by Cheryl Biggs
Then Rick had demanded a divorce.
She pushed the memories aside and looked back at Hart. How well had she really known him? He’d been Rick’s senior officer and friend, not hers. Had she been a fool for coming to him?
Friend or enemy? The words echoed through her mind again, taunting her as she stared at him. Yet in spite of them and the fear that gripped her, that undefinable something that had been between them since the day they’d first met, still drew her to him.
Suzanne stiffened against the sensations assaulting her. For the past year she’d been building a barricade around her heart, protecting herself, and now she could feel the structure weakening and threatening to crumble.
Her emotions were in turmoil only because she was so scared, that was all. A month ago the FBI had shown up at her door and questioned her relentlessly. Last week after their third visit, she’d known she had to do something to stop their badgering questions and prove their suspicions wrong. She’d called her cousin Molly, a State Department employee and the only person she could trust. But Molly hadn’t been at work or home. She was on a survival trip somewhere in the wilds of Montana, and according to both her boss and her mother, she was totally unreachable.
That was when Suzanne had known the only person who could help her was the only person who’d seen Rick die—Hart.
She felt his gaze on her and pulled herself together enough to answer his questions. “I came to you because I don’t have anyone else to turn to. I don’t want to end up dead or spend the rest of my life in prison, and to avoid that I need your help, Hart.”
She watched his eyes narrow again, his jaw clench tightly and the small vein on the side of his neck twitch ever so slightly. Apprehension seized her. A shiver of fear skipped up her spine and swept goose bumps across her skin.
Oh, God, she prayed, don’t let him be the one I should be running from.
Reason and rationale warred with the resentment and anger that had been pent-up inside Hart since Rick’s death. Her claims were ludicrous. Too ridiculous to be anything but impossible. Even so, they could explain why someone was investigating him.
He mulled the possibility over in his mind, trying to look at it rationally and calmly.
A week ago his company commander had informed him that someone from Washington had called and asked some very pointed questions. That wasn’t unusual. Someone was always asking questions about the Cobra Corps, even though just about every assignment the army’s elite, special-ops helicopter unit was given was top secret.
It was still a fairly new unit, as far as the army was concerned, having been borne out of a special mission during the Persian Gulf war. Six men brought together to fly a mission most others considered suicidal. But they’d succeeded. Now the Cobra Corps, attached to the 12th Aviation Brigade, 99th Cavalry Division Air Mobile, consisted of thirty-two men, all pilots and officers, with a special attachment of mechanics, aides, communications officer, crew chiefs and a medic. Their permanent base was Three Hills, Arizona, but they could be called out at any time for anything. Their missions were usually classified and highly dangerous; rescuing political hostages, “relieving” certain political pressures, circumventing political uprisings, dealing with the before, or aftermath, of terrorists, and conducting top secret surveillance, being the usual types of assignments.
But this time the questions had been about Hart. Still, neither he nor the company commander had been overly concerned. Hart was the corps’s flight leader, and he was up for promotion. The questioning wasn’t routine, but someone was probably just being overly efficient, ordering a check on him “for the record.” A formality.
But he should have been concerned, because yesterday someone from Washington, and he didn’t know who, had requested his 201 file. To request an officer’s personnel file from his commanding officer was an unusual request. It could mean nothing; someone had a question about him before approving his promotion, or he was being considered for a special assignment and his background was being rechecked. There were numerous possibilities, including that his career was in serious jeopardy.
Now he wondered if these incidents and Suzanne’s sudden return and unbelievable claims could be connected?
He shook his head. He was letting his imagination run wild. Anyway, his commanding officer had denied the request. No one had gotten his file.
Hart caught Suzanne’s gaze and held it mercilessly. “The feds can’t resurrect a dead man, Suzanne.”
Bitterness tinged his tone.
“Hart, I don’t—”
“Rick is dead, Suzanne. I saw his chopper take a direct hit. I saw it explode and go down in a shower of flames and debris. No one could have survived that.”
She took a step toward him, panic rising in her again. Whether he was out to destroy her or he was her only chance to survive, she couldn’t allow him to send her away. She wouldn’t. At least not until she knew the truth and could prove it.
Make friends with your enemies, Rick had once said. It throws them off guard.
She stared into Hart’s eyes, searching for answers to questions she never in a million years would have imagined herself asking. But that was before the FBI had come knocking on her door.
Had Hart murdered Rick to protect himself? Was he the man the FBI should be considering a traitor? Maybe even a murderer? She took a deep breath. Was it really possible the body they’d identified as her husband hadn’t been Rick at all? She had to get Hart to help her and in the process convince herself he was innocent, or find some way to prove he was the one setting her up.
“The FBI doesn’t believe Rick’s dead.” She pulled a file folder from her bag and, hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it, tossed the folder, open, onto a mechanics table near where Hart stood.
He looked down at the papers suddenly scattered atop the table’s tools, but didn’t understand what he was supposed to see.
“That’s a copy of a bank statement for an account I never knew I had,” she said, pointing to one.
He looked down at the statement. It was a new account, opened only six weeks ago. His gaze moved to the bottom of the page, and he noted the balance: $155,000.
She pointed at a photograph that lay beside the bank statement. “And that’s a picture of me talking to a man the FBI claims is a European spy.”
His gaze moved to the photo, recognizing Suzanne but not the man she was talking to. He looked back at her, still unwilling to believe, even for a moment, that anything she was saying could be true.
She could have deposited the money herself and be lying to him now, and the man in the photograph could be anyone. Her accomplice—a friend, a lover, even a stranger she stopped on the street. But why would she make up such an elaborate lie? What did she really want?
“He came into the auction house where I work…” She paused, realizing Hart didn’t know she’d revamped her career. “I don’t teach school anymore,” she said. “I’m a partner in an antiques auction house and gallery in Beverly Hills now.” She paused again, momentarily distracted by thoughts of just how much her life had changed since the last time she’d seen Hart.
She’d gone to Los Angeles with every intention of continuing her career as a high-school teacher. But two days into her new job several students in one of her classes started arguing and she couldn’t get them to stop. A moment later the sound of gunfire exploded in the room, and one of the teenagers fell to the floor.
She’d taken a leave of absence from her job, too shaken to even think of returning to her classroom. A week later she’d been browsing through a little shop that sold all sorts of bric-a-brac when she had run into Clyde, who’d been talking with the owner. Clyde Weller was Suzanne’s second cousin on her father’s side and had been her best friend through high school. They’d lost touch over the years, but seeing him again proved to be just what she’d needed.
They’d gone to dinner and talked, and talked and talked and talked. Finally, well into the wee hours, Clyde made a sugg
estion that seemed so natural Suzanne said yes instantly. She was widowed, had received a large settlement after Rick’s death she needed to invest, and her degree was in history, with art as her minor. Clyde had been doing freelance bidding on antiques for others for years, so he was already well connected in the business and had always planned on opening his own gallery/auction house.
It was as if fate had brought them together again. They’d pooled their resources, as well as their last names, and started Casswell’s.
Hart stared, but didn’t question her, so she decided not to explain. He obviously wasn’t interested in her personal life, which was fine. She only needed his help in clearing herself of the FBI’s ridiculous allegations.
“Anyway, about two months ago this man in the picture came into the gallery and introduced himself as Mason Brunswick,” Suzanne continued, “and said he was thinking of consigning Casswell’s—that’s the name of our business—some very old paintings for auction. The next day, on my way home, I ran into him on the street. We chatted a minute, and he asked me a question about one of the paintings. That’s obviously when the photo was taken.”
“So again, assuming this story of yours is true,” Hart said, “and somehow Rick survived that crash—and the body identified as his wasn’t, what do you think I can do?” He didn’t even know why he was asking. Her story obviously wasn’t true. It had taken six months after the Jaguar Loop mission and Rick’s memorial service before the army had been able to recover his body. But they had finally recovered it, and he was dead. So what did Suzanne really want? What could she possibly hope to gain by these ridiculous claims?
He didn’t know.
Nevertheless he knew that, instead of asking questions that had kept her from leaving, he should have just gathered up her so-called evidence, handed it back to her and sent her on her way.
“You’re the only one who saw Rick die,” Suzanne said, seeing the cynicism that still shadowed his eyes. “Hart, you saw it happen. You’re the only one who can swear that it was Rick who got in the Cobra that day, that it was Rick flying it, that Rick is dead—if he really is.”
He didn’t answer.
She continued to meet his hard stare as doubt and suspicion assailed her. What if she’d just walked into a trap? What if he’d cunningly drawn her into it and she was doing exactly as he wanted? What if he was the only person on earth who could help her, but wouldn’t believe her? A torrent of what ifs slammed her. She felt all her senses and feelings intensify: fear, attraction, suspicion, longing.
Her heart raced as he looked at her for several very long, very tense moments. His scrutiny made her breathing become ragged and forced, the blood rushing through her veins in a tumultuous, speeding, hot flow that made her light-headed. She’d known confronting him would be difficult, maybe one of the most difficult things she’d ever done, but it was proving far harder, far more complicated than she’d ever imagined.
Say something, she silently demanded, and gripped one hand with the other upon realizing they were trembling. Control, she told herself. She had to keep herself under control and not break down. She tried to pull her gaze from his, needing to escape those penetrating eyes, and found it impossible.
A chill swept up her back, then rippled through her entire body. Say something, she silently pleaded again. But it wasn’t only his silence that unnerved her, or even the cold fear that had invaded her senses. It was the urge she felt to reach across the space that separated them, to touch him and feel his warmth, his strength. The feeling was almost more than she could resist.
How many times since she’d left Three Hills had she thought of him? Dreamed of him? And told herself to forget him? To put all thoughts, all memories, all fantasies about Hart away?
She curled her fingers into fists and held them rigid at her sides, trying to force away the feelings she knew could only prove her downfall.
“The FBI is building a case against me, Hart.” Her voice sounded weak and pleading, but she couldn’t help it. “They obviously believe Rick survived that crash—or that it wasn’t him flying the plane that day.”
She inhaled deeply.
“My only chance to prove this so-called evidence they have against me and Rick wrong is you.”
“They retrieved the body,” Hart snapped. “They identified it as Rick. You want to believe they were wrong?”
She looked at him and shrugged. “The FBI does.” He saw the fear and desperation she was fighting to hide and the tears she was struggling to hold back.
Hart fought to control the emotions warring within him since the moment she’d turned from her plane and he’d recognized her. Desire and anger, resentment and need. He’d lived with them all for a long time, enduring them, but now they were hotter, stronger than ever.
Part of him wanted nothing more than to ignore everything that had happened in the past and just drag her into his arms to take what he’d always wanted, to taste, finally, the sweetness of her lips, to feel the slender length of her body pressed against him and to experience, revel in, the passion he knew slept deep within her.
How many nights since she’d left Three Hills had he lain in bed unable to sleep, his thoughts all on her, almost feeling her body next to his, wondering where she was, what she was doing, who she was with?
Some nights he’d felt as if his memories were slowly killing him. Other nights he’d wished they would.
But he hadn’t dreamed about her now for at least a month. He’d thought that was all behind him, that his feelings for her were dead. Now he knew he’d been wrong.
But what he was feeling wasn’t all memories and nostalgia, or even desire, because he also wanted to slam a fist through something and frighten her into telling him the truth. He wanted to grab her, jerk her to her feet and demand she stop lying.
“Hart, please,” Suzanne said. “You have to listen. I…”
He shook his head and strode past her to the door. “Rick’s dead, Suzanne. You know it, I know it, the army knows it, and I have no doubt the damned FBI, if they have any reason to want to—knows it, too.”
Chapter 2
“May I help you, miss?” The aide looked up from the file cabinet he’d been rifling through.
“Yes, I…” Suzanne glanced at the door to Hart’s office. She knew he was in there. Listening. Nerves, fear and desperation skittered through her veins. “I…I’d like to see Captain Branson, please.”
“Let me see if he’s available,” the private said. “Your name, miss?”
“Suzanne Cassidy.” Why didn’t he just come to the door? He surely could hear her.
The aide closed the file drawer, turned and disappeared into Hart’s office, closing the door behind him.
A moment later he returned, but instead of saying anything to her, he merely nodded and walked directly to the exit and left.
She looked back toward Hart’s office and felt a start of surprise. He was standing in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb. Sunlight, streaming in through his office windows, shone at his back, turning his hair to a golden halo and creating myriad shadows about his face.
Suzanne tried to stop staring, ordered herself to look elsewhere and couldn’t.
“Suzanne,” he said, breaking the silence between them and the spell that seemed to have dropped over her.
“I…” Her throat was suddenly as dry as the desert, and her fingers were wrapped around the strap of her bag so tightly she realized her nails were pushing painfully into her palms. “I have no one else to turn to, Hart,” she said finally, retrieving at least a small part of her senses.
He straightened.
She felt an involuntary start of alarm, but forced herself to remain still. He was an old friend and he was a stranger. She needed him and she feared him.
Strength exuded from every line of his body, hardness shone in his eyes. Fine lines radiated from the outer corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth, but Suzanne knew Hart was not a man who laughed easily or fr
equently.
She also knew that, in spite of needing his help, there was no way she could afford to trust anything he said.
“There’s nothing I can do for you, Suzanne,” Hart said, stiffening. He couldn’t let her back into his life, he thought coldly. He wouldn’t.
She watched him walk across the room, jerk the exit door open, and for just a moment look back at her, his eyes cold, wary and full of anger. Seconds later, as she ran after Hart, she heard someone call out to her.
“Suzanne?” the corps crew chief said. “Suzanne Cassidy?”
She stopped and looked at him. Everything about him was thick—his neck, chest, waist, arms, even his hands—while his eyes were a dull gray, nearly the same color as his hair, and his face was marred by a mass of craggy lines that reminded her of a metropolitan street map. “Chief Carger,” Suzanne said.
For a while, just after she and Rick had moved to Three Hills, Rick had thrown Monday-night-football parties, and some of the other pilots, the crew chief and a few mechanics had come to the Cassidy bungalow to eat Rick’s barbecued burgers and watch the game on television.
She remembered Rick telling her once that the chief had lost his family years ago in a house fire. The army had become his home since then, and the corps members his family.
At first she’d liked the chief, thought of him as a father figure, as the men did, and she and Rick had him over for dinner several times. But after a while something about him began to make her feel uneasy.
“Yes, ma’am. Nice of you to remember.” He nodded. “Good to see you again.” His gaze skipped over her quickly, and Suzanne suddenly remembered exactly what it had been that used to make her feel uneasy around him. “Hope everything’s been going okay for you.” He glanced at Hart. “Sorry, sir. If I’m intruding, I can—”
Hart hadn’t missed the quick, but thoroughly assessing once-over the chief had given Suzanne. Before Rick’s death Hart had suspected the chief had been more than a little interested in Suzanne, but he’d put it down to his own paranoid jealousy. Now he felt his hunch had probably been right. They’d both been attracted to their friend’s wife.
