There was always a but. Always.
“Bathroom’s first door on the right,” he called up to Jess. “You can use the bedroom beside it.”
“Great. Thanks.” She started moving again, still without looking at him. In female-speak, this meant he was still in the doghouse with her, as he knew from long and sometimes bitter experience with the species. “I should be down in a little while.”
“Don’t come back down. Go to bed. Try to sleep. Unless something changes, we’re fixed here until at least morning.”
“All right. Good night, then.”
Mark didn’t realize he was still watching her until she gained the top of the stairs and walked out of sight, still without so much as a glance over her shoulder. Then, collecting himself, he turned to find three pairs of eyes looking at him. Wendell’s, at least, were bright with speculation. He wondered if she was just more observant than the others, or if there really was such a thing as feminine intuition and if he was witnessing it at work. Frowning, hoping his little mental digression on the state of Jess’s posterior had not been obvious, he moved back into the center of his living room and put Jess out of his mind. With Zoey weaving in and out around his ankles, he got back to business, giving them a carefully edited account of the evening’s events. They listened intently, which was what he expected. As part of the team that had been on duty that fateful Saturday night, Wendell, Fielding, and Matthews had all suffered in the backlash of the tragedy, remanded to desk duty by the director for the duration of the investigation. Above and beyond providing firepower if needed, they were thus more than ready, willing, and able to help him try to figure this thing out.
They were eager. Their careers had been damaged, too.
“Wendell, I need you to check on Marian Young’s condition,” he concluded, looking at her as she sprawled out in the chair. Ladylike was not in Wendell’s vocabulary, and he kind of liked that about her.
“Will do, boss.” She got to her feet, running her hands over her hair, and headed for the kitchen, presumably to make the necessary calls.
“If somebody really wants to kill her”—Fielding straightened away from the wall he ’d been leaning against and jerked his head upward to indicate Jess—“she ’s not going to be hard to find. It’s kind of an open secret in the Service that you’ve been keeping an eye on her.”
“Fielding’s got a point.” Matthews rose from the couch. “This house is bound to be a target.”
“That ’s why you’re here,” Mark said. “Tomorrow we’ll move her. We just need to keep her safe for tonight.”
“No worries, then.” Fielding grinned and patted the Glock holstered at his waist. “Bring it on. I even brought an extra clip.”
That was actually pretty funny, considering that Fielding was notorious for running short on ammunition during training exercises.
“Marian Young’s dead,” Wendell announced, returning from the kitchen. “Arrived DOA at University Hospital.”
The tension immediately ratcheted up again.
JUST BECAUSE HE WAS a suspicious bastard at heart, Mark waited until he was alone to make a quick phone call. It was to a friend at the FBI; it was made on Wendell’s phone, which he filched from her pocket when she removed her jacket and hung it in the hall closet (he didn’t want to use his in case it was being monitored, and he figured Wendell wasn’t likely to check her own outgoing call history anytime soon); and his request was quick and to the point: He wanted somebody to check the rear of the burned-out Lincoln for any kind of collision or other damage that might have forced it off the road.
That done, he returned the phone to Wendell’s pocket. Grabbing a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, he exchanged a few words with Wendell and headed upstairs.
There was one more quick question he needed to ask Jess before she went to sleep.
18
She was shivering when she stepped into the shower, from fear and delayed reaction and God knew what else. Plus, her back ached. Her legs ached. Her head pounded. Collapsing where she stood was starting to feel like a real possibility.
Only she wasn’t going to let that happen. If ever there was a time to be strong, this was it. Gritting her teeth, she turned on the taps and stepped under the spray.
What she wanted more than anything in the world was just to be able to go home. To take a shower in her own bathroom, crawl into her own bed, and pretend that none of this had ever happened.
If she could only turn the clock back to last Saturday night, she would never, ever, in a million years have picked up that phone.
But she couldn’t turn back time, she had picked up that phone, and here she was.
Taking a shower in the bathroom of a hunky Secret Service agent she wasn’t even sure she could trust.
While jumping at every stray flutter of the shower curtain or unexpected sound in mortal terror that somebody might be trying to kill her again.
Besides Ryan, there were three other Secret Service agents downstairs. Which, on the face of it, might seem like a good thing. Jess was unconvinced. Maybe these three were, as Ryan seemed to think, good Secret Service agents.
And maybe they weren’t.
And that didn’t even factor in Secret Service agent number four, Ryan himself. He didn’t want to kill her, she was almost sure.
So why, in that case, hadn’t she told him that she suspected the Secret Service itself was involved in this?
The answer was dismally apparent: She might trust Ryan, but not enough. She still harbored that wiggly little smidgen of doubt where he was concerned. Maybe he was just pretending to help her while setting her up for something big; maybe, if he knew she suspected the Secret Service was part of what had happened, he would stop pretending and get on with the something big, which presumably would include her death.
You’re paranoiding yourself out here.
She was so tired that trying to figure anything out was useless, so she quit. In an attempt to empty her mind, she deliberately focused on the here and now. The hot water helped, chasing away the shivers and calming the worst of her nerves. In fact, it felt better to Jess than anything had in ages. She stayed under the steaming cascade for a long time, washing her hair, soaping herself from head to toe, then letting the hot water run over her until the worst of the stiffness in her back and legs had washed away.
Two pain pills from the prescription that had been given to her in the hospital, which was now in a small bottle in her purse, taken before she had gotten into the shower and finally kicking in, helped, too.
When she got out at last, she wrapped herself in a threadbare orange towel from the linen closet beside the sink, wrapped another around her hair, then wiped the worst of the steam off the mirror. Having taken her contacts out pre-shower, her reflection was pleasantly blurry. Fishing her glasses out of her purse, she put them on and immediately made a face at herself as she came into focus.
Still the same old ordinary four-eyed Jess, plus a few yellowing bruises and a line of stitches above her eye.
What, had she been hoping for something different?
If she was, it was because of Ryan, and that could stop right now. She wasn’t dumb enough to start fantasizing about him again, even if she did get a little thrill from just remembering what it felt like to be held against that big, strong, muscular chest in those big, strong, muscular arms.
He was holding you in his arms because somebody’s trying to kill you, fool.
The thought served as a figurative slap in the face. She kicked Ryan out of her head. She needed to try to come up with a plan to survive, not moon over some hot guy.
Maybe I should just tell everything to the media and get it all out there. If everybody knew what I know, no one would have any reason to want to kill me. Would they?
Unwrapping the towel from her head, Jess turned that thought over in her mind and arrived at no definitive solution. Like everything else, the matter was best left to be mulled when she wasn’t so tired. Accordingly,
she put her efforts into getting ready for bed. The bathroom was clearly used frequently by a female, most likely his daughter. There was a hair dryer in the closet beside the sink and she got it out, retrieved a brush from her purse, and started blow-drying her hair. The process was short and simple, a blast of hot air here, a few twirls of the brush there, and it was done: presto, chin-length bob. Then she brushed her teeth with the travel toothbrush she always carried in her purse and some of Ryan’s Crest toothpaste, applied a little cherry ChapStick, rubbed on a little lotion, rinsed out her undies, wrapped them in a towel and tucked them under her arm along with her suit to be hung in the bedroom to dry, and headed out the door.
The hall was dark. The only illumination was a yellowish glow from the living room below. She could hear people talking—the Secret Service on the job. The thought made her shiver. Fortunately, the door to the bedroom was only a yard or so to the left. Too bad she hadn’t thought to leave on the light.
“Hey.”
Coming unexpectedly out of the dark just as soon as she walked into the bedroom, Ryan’s voice made her jump. Luckily, she recognized the deep, drawling timbre of it before her body could go into full crisis mode. She recognized him, too, in the solid long shape sprawled out on the still-made bed.
“What are you doing in here?” She glared at him, which was, of course, a waste of a good glare because he couldn’t see it properly. He reached out a long arm and switched on the lamp beside the bed, revealing the boxy bedroom with the headboard-less double bed pushed into the corner beside the single, heavily curtained window.
Then the glare worked.
“Waiting for you. Look, I brought you some water.” He held up an unopened plastic bottle, then put it back down on the bedside table. He ’d lost his jacket, and his shoes, and his white shirt had come untucked. The sleeves were rolled up almost to his elbows. “And some pj’s.”
He got to his feet as she eyed the new-looking pink flannel pajamas that lay across the foot of the bed. They had a high neckline and a ruffle down the front, and were covered with dancing black poodles. In tutus.
These had to be his daughter’s, although they were awfully childish for a fifteen-year-old.
“I’m not sure your daughter would like me wearing her pajamas.”
“Don’t worry about it. She ’s never worn them. I bought them for her for Christmas, and she took one look and practically gagged. She made it pretty clear she’ll never wear them in this lifetime.”
The man was clearly clueless. His daughter’s bedroom was just across the hall, and the door was open. Unlike the rest of the house, which was done in soothing if uninspired earth tones, it was painted deep purple and decorated with Day-Glo band posters taped to the wall. Having glimpsed that, and the picture on the living-room mantel of the pretty blond girl on horseback wearing jeans and a black skull-and-bones tee, Jess could see how the pink pajamas might not be quite to the teen’s taste.
“Well, thank you.” She stepped aside in clear indication that he was now free to leave the room.
He didn’t move. “I actually had a reason for coming in here other than pj’s and water.”
“What?” If her tone was a little abrupt, it was because she was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Just as she had finished taking in the full glory of the pink pajamas, it had hit her with all the force of a two-by-four between the eyes that she was wearing an orange towel. Period. A skimpy orange towel that covered all the pertinent parts but left her shoulders and most of her legs bare.
The thing was, he ’d noticed. That ’s what had alerted her, the way his expression had changed. He had blatantly checked her out, his eyes sliding over her, while he had thought she was busy examining the pajamas. She’d caught the whole long look out of the corner of her eye. It was an entirely masculine look, an unmistakably sexy look, and her heart was beating faster as a result. Now, as their gazes met, she curled a hand around the top of the towel right where it overlapped between her breasts, just to make sure that the flimsy thing stayed where it was supposed to.
Jeez, am I blushing?
It was then, as she frowned in pure flustered self-defense at the hard, handsome face that was in such perfect focus that she could see every tiny line around his eyes and bristle in the stubble darkening his cheeks and chin, that she remembered she was wearing her glasses. That was worse by far than being caught in a towel. It was all she could do not to whip them off.
Don’t be a complete idiot. This is not about you and him. It’s about . . .
“Close the door,” he directed in a low voice.
She couldn’t help it. Her eyes widened a little on his face. Her mouth went dry, and her pulse picked up the pace. If naughty thoughts sprang instantly into her mind, it wasn’t because she thought they were going to leap into bed the moment she complied. It was, rather, because the room was small and he was close and she was next to naked.
And she’d had dreams like this. Actually, too many to count.
How embarrassing is that?
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want anyone else overhearing this conversation.”
Okay, then. She was so near to the door that all she had to do was reach out and close it, which she did.
Suddenly, the room seemed even smaller.
“So, what?” she asked defensively, pressing the top of the towel more firmly against her chest.
“First off, Marian Young’s dead. I’m sorry.”
Her heart gave a sad little thump, even though the news wasn’t a surprise. Jess realized she ’d known it all along.
“Poor Marian. She didn’t deserve that.”
“Nobody deserves that.” His expression changed subtly, his eyes narrowing, his mouth tightening, and Jess realized that the face she was now looking at belonged to the Fed. “I’ve got a question for you: Where were you going? In the car that night, you and the First Lady and the others?”
“What?” Given the change of subject, the question took her a moment to process.
“You told me that Davenport was going to call and tell you where the First Lady was going once you got in the car. Did he call? Where were you going?”
It took her a moment to remember.
“Mr. Davenport didn’t call. He was drinking that night, just like he was drinking earlier, and he didn’t want to deal with Mrs. Cooper. It was Marian who called. She called the driver directly, and then she called Mrs. Cooper, which made Mrs. Cooper furious, because she didn’t like dealing with a secretary. She wanted to talk to Mr. Davenport. Presumably, Marian told the driver where we were going. I’m pretty sure she told Mrs. Cooper, too, because Mrs. Cooper was trying to call somebody to make sure all the arrangements had been made when she couldn’t get a signal and got mad and threw her phone. But I don’t know who that somebody was, and I don’t know where we were going.”
Ryan frowned at her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He was so near she could have closed the distance between them in a single step.
Not that she wanted to, of course, or was even thinking about doing anything like that.
Anyway, he now appeared about as aware that she was nearly naked as he did that she was wearing glasses. Which was to say not at all.
Wallpaper, that ’s what she was once again.
Which was probably a good thing, even though it might not feel like it at the moment.
“The First Lady never said a name?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t say anything about what she planned to do when she got there?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? She must have said something that would provide some kind of clue.”
“Not that I can remember.”
“You’re not being much help here.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“You know, to end this thing and get you back to your normal life, we ’ve first got to figure out what exactly is happening.”
“Actually,” Jess said, “
I may have thought of another way to get myself out of this.”
“Such as?”
“What if I went to the media? I know a reporter who works at the Post. What if I contacted him and told him everything I know and he published it? Or what if I went on TV and told the whole thing to the entire country? There wouldn’t be any point in anyone killing me after that. Everything I know or suspect would be out in full public view.”
Ryan shook his head. “Go to the press? Without any kind of proof? That would be the worst thing you could do.”
“I don’t see why.” She put up her chin. “In fact, the more I think about it, that ’s just what I may do. I’m ready to end this.”
He took the step needed to close the distance between them and caught her by the arm. Just like the rest of him, his hand was big. His fingers felt warm and strong curling into the soft skin just above her elbow. His grip was firm, almost hard.
She was very aware of it—and him. Whether she wanted to be or not.
“Don’t even think about doing that.” There was an intensity to his gaze that told her he meant every word. “If you go public with the stuff you told me, without any kind of proof to back you up, then it will be just you accusing some very dangerous people of murdering the First Lady of the United States and a bunch of other people, too. That would cause them a problem. What’s the best way to take care of that problem? Take care of you. No more witness? No more problem. Poof! The whole thing just goes away when you do.”
“People would still investigate. . . .”
“They might, but you wouldn’t know anything about it because you’d be dead.” He must have realized that his grip on her was getting too hard, because he let go. “You do want to get out of this alive, don’t you?”
Pursuit Page 18
