by Misty Evans
Jackie DelRay embarrassed? This was one for the books. “He needs to work on his timing.”
She made a face and pointed to the photo. “Check out the lineup and tell me if you recognize anyone besides Byron.”
His gaze stayed on her curvy ass as she walked to the desk, her jeans stretched tight across her butt cheeks. His fingers itched to cup them, but she loved playing cat-and-mouse games with him and he needed to take a step back from all of this.
He really did.
So why did that suck so effing much?
Rubbing his forehead with one hand, he forced his gaze to the floor. He was a fool to let her under his skin, but sometimes it felt damn good to do something so bad.
She’ll be the death of me.
All the work of leaving his past behind and rising above what he’d come from. All the hours of pressing to be the best he could, instead of the worst. His intelligence could have helped his family’s criminal enterprise considerably, but instead, he’d made it his mission to help people his family might have actually played a part in hurting.
So no matter how bad he wanted Jackie – and forget that his career with the Bureau was probably over – he couldn’t let a few hours of sex sabotage his life.
Because falling for his attorney would do that. She had no more intention of creating a long-term relationship with him than she did with a dormouse and he’d already fallen for her once. Big, big mistake. If he did it again, she’d use him, chew him up, spit him out, and break his heart.
Losing that would be worse than losing his job.
Jackie snapped her fingers at him. “Earth to Beck. Where did you just go?”
“Where do you think?” he groused, taking a seat in a blue upholstered chair across from her. He studied the picture, squinted. “Byron looks like a kid in this photo. This must have been taken twenty years ago or more.”
“The Director is fifty-three, so twenty years ago, he would have been thirty-three. Hardly a kid.”
“Running the FBI has aged him considerably.”
“Power can do that.” Jackie rocked her office chair, noticing her misbuttoned shirt and starting to redo it. “What about the others?”
Beck studied the photo again but the soft lighting made it a challenge to see details and the photo was grainy. Jackie had a desk lamp, so he pushed out of the chair and went around to her side to turn it on.
The brighter light didn’t help much, Jackie leaning forward to study the photo with him. She pointed a finger at one of the men who stood in the background, his head half turned as if he really didn’t want his picture taken. “Does that guy look familiar? I swear I know him.”
Beck zeroed in on the guy. He stood in a group with a bunch of other partygoers, a shadow falling over him. “Wait, is that…?”
Twenty years had aged him too. And farther behind him, Beck saw another indistinct figure. A woman staring at the man. She was behind a fancy column, only part of her face showing, but the look on it made him think she was totally crushing on the guy.
“Who?” Jackie demanded at Beck’s pause. “Who is he?”
Beck straightened, setting the photo on the desk. “We need help with this.”
“What do you mean? What kind of help?”
“I have a feeling I know who left this for you but the reason why might be a problem. Especially now.”
“Stop being evasive. Who the hell is that guy and what does it have to do with your case?”
“That”—Beck tapped the woman’s half-hidden face — “is Annabelle Lockhart. And that” — he tapped the man’s face, forever frozen in time—“is currently the President of the United States.”
* * *
Jackie pushed through the front door of her flat with Beck following. She’d lived in the first floor unit of the Georgetown brownstone for five years now and despite the rising rent, had no intention of leaving. Minutes from her office, the location served her well.
Like now.
As much as she hated to waste time coming home to change, her shirt was a dead loss. She bypassed the living room and adjoining kitchen/dining area on her way to the bedroom. Moving fast, she took off her trashed shirt and tossed it into the basket on the floor of the laundry room. Really, it was just a closet big enough for a stackable washer/dryer, but it saved her from making trips to the laundromat.
“I’ll just be a second,” she said. “Help yourself to whatever. Not that you’ll find any food. Or, well, much of anything. There’s some energy drinks in the fridge if you need it.”
“Do you know what that stuff does to your body?”
The derision in Beck’s voice would bring a lesser woman down. Her? Not so much.
“Listen, His Holiness the Dalai Lama, some of us are just regular people. We eat carbs and – heaven forbid – sweets. And when we haven’t slept in days because we’re springing hot FBI agents from lockup, we need a boost.”
She entered her bedroom, moving straight to the closet where she grabbed a pair of casual slacks and a pullover that wouldn’t wrinkle the second she put it on. Belt. Most times she’d skip it and just pull the shirt over her slacks, but with Mr. Vogue in tow, she needed to be put together.
“Ha!” Beck said. “When you have a heart attack from your crappy diet, don’t blame me.”
“Ha!” She jammed her feet into a pair of leopard print flats. At least her shoes would match this time. “I take full responsibility for my heathen ways.”
She crossed the hall to the bathroom, took one look in the mirror and nearly cried. Between the pale skin, dark circles and her thick hair bursting free of her ponytail – and not in that cute way women purposely did – she looked like an escapee from a mental institution. Changes had to be made. Big changes.
Ones that would leave her feeling rested and not constantly in a rush that limited time spent on her appearance.
Sleep.
That’s all she needed. A good eight or fifty hours.
Dealing with her hair first, she tugged on her ponytail holder, ran a brush through the long, in-need-of-a-trim strands, and twirled them into a chignon. No muss, no fuss. Her mother would be proud that some of her lessons still stuck.
Makeup came next. She’d need an entire team to fix her, but she could triage it. While dabbing concealer over the dark circles around her eyes, she contemplated Beck’s case.
“Hey, hot stuff,” she called, “who is it we’re going to see?”
“He’s a former profiler. Left the Bureau a few years ago.”
After announcing one of the men in the photo was none other than the pre-politics president, Beck had phoned his boss, Taylor. They’d agreed to bring in Justice Greystone, and by the hero worship in Taylor’s voice, the guy had to be something special. Or at least an FBI agent’s version of it.
Jackie slapped on a little liner, narrowly avoiding stabbing herself in the eye. “And we’re going to see him why?”
“He knows people. A lot of people.”
Dang it. Smudged it. This was why she hated makeup. She snatched a small sponge from her toiletry bag and worked it across her eyelid to smooth out her mistake. Good enough. “Who does he work for now?”
“I have no idea.”
A quick swipe of lipstick finished her mini-makeover and she popped back into the hallway where Beck stood leaning against the wall. She gestured for him to follow her to her office. “Wow,” he said. “Look at you. I like your hair.”
Go, Jackie. Maybe there was hope for her yet. “Thank you. Justice Greystone. Is he a spook?”
“Former Fed. He recently helped Taylor find her missing sister after nearly twenty years.”
Jackie flipped the office light on and the three lamps illuminated the muted gray walls and white tray ceiling. She turned back. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Alrighty then. I like him already. Let me grab my notes and we’ll head out.”
Whoever this Justice Greystone was, if he had contacts at the FBI – or any
where else – who might help them identify the third man in the photo, Jackie was all for it.
She swung around her desk leaving Beck standing just inside the doorway beside the Italian, ultra-modern white sofa that cost her way more than any sane person should pay. But, oh, that leather. So soft.
Beck’s perusal of the room stopped at the scraped oak bookshelves stuffed with her novels and legal books.
He let out a low whistle and she cocked her head. “What?”
“It’s...nice,” he said. “Bright and airy. Clean lines. Good energy.”
“Thank you, I think. You seem surprised.”
He met her gaze and held it. “I am.”
Why did men have to be so honest? Idiots. The bunch of them. “What did you expect? A cardboard box as my desk and a couple bean bag chairs? I spend most of my life in this room. I want it nice.”
At some point she’d have to ruminate over why her desire to have a nice office was met with such shock. Then again, most of Beck’s interaction with her, aside from that one crazy, lust-filled night – hell, even then maybe – revealed her to be...intense.
Tough.
Hard.
Dammit. Why did being good at her job mean she was a bitch? She was about to ask Mr. Wonderful that very question, had even opened her mouth and yet...no. Why bother? Asking would lead to a conversation. A personal one where maybe they’d confide in each other. Connect.
And she couldn’t have that. No way. Not with the secrets she held. She’d already been torn up once by him. Of course, he didn’t know that and she wouldn’t risk him seeing anything but pit bull Jackie. Being a strong-willed man, he’d avoid an emotional connection with her. In her experience, alphas couldn’t handle her. Not with their need to prove their manliness. Somehow, it all came down to her not being needy enough. And when the fuck did that become such a bad thing?
She looked away. Had to. The man was just too damned beautiful and she was a woman sorely lacking male attention. As evidenced by the fact she’d thrown herself at him and then succumbed to the humiliation of her partner finding her half naked in their client’s arms.
Lord, Jackie.
She set her hand on the lone folder atop her desk. Unlike her law office, she preferred an uncluttered space at home. Here, even when working, she strived for peace. A break from the chaos that came with criminal defense work.
She ran her finger under the edge of the folder and flipped it open revealing...nothing.
Wait.
What the hell? She’d left an entire page of notes in there.
She stepped back, checked under the desk.
Beck came closer, his movements swift. “What is it?”
“After your arraignment I came home and made notes. I left them in this folder. They’re gone.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I took a fresh folder from the drawer, wrote your name on it and shoved the notes in. Done.”
“The paper isn’t in your briefcase?”
Men. Unbelievable. “No, Beck.” She held her hands out, spreading her fingers wide. “Why would I put notes in a folder and then not take the folder? I know what I did. The notes were in here.”
A sound, something in the hallway, brought her gaze up. Having lived here for so long, she knew it’s habits. The clunk of a pipe, the hum of the air conditioner, the rattle of the hot water heater, all of it a safety blanket for her mind.
That sound? The swish?
New.
Moving on instinct, she walked to the doorway. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
If she knew, she wouldn’t have asked. She stepped into the hall and peered right, checking the back door. Maybe an animal outside?
She waited a full second. Silence. Whatever it was, it was gone now.
Swish.
Or not.
She spun back and found a man dressed in jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt that covered every inch of his thick arms. He wore a baseball cap pulled low, almost covering his dark brows, but his eyes shifted. Left, right, left, right. She recognized the panic. Had seen it hundreds of times on defendants. That squirrelly anxiety inherent with guilt.
Tingles and a weird numbness shot down her arms, freezing them at her sides. Her self-defense instructor warned her about this. About paralyzing fear.
The intruder lunged, shoving her sideways. She slammed into the wall, cracking the side of her head before bouncing back and colliding with Beck, who locked onto her arms. Somehow, he was still moving while keeping her upright. “You okay?”
She nodded. He released her and took off, giving chase as the man unbolted her back door and slipped through.
Six
“Lock the door!” Beck yelled at Jackie as he sprinted out the back door after the intruder.
He hoped Jackie was all right because he was not—not, by God—letting this guy get away.
It was raining again and he was instantly drenched as he boogied down the alley. The smell of wet asphalt wafted up from the pavement and the ripe odor of garbage invaded his nostrils as he passed several giant bins.
The guy was all in black, including the cap on his head. He slipped as he ran around the corner but didn’t go down, grabbing the edge of the building as he skidded.
Gloves. The guy was wearing gloves, which meant there would be no fingerprints.
Beck lowered his body slightly as he rounded the same corner, keeping extra weight on his left foot so he wouldn’t slip.
He slowed when he hit the cross street, his vision blurry from the rain. Where’d the guy go?
The sidewalk was empty and brownstones crowded the entire block. No way the guy got down to the other end that fast.
His brain ticked off what he knew about the perp:
Approximately 5’9”, close to two hundred pounds.
Familiar with breaking and entering and not leaving fingerprints behind, but not stealthy on escapes.
Took Jackie’s notes on the case.
Was this Annabelle’s killer?
Movement to the right caught his eye. There you are.
The man burst from a shadowed doorway and cut across the street, trying to avoid the streetlights and almost succeeding. Illumination from an oncoming car foiled his plan.
Beck jetted after him. A heavy fog had risen, coating the streets. A horn sounded as Beck launched himself from between two parked cars and nearly got clipped. Reflexes to the rescue, he bolted up and over the hood and slid across to the opposite side, just missing another car from the other direction, and spurring a fresh round of horns and squealing brakes.
DC drivers were vocal and he heard a cacophony of swearing behind him. He paid it no heed, and ran harder as his quarry led him down another street at full speed.
His wet pants stuck to his legs and he wiped water from his face as he sprinted. Whoever this was, he wasn’t stealthy enough to get out of Jackie’s place without being seen, but was doing a damn good job at hauling ass. If Beck wasn’t careful, he’d lose him before he could yell “FBI”.
Was he FBI anymore? There had been no clarification from the higher-ups yet. Assistant Director Cunningham had been incommunicado. Taylor had been told nothing, just that Beck was on temporary suspension and to dole out his cases to the others on their team.
Right now, none of that mattered.
Get him.
The guy hung a right and disappeared. Beck dodged a couple hustling down the sidewalk with umbrellas and a couple of teenagers hanging out on the street corner.
Another ten yards and he found himself in front of a small park, but the man had disappeared once more, shadows swallowing him. Beck surveilled the scene in all directions, but nothing moved. The man had to be inside.
Where could a bulky guy hide?
Dogwoods and maples, losing their autumn-colored leaves, lined the square playland, a few on each end with trunks big enough to hide behind. A copse of Virginia sweetspire that really needed to be trimmed ran the length of the jogging
path, and a semi-enclosed plastic castle from which a slide emerged sat flush in the center.
Not the trees—easy to slip behind but too exposed from multiple directions.
Not the castle—time consuming to climb the small steps and barely big enough for a two-hundred pound guy to squeeze into.
The sweetspire it is.
He had no clue if the perp was armed or not. For a moment, he wished he had his gun, but the element of surprise was better than any weapon.
The reddish color of the sweetspire leaves turned a silvery black under the muted lights. As Beck moved slowly among the shadows, he saw not one footprint in the mud, but several.
Gotcha.
Just like he’d guessed, the tracks led straight to the bushes and jogging track.
Coming at them straight on would give him away, so he snuck behind a set of swings and worked his way along the jogging path, using the trees as cover. Mud stuck to his shoes as the rain fell hard enough to disguise his footsteps.
Three feet away, a bush jiggled and Beck stopped in his tracks. The shadows were deep here, and his clothing, like the perp’s, was dark, helping him blend in.
One slow step, then another, brought him closer. The clouds parted for a moment, a sliver of moon bleeding through. That light glinted off the guy’s watch and Beck took a deep breath, muscles coiling, ready to jump and take the man down.
Brrrng.
The sound of Beck’s phone cut through the heavy night air like a warm knife through cold butter.
Ah, shit. In the excitement of the chase, he hadn’t turned off his phone.
The man jerked his head around, saw Beck, and leaped for the jogging path. Beck tore off after him, but an instant later, the man raised a gun.
Bangbangbang.
The bullets went wide, hitting the leaves of a tree. Beck ducked behind a maple just as his phone went off once more.
Brrrng.
Question answered about the perp being armed. Luckily, he hadn’t shot at Beck on the street or innocent people might have gotten hurt.
