Perilous Trust

by Barbara Freethy

  She wasn't sure if that was a compliment, but she waited outside the lobby while he got them a room.

  He'd been in the office only a few minutes when a truck pulled into the parking lot with two guys in it. She remembered Damon saying that the shooter at the lake had left in a truck, and she felt suddenly very nervous. She walked quickly into a breezeway and through a door labeled Ice Machine. Her heart rate sped up when she realized the small room had only one way out. Had she made a tactical error?

  She should have gone into the office where there were people—where there was Damon—but it was too late now.

  She heard footsteps outside, and she looked around for some kind of weapon, but there was nothing in the small room but a vending machine, an ice machine, and a plastic ice bucket.

  She stepped to the side as the door opened, and blew out a breath of relief when she saw it was Damon.

  "Looking for some drinks?" he asked with a raise of his brow.

  "No. Two men drove into the parking lot. I didn't want them to see me. They were in a truck. I didn't know if it was the same truck the shooter was in."

  "It wasn't. I saw the guys—an older man about fifty with a teenaged son and a mangy-looking dog."

  She was relieved to hear that.

  "I don't think they're going to bother us," he added.

  "Okay, good. Where's our room?"

  "Top floor. I got you a room with a view, princess."

  She made a face at him. "I am not a princess. I'm fine with dirt—just not motel room kind of dirt."

  "It's going to be fine. Let's get some drinks while we're here."

  After grabbing sodas and water out of the vending machine, they made their way to the second floor.

  The room smelled like beer and cigarettes and was as bad as she'd expected, with peeling paint, an old TV, and lumpy-looking mattresses, but if there was a silver lining, it could be found in the fact that there were two beds. Besides the danger tracking her steps, spending the night with Damon presented other challenges.

  Damon set the bag of food down on a small table and turned on the ancient air conditioning unit, which rattled and smoked a little as it struggled into action.

  "Damn, it's hot in here," he muttered. "The AC feels like heat."

  "Now who's being a princess?" she asked, as she sat down at the table.

  He frowned and took the chair across from her. "I hate the heat."

  "It's not that bad. Maybe it will get cooler the longer it's on." She opened the bag and began pulling out cartons, her stomach rumbling at the spicy smells. She hadn't eaten anything besides the convenience store snacks hours ago.

  "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got a little of everything," Damon said. "Too bad we don't have a microwave; it might be a little cold by now."

  "I don't care, and I like pretty much everything. I'm also starving. Yesterday, I didn't think I'd ever be hungry again, but now I feel like I could eat every bit of this."

  "Well, don't hold back."

  She didn't, grabbing a plastic fork and digging into a carton of Kung Pao chicken. Damon went after the sweet and sour pork. Five minutes later, they switched, and when they were finished with those cartons, they moved on to chow mein, fried rice, and a beef stir fry.

  Twenty minutes later, she sat back with a satisfied sigh. "That was excellent. I ate way too much."

  "It's good to eat. You need to keep your strength up for whatever is coming next."

  She frowned at his words. "Thanks for the reminder. I was having a nice little moment of denial, and you ruined it."

  "Sorry. Maybe these will help." He pushed a bag of fortune cookies across the table.

  She took one out and turned it over in her hand. "I can't imagine what could possibly be in this fortune cookie that I would want to hear."

  "Something uplifting and positive," he suggested.

  "Or trivial and pointless." She suddenly smiled.

  "What?" he asked curiously.

  "Jamie used to make up fortune cookie sayings. We'd get Chinese food during our summers at the lake at the Pink Pagoda—which by the way, was painted yellow, but apparently no one felt that was a problem. Anyway, Jamie never liked his fortune; he always got weird ones, so he started making up his own."

  A light of recognition came on in Damon's blue eyes. "Damn! He did that with me, too, only we were in Shanghai together."

  "So, it was a real Chinese fortune cookie?"

  "I suppose. It was a touristy restaurant. We only had a few hours of leave left, and Jamie was hungry."

  "He was always hungry," she murmured, wondering if anyone she loved would ever outlive her, which was a very depressing thought. "Do you remember the fortune that Jamie made up?"

  Damon thought for a minute. "It was something like: 'Help! I'm a wise man trapped in a cookie.'"

  She grinned. "That sounds like Jamie. My favorite of his was: 'You want to change your life? Stop eating cookies.'"

  A smile slowly spread across Damon's lips, warming up his usually stoic, somewhat hard, expression, and she liked it—far too much.

  "You don't do that very often," she commented. "Only every once in a while, and you fight it until you just can't stop it."

  Damon raised an eyebrow at her words. "What are you talking about?"

  "Your smile. It's rarely used."

  He shrugged. "I smile when it's warranted."

  "Do you? You don't seem like a man who likes to show his emotions, whether they're good or bad."

  "Emotion is weakness in my line of work."

  "I guess I can see that. I often wondered how my dad did the job, because when he was with me, he was so open and loving. I could never really see him going undercover, pretending to be someone else. He didn't seem like he could do it." She paused, as her father's last words ran through her head. "Obviously, he could. Maybe he was putting up a front with me. Maybe I didn't know him at all."

  "You knew him. Don't second-guess your relationship."

  "I can't stop myself. I'm not supposed to trust anyone but him, but what if I didn't really know him? What if I just saw the man he wanted me to see?" She reflected on everything that had happened. "Two days ago, I was living one kind of life and now I'm living another, and it's all because of my dad. I feel like there might be a lot of things I don't know."

  "I'm sure there are a lot of things you don't know," Damon agreed.

  She didn't like his reply. "I was kind of hoping you'd respond with something more reassuring."

  "I don't think we should lie to each other, Sophie, not with everything that's going on."

  He was right, but the truth seemed very elusive at the moment. She broke open her cookie and read her fortune. "Well, this isn't helpful at all."

  "What does it say?"

  "Two days from now, tomorrow will be yesterday."

  "Intriguing." Another one of his rare smiles appeared. "Maybe it means tomorrow will be better."

  "Now, there's that optimism I was looking for earlier. It only took a cookie to get you there. I just hope it doesn't mean tomorrow is going to be worse."

  "Speaking of tomorrow," Damon began.

  "I told you I'd tell you when we got there, and that's still true."

  "Why the delay? You think I'm going to tip someone off?"

  "It has crossed my mind. When I woke up and you were not in the car, I felt a moment of panic. I don't know why. I should be used to waking up alone when it comes to you."

  "Ouch," he said with a grimace. "That was a low blow. But I didn't leave this time; I bought you food and a phone."

  "I know." She took a breath. "And I'm sorry for the crack. It was a low blow."

  "I deserved it. One of these days, I'm going to tell you why I left before the sun came up."

  "I already know why—the night was over. And that's all you wanted."

  His gaze darkened. "Like I said, one of these days, we'll talk more about it."

  "One of these days…why not now?"

  "Because
you're holding back on me. I can't put everything on the table unless you do, too."

  "I'm not holding back on personal stuff."

  "Holding back is holding back…"

  She couldn't imagine there was any great mystery that he was about to reveal. "Fine. You keep your secret, and I'll keep mine. I'm not really that interested anyway."

  A gleam came into his eyes. "I think you are—even though you don't want to be."

  "And you're delusional. My father was just killed. I'm on the run. I'm not even thinking about the night we spent together. It's so far down the list of things I need to be concerned about, it's not even on the list. It was another lifetime. I don't even know why we're discussing it."

  "Because you brought it up with your low blow," he reminded her. "I don't think it's that far down the list."

  She really hated how often he was right. "Let's just drop it." She was overwhelmed with emotion right now, and discussing that night with the one man she'd spent four years trying to forget was only going to make things worse.

  "Dropping it," he said, as he shoved his chair back and stood up. "I'm going to get another water. Do you want anything else from the vending machine?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Lock the door behind me, and make sure it's me before you let me back in."

  While she didn't appreciate his ordering tone, she flipped the dead bolt after he left and let out a breath.

  It was good to put some space between them—if only for a few minutes.

  But as she looked around the seedy motel room, the silence suddenly seemed overwhelming. She'd spent most of the day wishing Damon would go away, and now she really wanted him to come back—and fast.

  Eight

  Damon didn't really want anything from the vending machine; he just wanted to get away from Sophie. He never should have gotten into a discussion with her about their night together, but there was a part of him that wanted to make her understand that his leaving had never really been about her. It was him—all him.

  He only liked commitment when it came to his job, to the soldiers he served with, his fellow agents, the people he was trying to put away or those under his protection. In his career, he was willing to put everything on the line. But women were another story.

  He had never been good at relationships. He didn't do long-term. He didn't make promises. He didn't believe in soul mates or even love, really. He certainly didn't believe in happily ever after. And usually he stayed away from women who thought differently than him.

  Sophie should have been one of those women he stayed away from, but four years ago, he hadn't been able to do that. He'd been in a dark place, and she'd helped him get out of it. He thought he'd helped her, too. But staying with her after that night wasn't an option. He was just sorry he'd hurt her, and clearly he had.

  She might say all the right things, pretend it was no big deal, but her eyes were too expressive. When she felt pain, she showed it, and knowing he'd put a little of the pain in her eyes gnawed at him. It was the last thing he'd ever wanted to do.

  He wanted to tell her that. He wanted her to know that it wasn't anything she'd said or done, but he also knew that dissecting that night probably wouldn't get them anywhere and they definitely had more pressing problems.

  He took a lap around the building to burn off the unsettled feelings, the reckless energy, wanting to tire himself out before he had to return to Sophie and the very small hotel room. Instead of thinking about her, he should be planning for tomorrow. He might not know exactly where they were going, but he could still come up with some contingency plans. He could get on his phone and research New Haven, figure out how they might get transportation, look into the best places to stay in case they were in town longer than a few hours.

  Feeling better now that he had a specific plan that didn't include having sex with Sophie, he stopped at the vending machine and picked up more drinks and a few chocolate bars. Then he headed back to the room. He rapped once, saw her peek through the blinds at him, and then she opened the door.

  He thought he saw relief in her brown eyes, but he didn't know if that had to do with his reappearance or the chocolate in his hand.

  "I love Almond Joy," she said, grabbing the bar. "Coconut and chocolate are my favorite combination." She stopped in the middle of unwrapping the chocolate. "You didn't get this for yourself, did you?"

  "You can have it. I'm not that into chocolate."

  "I do not understand how anyone could not be into chocolate."

  He was happy to see they were back on a more even keel.

  He sat down at the table and took out the phone he'd recently purchased. On the long drive through the mountains, his only worry about being disconnected from the world was Wyatt. He was supposed to meet him tonight, and he wasn't going to be there. He needed to make sure Wyatt knew that, and he hoped he could get Bree to go in his place.

  "What are you doing?" Sophie asked, peering over his shoulder as she munched on her chocolate bar.

  "Checking something."

  "Like what? Your mail?"

  "No."

  "Sports scores? Stock market? Latest news?" she asked cheekily.

  "Chocolate definitely wakes you up."

  She made a face at him. "Come on, Damon, talk to me. I need to know if you're going to compromise us in some way. You would be just as aggressive if I was the one on the phone right now."

  "Relax, Sophie, I know what I'm doing."

  "I'll relax when you tell me what you're doing."

  "Several years ago, while I was at Quantico, a group of us set up a private chat forum, a place where we could exchange coded information if we couldn't get on a phone or meet in person. It was originally part of an assignment to set up a protocol for communication. But we kept it going after we graduated, a safety net so to speak."

  "How many people know about it?"

  "Six—well, five, now that Jamie is no longer with us."

  "Why are you checking it tonight?"

  "Because yesterday morning I received an SOS from one of the members of the group. We met up, and he told me that he'd escaped a recent attack on his life. He wanted my help, but before we could get any further in the conversation, he got spooked and ran. Last night he got back to me asking if we could try again tonight. Unfortunately, I'm not going to make it. I need to let him know and see if someone else can meet him."

  "Is he in danger?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe you should be meeting him instead of staying here with me."

  He'd had the same thought, but there was no way he was leaving Sophie alone. Wyatt could take care of himself. "That's not an option."

  He opened the forum, and while there was no further communication from Wyatt, there was a reply from Bree to Wyatt.

  Bree had always used the moniker Knight after the Mets second baseman Ray Knight, saying it was about time a knight was a woman. Bree and Parisa, the other woman in their group, had never been particularly thrilled with the all-male baseball forum idea, but neither one of them wasted energy on things that didn't really matter, especially when they both knew they were as good, if not better, than any male agent.

  Bree's message read: I feel like taking a few swings tonight, too. Hope you show, Carter. You've been MIA too long. Team is looking to trade you.

  He was relieved that Bree was going to meet with Wyatt. That took the pressure off him. But he didn't care much for the second part of her message, which confirmed his belief that Peter and Karen knew he'd gone looking for Sophie. They might not know if he'd found her, but they'd be suspicious of his motives and his secrecy.

  He typed in a reply: Not going to make practice tonight. Working on a pitch with another player who needs the support. He hesitated, wishing they could be more direct, but they couldn't. Who's leading team trade talks? Coach's BFF or second in command? Might be hidden agenda.

  "What on earth does all that mean?" Sophie asked.

  He glanced up at her and saw the confused loo
k in her eyes. "I said I can't make the meeting."

  "It sounds like you're talking about baseball."

  "That's the way it's supposed to sound. It's set up to be a baseball chat about the 1986 World Series Mets team."

  A gleam of understanding entered her eyes. "Because Jamie was obsessed with the Mets."

  "It was his idea," he conceded. "We all picked particular players to use as our monikers. I'm Gary Carter. He was a catcher."

  "And Fernandez, who's that in real life?"

  He hesitated. "It doesn't matter."

  Her eyes widened. "You're really not going to tell me? You want me to trust you, but you clearly don't trust me. This is a two-way street, Damon."

  "And my secrecy is not about you. I have a bond with these people that I can't break."

  She didn't look happy with that answer, but she seemed to accept it.

  "I can tell you this," he said. "The person who's in trouble has been working undercover for your father. He was supposed to meet Alan on Monday, but Alan didn't show, and my friend was attacked. He barely escaped with his life."

  She paled. "Your friend's assault is connected to my father?"

  "He seemed to think so, but he didn't know about your father's accident when we spoke. I'm not sure what he believes now."

  "If his attack is connected to my dad, then that should give the FBI a clue as to who's behind everything."

  "My friend hasn't told the FBI what happened to him. He was waiting for your father—his handler—to get back to him. I told him about your dad's death last night, and he wanted to meet. That's where we are right now."

  "I don't understand. Why don't you tell the FBI what your friend said?"

  "Because he's worried there's a mole. He thought he was set up." He paused, remembering how bad Wyatt had looked. "He was in terrible shape, Sophie. I've never seen him like that. He used to have swagger, charm, a never-say-die personality, but he was like a hyped-up junkie in need of a fix—paranoid, edgy, scared… It was like he was hanging onto a cliff by his fingertips."

  "I know that feeling." She sat down across from him. "If your friend worked for my dad, then my father must have had a lot of faith in him, because he only brought people on to his team who he respected. Maybe we should both go meet him. Maybe holing up here isn't the best idea. We can come back in the morning—or I can."