

  About ten minutes after she’d thrown him out, he shoved a suitcase full of her things and her purse in for her. She assumed her secretary had sent them over, and he hadn’t had the heart to tell her Alex didn’t have a clue where she was, and that he’d simply gone back to Toussi’s last night and gotten all the stuff himself, without her secretary/bodyguard noticing he’d broken in and was basically robbing the place—one more reason he’d be damned if he left her with only Alex Zheng between her and whoever was behind this mess.

  It wasn’t that her secretary was completely incompetent. Hawkins had broken into far more secure places than a fifth-floor apartment in a run-down building. Between the two of them, he and Dylan had “tested the security” at two nuclear power stations and half a dozen high-risk overseas U.S. Air Force, Army, and naval bases for the home team. When it came to bad guys, they’d pillaged and looted their way through corporate offices, foreign embassies, private compounds, and public estates without ever leaving a trace.

  The sound of a door opening at the far end of the loft brought his head up. She was coming out of the bathroom. Or so he thought. Nothing else happened for the next few seconds, except he slowly rose to his feet from where he’d been sitting in a chair by the fire.

  He wasn’t sure what he expected, but when she finally walked through the door, he knew he’d just been outclassed, outgunned, and kicked back down to the minors. All he could do was stand there and remember to keep his jaw off the floor
.

  This was it. This is what she’d done to him thirty days in a row, every single day without fail, all those years ago. She would go into the bathroom looking mussed, and tumbled, and warm from bed, looking imminently edible and like she was his—and she’d come out an hour later dressed to kill, like he couldn’t have her on his best day, even if he won the lottery, saved the world, and was proclaimed King.

  It had intimidated the hell out of him at nineteen. At thirty-three, he liked it. He liked it a lot. He liked the challenge of it: all that perfectly blown-dry, silky, “don’t touch me” hair, the mouth he knew she’d spent five minutes putting lipstick on, the soft skin a guy was supposed to touch, but not too much.

  And the dress. So help him God, he’d thought it was a shirt when he grabbed it out of her closet and threw it in the suitcase, a very red shirt. He’d even packed a pair of white pants to go with it.

  But she wasn’t wearing pants, white or otherwise, just the shirt, pulled down to the point where it passed the border into “dress” territory—so help him God.

  She was The Slayer in a pair of black cat’s-eyes sunglasses, Katya “The Slayer” Dekker. She didn’t look like Bad Luck. She looked like sex and Red Hots, like double-dipped chocolate cherries and cool whipped cream—like she wouldn’t melt on a hot day, but like she might, if you were lucky . . . if you did it right, like she might melt in your mouth.

  She’d melt for him. He knew it down to his bones. She’d damn near done it last night.

  But he wasn’t going to touch her—not when he had her right where he needed her. Cooperating, he hoped.

  All he had to do was keep from getting slain himself.

  Right. That’s all he had to do.

  He did not have to let his gaze slip and slide around her curves like a set of slicks in the rain. He didn’t have to stand there sending up silent prayers of gratitude to the gods of Lycra, or wondering what had happened to the laws of genetics. It was Saturday morning, coffee time, time to rock and roll.